Who Was Joe Cone?: Individually Published Poems

OU can have your turn at opera, in a jumbled, foreign tongue,

Where you do not know the meaning of a single word that’s sung;

Where the audience is jeweled like a rainbow in the sky,

And the red and gold surroundings all are pleasing to the eye.

You can listen to the nocturnes, with the fiddles playing low,

To the heavy marshal music as the soldiers come and go,

But my choice, for steady diet, and I’d neither gibe nor mock,

Is the music of the roaster as it whistles on the walk.

“Com’ an’ buya you da peanut from da leetla peanut stand,

Com’ an’ dropa me you’ nickla, com’ an’ warma your hand;

Leeson you for hear my wheestle, for I cannot nica talk,”

Says the little peanut roaster as it whistles on the walk.

II.

AM dull and called old fashioned, and my tastes are not ideal,

And I poke around in quarters which to some would not appeal;

I opine my ear is lacking in the music that is rife,

But I find a satisfaction in the simple things in life.

There is music in the clatter of the hoofs along the street,

There’s a solace in the moaning of the wintry winds that beat.

There is music in the jangle, in the clamor and the talk;

There is music, to my notion, in the roaster on the walk.

“Stopa you for speak weeth Tony, he who runs dees peanut stand,

Stopa you for say ‘good evenin’, an’ for warma your hand;

Stopa you for hear my wheestle, buy you’ peanut – Now you talk!”

Says the little peanut roaster as it sings upon the walk.

III.

HEN the night is dark and chilly and the snow is pelting down,

When the streets are quite deserted and it’s lonely through the town,

Then the music of the roaster, as it falls upon the ear,

Though ’tis but a little whistle, is a cheerful thing to hear.

Then I stop and chat with Tony in a friendly sort of way,

While the night so black and lonely has been transformed into day;

And the silence so oppressive it has vanished with the Auk,

By the music of the roaster as it whistles on the walk.

“O, you reecha ’Mericana w’en you feel so beeg, so grand,

Stopa you for speak weeth Tony by hees leetla peanut stand;

Stop for warma you’ hand an’ leeson for my music, stop for talk,”

Says the little peanut roaster as it whistles down the walk.

January 02, 1910

Originally titled ‘Song of the Roaster on the Walk’

T’s been a dozen years I guess – seems more than that to me –

Since Gungawamp, ‘fore all the world, announced a spellin’ bee;

They hung up posters in the stores, hand-made, right up to date,

Then got it advertised scot free here in the “Advocate.”

The editor ’lowed ’twasn’t fair, but then, what could he say,

When one or two said they would stop their papers right away?

An’ it was worked along by all the schemes that they could hatch,

An’ ev’rybuddy was prepared for Gungy’s spellin’ match.

II.

HE folks they studied spellin’ books, an’ learned the biggest words;

Bill Jones, Abe Crockett, an’ some more, they strutted round like birds,

A-sayin’ they was all prepared, they couldn’t be stuck, no

Sir-ee, they’d learned “the hull durn book, just bring along the show!”

An’ so it was a likely crowd that went that winter’s night

Out to the schoolhouse on the hill, so cosey, warm an’ light;

An’ when Deke Hawkins called the roll it was a husky batch

That stood in line to represent the Gungy spellin’ match.

III.

HERE was a line clean down the room, an’ ’crost the end an’ back,

From Uncle Ezra, seventy year, to little Mandy Mack,

Who wasn’t over nine year old, but smarter than a whip,

An’ who could somehow hold her own at spellin’ ev’ry trip.

An’ Cynthy Perkins, who was called the speller of the town,

Who boasted that in thirty year she hadn’t been spelled down.

Grandfather, father, mother, son, ol’ maid an’ frisky “bach,”

All keyed up to the highest notch for Gungy’s spellin’ match.

IV.

EKE HAWKINS was committee man, school visitor, an’ so

Of course it sort of fell to him to run the spellin’ show.

He’d been a year or two to Yale, an’ natterally he thought

His eddication was complete, an’ of the proper sort.

An’ when they got through passin’ jokes, an’ gigglin’ here an’ there,

He thumped his ruler on the desk, an’ told ’em to beware,

That he was ready to begin – they all leaned out to catch

The fus word Deacon Hawkins give in Gungy’s spellin’ match.

WAS “Latitudinarian,” an’ Uncle Ez’, who stood

Fust in line, just struggled hard, an’ done the best he could,

But ’twarn’t no use, he had to go, an’ so’d a dozen more,

Till Cynthy Perkins spelled it right an’ staid upon the floor.

“Lieutenant” was the next word give, when several spellers fell;

Bill Jones went down, who thought he knew the book so mighty well.

Then Deke give “Mississippi,” which reduced the anxious batch,

An’ things looked’ mighty lively for the Gungy spellin’ match.

VI.

HEN Deke give out “pneumonia,” an’ thinned the ranks some more,

Becuz “Pneumony” was the way they got it on the floor.

Poor little Mandy Mack, she fell, an’ had to take her seat,

But Uncle Ez’ he cheered her up with peppermints to eat.

Abe Crockett, he was holdin’ out, an’ Cynthy Perkins, too,

An’ ev’rybuddy was on edge to see what they would do.

They knew that Abe was sweet on her, an’ she would spit an’ scratch,

If he should get the best of it an’ win the spellin’ match.

VII.

EKE gave ’em “Deuteronomy,” an’ “Sadducees,” an’ “yacht,”

An’ all the longest, hardest words he had, an’ some he’d not.

By nine o’clock there warn’t none left in all that lengthy line,

‘Cept Abe an’ Cynthy, who was full of pitiless design.

She had her squarish jaw shet tight, an’ blood was in her eye,

An’ ev’rybuddy knew with her it was to do or die!

Abe didn’t want to miss a word, but knew he’d live a “bach”

If he should win from Cynthy P. that Gungy spellin’ match.

VIII.

E stood on pins an’ needles there – folks knew just how he felt –

An’ they just clapped an’ cheered as she an’ Abe was smartly “spelt.”

He shook ’twixt love an’ duty, too – Deke Hawkins kept ’em hot,

An’ Abe he sweat, an’ then was cold, an’ moved from spot to spot.

Deke Hawkins then give “Kerosene,” ’twas Cynthy’s turn to spell,

But Deke pronounced it “Karosene,”, an’ lord, how Cynthy fell!

She bit just like a fish, an’ spelled it “K-a-r.” O, say,

There was so much commotion there folks fainted most away!

IX.

OOR Cynthy ’lowed it wasn’t fair, but wouldn’t spell no more,

An’ give poor Abe an awful look as she swept out the door.

He followed her clear to her home, an’ caught her at the gate,

An’ ’lowed he didn’t win the match, as he would public’ state.

They argued long, an’ by an’ by Deke Hawkins come along,

An’ Cynthy waded into him in language pretty strong.

Abe said he wouldn’t take the prize, they all could go to scratch,

So Deacon said it was a “tie,” the Gungy Spellin’ match.

BE said there was another “tie” he wanted more than that,

An’ ’lowed that she could spell him down as easily as “scat”;

He said there was another “match” that beat the spellin’ kind,

An’ if she’d “tie” with him in that he thought he wouldn’t mind.

An’ Cynthy she put out her hand, an’ said she guessed she would,

An’ ’lowed that after all perhaps, the match had done some good.

Abe ’lowed that tho’ it wracked him some + made his pulses “catch,”

He’s mighty glad he entered in that Gungy spellin’ match!

_______________________________________________________________________________

January 9, 1910

Originally ‘The Gungy Spellin’ Match’

N winter nights when we’re cut off from all the world outside,

And nothing much is going on in Gungy’s Public Hall,

When fireplaces in our homes are burning open wide,

And shadows dance in mystic shapes upon the parlor wall,

The neighbors drop in one by one, to have a pleasant chat,

And spin a pleasant yarn or two of which we never tire;

How mighty wonderful they seem, and real and all of that,

When told on cosey winter nights around the open fire!

II.

A he will drop his paper down whenever the callers come,

But ma don’t stop her knitting, she can talk and work as well;

I always take my schoolbooks up and try to study some,

But when they start upon their yarns my mind has gone pell-mell

Off to the scenes that they describe, and I curl in a chair,

And listen with my heart a-thrill to neighbor and to sire;

And wish the winter evening would always stay right there,

It is so pleasant hearing yarns around the open fire.

III.

IGE MILLER, we call him “Bige” because he wants we should,

Dropped in last night to sit awhile and straighten out the news;

And after talking home affairs, as only Bijah could,

He switched to story telling, after pa gave him the cues.

Pa sent me down for apples, and some cider, by the way,

To oil friend Bijah’s palate so it wouldn’t clog or tire,

Which gave him inspiration, as our city friends would say,

And here is what he told us round the cheerful open fire:

IV.

“D

AVE OTTER was a half-breed chap, I’ve heard my father say,

Who lived up yender in the ‘Gulf,’ alone by night an’ day;

He was a half-breed Indian, six foot two inches tall,

An’ worked a bit at harvest time, then trapped it comin’ fall.

He was as stout as any ox, an’ ugly, so they told,

An’ as a hunter an’ a thief was most amazin’ bold;

Folks missed a turkey now an’ then, an’ veg’tables an’ all,

But no one dast to question Dave he was so big an’ tall.

“T

HEY turned his name to “Otter Dave” he was so slick an’ shy,

An’ cuz he trapped the varmints so, an’ got a good supply.

Then he could swim just like a fish, an’ foller any trail,

An’ run a fox down in the woods an’ ketch him by the tail.

There warn’t a man in twenty mile could shoot with him, I’ve heard;

Could pick an eagle on the wing, or any other bird.

An’ Dave had eyes that he could use at night as well as day,

An’ never used a lamp to read, I’ve heard my father say.

VI.

“T

HE women were afraid of Dave, an’ uster lock their doors

When all the men were off to work, or out a-doin’ chores.

Dave said that game was gittin’ skurce, an’ white men was to blame,

That all the Indians were rich afore the farmers came.

He said by right he owned the land both sides of ‘Lizzard Crick,’

That ev’ry white man in the world was full of fraud an’ trick,

But ’lowed he’d got a heap big heart, an’ he would let ’em stay

Ef they would give him food to eat, an’ cider ev’ry day.

VII.

“O

NE year there come an awful snow, the biggest ever knowed,

An’ Gungawamp was buried up, each house an’ barn an’ road.

For days the folks lived best they could, an’ food was runnin’ low,

But no one could git to the store through all that wall of snow.

Some tunnelled to their barns an’ got some good fresh meat to eat,

But some they didn’t have no stock, except some chicken meat.

Things looked right bad for many folk, till finally one day,

Big ‘Otter Dave’ come on the scene, I’ve heard my father say.

VIII.

“D

AVE come on snowshoes from the ‘Gulch,’ an’ drawed a great big sled

On which he’d loaded junks of meat, ’twas venison, they said;

He’d find a chimbly here an’ there – they’d big ones years ago –

An’ drop a quarter of a deer into the fire below.

Then he’d lower down a pail, they all knowed what it meant,

An’ up the flue, hitched to a string, the cider pail was sent.

Big ‘Otter Dave’ from that day on could allus have his way,

Cuz he just saved ol’ Gungawamp, I’ve heard my father say.”

Jan. 16, ‘10

Originally titled ‘Gungawamp Fireside Tales’

HAT though the ground is white with snow, an’ winds are bleak an’ chill,

What though the trees are stark an’ bare upon each ghostly hill?

What though the “Crick” is frozen tight with ice ten inches through,

We have our pleasures just the same as other people do.

We don’t set round the kitchen fire an’ toast our shins all day,

Nor do we set with pipe an’ cards to play the time away;

While winter grips ol’ Gungawamp as tight as any vise,

You’ll find us out upon the “Crick” afishin’ through the ice.

II.

HE north winds whistle down the cut that’s known as “Wheeler’s Reach,”

An’ pass the overhangin’ banks with dismal wail an’ screech,

But where we fish, down in “The Bend,” behind “Tom Ackley Hill,”

We’re all protected from the wind, an’ ev’rything is still.

We have a campfire on the shore, with smoke just curlin’ high

Until it’s lost in mammoth rings against the wintry sky;

An’ round the fire we’ve rolled some logs which for settees suffice,

An’ here we spin a yarn or two while fishin’ through the ice.

III.

OU see our tiltups run along close by the windward shore,

The holes just o’er the channel bank, a hundred hooks or more,

So we can watch ’em from the fire, an’ when one bobs up straight

We hustle out there, tip-toe like, so’s not to have ’em wait,

An’ take ahold the tiltup stick atremblin’ hand an’ foot,

For fear he mightn’t be well-hooked an’ then proceed to scoot,

An’ pullin’ stiddy, cautious-like, within a breathless trice,

Out comes a pickerel of gold. afloppin’ on the ice!

IV.

OMETIMES when wind an’ tide are right, an’ other signs as well,

They take a turn an’ bite like smoke for quite a lively spell;

That’s when our fun it really starts, when tiltups by the score

Wave up an’ down an’ signal us that pickerel galore

Are tuggin’ there beneath the holes to try to git away,

An’ we just hustle back an’ forth to capture all we may.

Big fellers, plump an’ bright as gold, to us look pretty nice

Alyin’ side by side there in our “fish-wells” in the ice!

’VE seen a hundred taken out in one short afternoon,

Due to the signs, Dave Slocum said, of tide an’ wind an’ moon;

A hundred yeller pickerel from “one” to “four-pound ten,”

An’ fun enough to satisfy the sportiest of men.

Excitement allus is intense when pickerel bite fast,

But like the other joys of life it cannot allus last;

So then we gather round the fire to smoke an’ see who’ll spin

The biggest yarns until it’s time for fish to bite ag’in.

VI.

AVE SLOCUM’S counted pretty good around a pick’rel fire,

An’ don’t intend to be outdone by any fishin’ liar;

He is the oldest of us all, so no one can dispute

The things he tells of bygone days, which are his strongest suit.

Jed Martin runs him pretty close, ’cuz Jed’s no amateur,

An’ wants to keep his reputation as a liar secure!

An’ for a social hour or so ’tain’t counted any vice

To stretch a fish a foot or more while fishin’ on the ice!

VII.

HEM fishin’ days around the fire, ol’ days on “Lizzard Crick!”

Where smoke from log an’ smoke from pipe rose skyward blue an’ thick;

Where wondrous yarn an’ harmless gibe rose on the wintry air,

An’ where a day’s good fellership would drive away dull care.

O, loafin’ round a kitchen stove, or in a grocery store

Can’t discount fishin’ through the ice on “Lizzard’s” windward shore,

Especially when pickerel are full of spite an’ spice,

An’ we can yank two hundred pounds upon the glassy ice!

VIII.

N’ then the “baitin’” for the night, an’ pickin’ up the traps

An’ gittin’ ready to go home, two mile away, perhaps;

We load our fish upon the sleds an’ drag ’em on behind,

An’ have to strap our creepers on to beat the north’ard wind.

Ahead we see the twinklin’ lights, an’ know the women there

Have got a steamin’ supper for the men who bring the fare.

Ah! Neighbors, far or near who want good sport take my advice

An’ spend a day on “Lizzard Crick” afishin’ through the ice!

Jan. 23, 1910

Originally called ‘Fishing Through the Ice’

THE GUNGAWAMP VILLAGE CHOIR - By JOE CONE

E ain’t much on fine music here, as high-grade music goes;

Our concerts they are very plain, no frills or furbelows.

Sometimes we have cantatas, and we have played “Pinafore,”

An’ people said we done it well, the wordin’ an’ the score.

An’ then we have the village band, which fills us all with pride,

An’ also fills us once a week with martial tunes beside;

But none of them, to our minds, is music to admire,

Compared with Uncle Mylo’s crowd, the Gungy village choir.

II.

OW Mylo Bates for forty year has been the choir’s lead,

Has kept the singers up to tone, an’ kept them up to speed.

He’s been the leadin’ bass himself, an’ been director, too;

No matter what the music’s been, he’s always pulled ‘em through.

An’ Uncle Mylo often says that music is his meat,

His bread an’ butter, an’ that he would ruther sing than eat;

An’ oft we wonder what we’d do for music in this shire,

If Uncle Mylo warn’t alive to lead the village choir.

III.

N Sunday mornin’s it is fine to hitch the double team

An’ take the fam’ly off to church with spirits all a-gleam

With Christian fellowship, good will an’ love an’ all of that,

Perched on a seat beneath a Sunday-go-to-meetin’ hat!

The church bells clangin’ o’er the snow make music, all agree,

An’ stir an echo in the hearts of sinners bound an’ free;

But what will stir us up the most, the thing we’ll most admire,

Will be the special choruses of Mylo Bates’ choir.

IV.

HERE’S Uncle Mylo in the loft, his stick within his hand,

All dressed in broadcloth, spick an’ span, a figure to command.

Beside him Cynthy Perkins sings, she is the alto, while

Next to her Renie Holbrook sits, the singer with the smile.

She is soprano with a voice as clear as any bell,

An’ when she takes a solo part she does it mighty well.

Then comes Dave Dean, whose tenor voice is somethin’ to admire;

This four make up the quartet part of Uncle Mylo’s choir.

N’ then a dozen boys an’ girls, an’ men an’ women, too,

The choicest singers of the town, make the remainin’ crew;

It is a likely lookin’ choir as you’ll find anywhere,

An’ when it comes to music, why, there’s nothin’ to compare

In this or any neighbor town, especially when they

Have got an anthem right down fine upon some special day

Like Christmas, or, say Easter morn, when pieces just inspire

A fellow’s heart with love for God – an’ for the village choir!

VI.

HE preachin’s mighty good, of course, as preachin’ orter be;

There’d always be a crowd, no doubt, because salvation’s free,

But folks in general admit it is their chief desire

To hear the hymns an’ anthems sung by Mylo Bates’ choir.

An’ Mylo he is unconcerned, a-wavin’ of his wand,

While holdin’ organ, choir an’ all right under his command;

Now loud, now soft, now fast or slow, now sweet, now full of fire,

An’ endin’ with a crash an’ boom, that rousin’ village choir.

VII.

OW as for me I think I like the simple hymns the best,

They are so full of sweet accord, they are so full of rest.

I like to hear the quartet sing the first verse, then the choir

Take up the chorus strong enough to raise the very spire.

Old “Coronation’s” good for that, it makes a feller rise,

An’ sends his worship through the roof beyend the sun-kissed skies.

“All hail the power of Jesus’ name, let angels prostrate fall,

Bring forth the royal diadem, an’ crown him Lord of all!”

VIII.

HEN weary of the world an’ all I like to close my eyes

An’ lean back in my pew an’ touch the edge of paradise!

The voices that are raised in song are angel tones to me,

A-singin’ on the streets of gold beside the crystal sea.

A sense of fitness fills my soul, my earthly wants expire,

As through the holy atmosphere chants Mylo Bates’ choir

“Blest be the tie that binds, our hearts in Christian love,

The fellowship of kindred minds is like to that above.”

IX.

OMETIMES the mixed quartet would sing Miss Carey’s dear ol’ hymn,

Till many hearts were deeply touched, an’ many eyes were dim:

“One sweetly solemn thought comes to me o’er an’ o’er,

I am nearer home today than ever I have been before.”

An’ when the choir, full an’ strong, with Mylo’s stick a-swing,

Would take the comfortin’ refrain with sweet accord an’ sing:

“Nearer my father’s house, where the many mansions be,

Nearer the great white throne, nearer the crystal sea!”

H! Gungawamp is far removed from modern pomp an’ show;

Our young folks who have been away they think she’s pretty slow.

We haven’t much of science here, nor much of art, ’tis true;

Can’t blame the younger folks who want to get a broader view.

But Gungawamp has many things to make existence sweet;

Her love an’ beauty, an’ her health, well they just can’t be beat.

An’ chief among her noble gifts to uplift an’ inspire,

Is Sunday mornin’ service led by Mylo Bates’ choir!

Probably January 30, 1910 (Sunday)

NE year the school committee men they wished to cut expense,

An’ so they hit upon a plan they all thought was immense;

They’d heard their fathers tell about the teachers, long ago,

Had boarded ’round, from house to house, all through the term, an’ so

They thought they’d resurrect the scheme, an’ have their teacher stay

A week or so at ev’ry house, an’ have no board to pay.

The people all agreed to keep the teacher their full share,

Although some thought they wasn’t up to snuff on beds an’ fare.

II.

XCITEMENT it run pretty high in Gungawamp that fall,

An’ ev’ryone had some excuse to make a lengthy call;

They’d ’greed to board the teacher ’round, an’ yet no one had seen

What she was like, or anything, exceptin’ Amos Green,

The school committee’s leadin’ man, an’ mebbie two or three,

Who’d been off to investigate an’ get her pedigree.

So ’twasn’t any wonder that the Gungy women found

Excitement in the idee of a teacher boardin’ ’round.

III.

T last ’twas time for school to start, an’ then the teacher came,

A tall an’ stately creature with a full an’ rounded frame;

Right fair to look upon, she was, with most bewitchin’ eyes,

An’ cheeks as red as ruddy tints in Gungy’s autumn skies.

She had a soft an’ pleasin’ voice, a smile that boded ill

For all the youth of Gungawamp who had their free hearts still;

An’ right away the married men got busy and all found

Some good excuses why their homes should share the boardin’ round!

IV.

ME GREEN he claimed the honor first, because he was the head

Of Gungawamp’s committee men, so thither she was led;

An’ for a week all seemed serene, until Ame’s helpmeet found

His time was wholly given to the schoolmarm boardin’ round.

Each night there was a conference on deep an’ lofty ways

By which the school could be improved, an’ Ame was full of praise

Of her advanced idees, an’ wished to help her all he could,

An’ so they talked till late o’ nights for Gungy’s public good.

OW Amos’ wife warn’t quite so sure of Amos’ good intents,

Besides she ’lowed the midnight oil just rolled up the expense.

He’d never thought so much afore about the sholar’s good;

Just why he took it up right now she thought she understood.

She said she wasn’t able to keep boarders, anyhow,

An’ so the teacher had to change, to save a fam’ly row.

Poor Ame explained as best he could, an’ some good reasons found,

Then took her to the next in line, the teacher boardin’ round.

VI.

HE second week she found herself way out on “Willer Road”;

Hen Billings he had spoken next, an’ thither with her load

Of trunks an’ bags she hurried off. Hen had two grown-up boys

Who ’lowed to drive her back an’ forth would be their greatest joys.

It warn’t a week before the boys had lost their hearts an’ all,

An’ wouldn’t speak, an’ Henry’s wife was grieved beyond recall.

“Our home will jest be busted up,” Hen said in grief profound,

An’ so the schoolmarm made another start at boardin’ round.

VII.

ILL JONES, the grocer man, came next, an’ here she found a rest;

Of all the places she had been it really seemed the best.

Bill was a widower, an’ so, beginnin’ Monday night,

He closed his store so early that the “sitters” got a fright.

Bill’s daughter Cynthy run the house, an’ when her young man came

An’ saw the schoolmarm, with her cheeks, an’ tall an’ rounded frame,

He plum forgot that Cynthy lived – but before the week was o’er

The schoolmarm she was boardin’ with her fam’ly “number four!”

VIII.

HE young men of the village now were very wide awake,

An’ many called to visit school – a good excuse to make;

Jed Martin’s home, where now she stopped, was filled with callers, too,

Who came on lame excuses, but who staid the evenin’s through.

The church on Sunday nights was filled with youth as ne’er before;

All volunteered to see her home an’ hung around the door.

An’ most of Gungy’s girls they thought she was a sight profound,

The innocent schoolteacher who was simply boardin’ round.

IX.

OME people ’lowed the Gungy school was near demoralized;

An’ said the bigger boys who went were simply hypnotized,

An’ ‘stid of studyin’ their books they moped the whole day long,

An’ wrote the teacher poetry an’ billet-doux an’ song.

Ame Green he swore she warn’t to blame, that she was good as gold,

An’ women was all jealous, she was so fair to behold.

He said if they should turn her out they’d turn him out as well,

An’ so the town was kept on edge for quite a tryin’ spell.

OME fam’lies were divided, an’ things went from bad to worse;

Some thought she was a blessin’, an’ some ’lowed she was a curse.

They called a special meetin’ of the school committee crowd,

An’ oratory cut the air, high-soundin’, deep an’ loud.

Some men was for, an’ some against, an’ things was gittin’ hot

When one broke in with startlin’ news that made ’em plum upsot.

The schoolmarm she had quit the town, eloped, the bearer said,

With Squire Patten’s only son, an’ now the two was wed!

* * * * * * * * * * * *

XI.

HE purpose of the meetin’ then had fallen weak an’ flat,

An’ for a while they didn’t seem to know where they was at.

Then Uncle Ezra he arose, an said ’twas his idée

To hire another teacher now as homely as could be!

He ’lowed he thought ’twould save the town, an’, layin’ by all jokes,

’Twould be a good thing for the men, an’ suit the women folks!

An’ so they made another try, an’ such a teacher found,

But nothin’ more was said about the schoolmarm’s boardin’ round.

Feb. 6, 1910.

Originally titled ‘The Schoolmarm Who Boarded Round’

It ain’t no fun to go to war,

Nor when you’re left behind;

I don’t see what they have ’em for,

But mebbie I am blind.

Go to the front an’ you git shot,

Stay home an’ you’re a cur;

In any case a war is what

Dad Sherman said it were.

– Sam Seller’s Soliloquy.

WAS Lincoln night in Stokes’s store, an’ ev’ryone was there;

Each cracker bar’l was occupied, an’ ev’ry keg an’ chair.

Warn’t many nights in all the year of quite so much import;

Some went from patriotic moves, an’ some for mirth an’ sport.

Ol’ Gungy boasted three or four who’d wore the northern blue,

Who warn’t afreared to say a word for Grant an’ Lincoln, too;

An’ when it come to goin’ through the battles they had fit,

There warn’t no orators at large could talk a little bit!

II.

AMP CULVER allus told ’em how he fit at ol’ Bull Run,

How he just stood there like a tree, a-firin’ of his gun.

“I stood there rooted to the spot, I tell you, boys,” said he,

“There warn’t a man stood firmer before the enemy than me!

I don’t know just how many I killed, a hundred, I should say,

But it’s a wonder I’m alive to tell the tale today!”

Abe Crocket, he spoke up an’ said: “It’s plain enough to me;

You probably got the tree between you an’ the enemy!”

III.

UT Hamp was trained in discipline, an’ answered not the shot,

He’d got to fight the war all through when he was good an’ hot;

His battles had been so big, he’d seen so many dead,

He never noticed little shot from stay-at-homes, he said.

“I tell you, boys,” he shook his head, “it was a shame, I swun,

To think we lost, so foolish-like, the battle of Bull Run;

I’ve allus said, an’ say it now, we would have won that day,

If we had had Abe Lincoln there a-leading of the fray!”

IV.

EN BILLINGS ’lowed that Lincoln warn’t the hull blame shootin’ match,

That Grant an’ Sherman was the boys who made ’em toe the scratch;

“I ain’t got nothin’ ’gainst old Abe,” said he, “except, perhaps,

He kept from off the firin’ line when there was any scraps.

My idee is, that any man who is the army’s head

Had orter be where the fightin’ is, instid uv home abed!”

Hamp said he’d noticed, lookin’ round, that when the call was sent

That there was others staid to home besides the President!

IM HALL said he had helped to win a mighty lot o’ fights,

That when he once got started in he fit both days an’ nights;

He said he fit at Malvern Hill, an’ Shiloh an’ Bull Run,

But Gettysburg was where he mowed the rebels down like fun.

He said he turned a rebel flank, an’ turned it all alone,

That ev’ryone exceptin’ him was wounded, or had flown;

That he just stood there pumpin’ lead as fast as he could sight,

An’ pretty soon the battle turned, an’ he had won the fight!

VI.

N’ I will never forgit the day,” said Jim, his es aflame,

“When someone stepped into my tent – I didn’t ketch his name –

An’ took me by the hand an’ says: ‘Jim Hall, you’ve saved the day!’

An’ then he thanked me twenty times, an’ rode his hoss away.

He was a tall an’ skinny man, an’ wore a stovepipe hat,

An’ didn’t look uv much account, nor have his speech down pat;

I didn’t take much stock in him, till someone says, ‘Jim Hall,

Thet man wuz Lincoln, you galoot, the leader uv us all!’”

VII.

HEN Jim remembered how his eyes had looked into his own,

An’ what a magic, kindly light from out them winders shown!

Jim d’lowed that if the war had gone another year or two,

That Lincoln would have made of him a general, he knew.

Jim said, of course, that war was bad, but wished it might have run

Till he had got some shoulder straps, like other chaps had done;

But one thing he was mighty glad, he’d held Abe Lincoln’s hand,

An’ Abe had said that he could fight like one born to command!

VIII.

AM SELLERS hadn’t said a word; Sam wasn’t much to talk,

But Sam had been at Bull Run, an’ showed it in his walk.

Of all the vet’rans in the town Sam was the only chap

Who showed by any hit or miss that he had seen a scrap.

Sam, he got wounded in the hip, an’ fellers said, who knowed,

It wasn’t in the front at all, but in the rear it showed!

But whether that was true or not, Sam had to have his say,

An’ when Jim Hall had spoke his piece Sam opened right away:

IX.

OU fellers talk of war,” says he, “but none of you kin show

A missin’ laig, or anything, as all the people know;

Hain’t even got a powder mark, but look at me, I say,

A-limpin’ up an’ down here with a bullet from the fray!

I never held Abe Lincoln’s hand, I never turned no fight,

Abe’s eyes, they never looked in mine, with all their wond’rous light,

But I have got the marks of war right on my hip, I say,

An’ I shall lug a sooverneer until my dyin’ day!”

HEN Sam he stopped to ketch his breath, an’ Abe he butted in

As usu’l lookin’ at the crowd with his suspicious grin;

“Say, Sam,” says he, “it may be true you’ve got a battle scar,

But tell us why it ain’t in front, like other folks’s are?”

Sam brustled up. “Now, looky here, I want you all to know

That bullet hit me fair an’ square, while chargin’ at the foe;

I was ahead, an’ turned to see if they was foll’rin’ me,

When jest that minute I was shot; that’s how I got it, see?”

It’s hard to fight your country’s fight,

An’ git shot full uv holes,

Then be belittled day an’ night

By sech unfeelin’ souls.

If I was goin’ to war ag’in,

I’d stay at home, I swun,

An’ set around this store an’ grin,

An’ be a great big gun!

– Hamp Culver’s Conclusion

Feb. 13, ‘10

Originally titled ‘Abe Lincoln Night at Stokes’ Store’

HEN Gungawamp gits all snowed in, as often is the case,

You’d think that she would sartin be an awful lonesome place;

You’d think the town would hide its head beneath its frozen wing,

An’ not wake up to life again till come the early spring.

But that is where you’d be mistook, if that was what you thought,

Becuz the folks o’ Gungawamp ain’t people of the sort

To settle down an’ wait for spring. When they’re cut off by snow

Is just the time they’re wakin’ up, an’ things are on the go.

II.

CITY feller once remarked he thought ol’ Gungy town

In summer time is jest the place to come an’ settle down.

“When there is fishin’ on the Crick, when lilies are in bloom,

An’ all the woods an’ medder lands were scented with perfume,

When you could roam the country o’er, an’ ev’rything is green,

A country spot more beautiful,” said he, I’ve never seen,

“But when it comes to wintertime, with snow waist high,” says he,

“Without a railroad or a show, no Gungawamp for me!”

III.

OU see the feller didn’t know what he was talkin’ ’bout;

He didn’t know the fun we have when we are shut from out

The great big world for days an’ days, the comforts an’ delights

We find around the open fires on shut-in winter nights.

Our winters here in Gungywamp, it allus seems to me,

Beat summer season all to pot, we are so still an’ free;

Ain’t crowded none by city folks, don’t have to hustle so,

An’ there’s a feelin’ of repose when buried up with snow!

IV.

RECKYLECT a blizzard once that held three days or so.

A-snowin’ night an’ day it seemed as fast as it could snow;

The roads were blocked, the fences topped, an’ all that we could see

Was snow packed round the winder panes as tight as it could be.

The children, they was scart to death, afeared that nevermore

Would they be able to proceed outside the kitchen door,

But pa jest laughed an’ took his spade an’ tunneled to the shed,

Then to the barn an’ done his chores while all the stock was fed.

EXT mornin’ I wakened with a start by hearin’ shouts of glee,

An’ lookin’ from my winder pane it was a sight to see!

A hundred men an’ boys were there, an’ fifty yokes of steers

A-trampin’ out the buried roads, with shovels an’ with cheers.

A string of fifty yokes of steers who entered in the fun

As though they understood the job, an’ liked it ev’ry one.

We joined the crowd which later stopped in front the Public Hall,

Where women handy by had coffee ’n’ sandwiches for all.

VI.

HEN follered days an’ nights of fun, house parties by the score,

An’ not a hitch in nightly fun at Stoke s’ grocery store.

The women held their sewin’ bees, an’ Friday nights the same

We held the meetings with the Lord, an’ praised his holy name.

The goin’ was a little hard, but what is that to those

Who live an honest, temp’rate life, with strength to cope with woes?

An’ then the nights around the fires, with apples an’ popcorn;

No time for feelin’ in the dumps, no cause to feel forlorn!

VII.

GUNGYWAMP in blizzard time is just the place for me;

She is a host within herself, as comfy as kin be.

With taters in the cellar bins, an’ pork an’ hams galore,

An’ milk an’ eggs an’ vegterbuls, O, who could ask for more?

Let blizzards blow, an’ snowstorms snow, let all the world be hid,

We’ll git along with dance an’ song, as we have allus did.

We’ll break our roads, an’ tote our loads, an’ laugh at common woes,

An’ when in spring the bluebirds sing, we’ll blossom like a rose!

_______________________________________________________

Feb. 27, ‘10

Originally titled ‘Gungawamp Snowbound’

Who Was Joe Cone?

Individually Published Poems - January & February, 1910

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