Typewritten Manuscripts Unpublished

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 TYPE – WRITTEN MANUSCRIPTS

  UNPUBLISHED

 

Ballads

Poems

Quatrains

Etc.

 

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    THOUGHTS OF HOME

 

 (For Recitation.)

 

 

O, sing me a song of the bygone days,

    Of the days of long ago;

A song of home and the ones I loved,

    A ballad both sweet and low.

I long for the song that lures me back

    Where I used to roam and play;

 (Sing) “So sing one song for my dear old country home,

    For my childhood’s happy home far away.”

 

How dear to my heart are the scenes of the past,

    The cottage, the orchard and all;

The roses that fell o’er the door of the ell,

    The garden and vine-covered wall.

The old, rustic fence, the curb and the well-sweep,

    The lawn where the black cherries fell;

 (Sing) “And the oaken bucket, the iron bound bucket,

    The moss covered bucket that hung in the well.”

 

Then, down the shaded village street,

    With hard and grimy hands,

Now bent and old, but with heart of gold,

    The village smithy stands.

Behind where flows the laughing brook,

    Forget its voice? No, never!

 (Sing) “For men may come and men may go,

    But I go on forever.”

 

Then I recall a day of sorrow,

    When our sun of hope had set;

When a letter from my brother

    Filled us with a deep regret.

From the bloody field of battle

    Came this sorrow-breathing strain:

 (Sing) “But you’ll not forget me mother,

    If I’m numbered with the slain.”

 

Many were the hearts that were anxious at night

    Wishing for the war to cease;

Many were the hours we watched and prayed

    To see the dawn of peace.

Then joy flashed through our humble home

    When came this welcome sound:

 (Sing) “We’re leaving to-night, leaving to-night

    Leaving the old camp ground.”

 

And still the visions of the past

    Come crowding through my brain;

The sunny slopes, the wooded hills,

    The fields of waving grain.

And, with the dear old poet,

    To this one thought I’ve come:

 (Sing) “Be it ever so humble

    There’s no place like home.”

 

 

(revised from Sept. 23, ’07 version)

 

 ABE MARTIN’S ROMMERTIZ

 

 

Abe Martin hed the roomertiz,

    An’ hed it purty bad;

He couldn’t git to Stokes’s store,

    Which made him ruther sad.

In fact Abe couldn’t step his foot

    Upon the bedroom floor;

An’ so, of course, he missed his nights

    In Stokes’s grocery store.

 

The setters sympathized with Abe,

    An' missed him ev’ry night;

An’ so they ‘lowed to call on him

    Would be no more than right.

An’ so Bige Miller started out

    To visit him, an’ his;

Bige also took a remedy

    To help Abe’s roomertiz.

 

“It’s helped me ev’ry time,” says Bige,

    An’ so Abe tried it out;

But still, his roomertiz got wuss,

    An’ coaxed along the gout.

Hank Stubbs next came to make his call,

    An’ fetched a “wondrous cure;”

“Jest rub it on,” he says to Abe,

    “ ‘Twill help you sartin sure!”

 

Abe tried it faithfully an’ long,

    Alas! He didn’t gain;

In fact the only thing it done

    Wuz to increase his pain.

Hen Billin’s wuz the next to call,

    He hed a “wondrous cure;”

Abe ‘lowed he’d tried ‘bout all the cures

    Thet he could well endure.

 

Hen plead an’ begged an’ guaranteed

    ‘Twould put him on his feet;

An’ so Abe tried the “wondrous stuff”

    With feelins’ fur frum sweet.

An' all the while Abe seemed to grow

    Much wuss, ef thet could be;

An’ still he tried, agin’ his will,

    Each neighbor’s remedy.

 

Gabe Perkins wuz the last to call,

    He hed a cure ‘twuz grand!

Abe’s blood wuz up, though he wuz down –

    Could scurcely raise his hand.

Gabe pulled a long, slim bottle out

    An’ started fur the bed;

Abe Martin’s eyes they wuz ablaze,

    An’ he raised up his head.

 

He thought uv all the things’ he’d tried,

    Then give one mighty roar;

Frum out thet four-post bed he come

    An’ landed on the floor.

He drove ol’ Gabe frum out the room,

    An’ cursed his “cure” to scorn;

An’ when he’d calmed himself ag’in

    His roomertiz wuz gone!

 

 

 

(revised from Dec. 1, 1912 version)

 

 

 

THE GUNGY CHRISTMAS BELLS

 

 

I find full happy days in town,

    Where life is bright and gay;

Where beauty smiles, and friend beguiles

    The lonely hours away.

But through it all, beyond it all,

    I see old Gungy town;

I see her spires, her backlog fires,

    With winter shutting down.

 

I hear sweet sounds across the snow,

    And see sweet faces, too;

The city’s light, its depth nor height,

    Can hide them from my view.

Now comes the sweetest sound of all,

    What gladness it foretells!

It is the sound of joy profound,

    The Gungy Christmas bells!

 

Ring sweet, ring loud, O, Gungy bells!

    Wherever you may be;

Let every son, each wand’ring one,

    Hear your glad harmony.

Bring back, bring back to Gungy town,

    By magic of your chime,

From pomp and show the souls you know

    This blessed Christmas time.

 

Ring on and on, the ages through,

    Nor have a silent tongue;

You are the solace of the old,

    The herald of the young.

Again I hear your welcome peal,

    What gladness it foretells!

Give ear I pray, give ear today

    To Gungy Christmas bells!

 

 

(revised from Sept. 7, 1914 version)

 

A BACK YARD HUNTER

 

 

I can’t go hunting in the wood,

    I wouldn’t if I could;

And so I do the best I can,

    As any hunter should.

I am a back-yard hunter now,

    Large game does not abound;

But still I bag a goodly bit

    From tree and vine and ground.

 

I spy the bluebird on the wing,

    I hear the robin’s call;

Bob White he greats me every morn

    From on the garden wall.

And neighbor wren sings me hi song

    While guarding well his mate;

And brother whippoorwill at dusk

    Usurps the garden gate.

 

I bag fine fruit from upon the trees,

    And berries on the vine;

And all the fragrant flowers there

    And butterflies are mine.

I lay rich trophies at the feet

    Of her, so sweet and kind;

I am a back yard hunter now,

    And O, what joy I find!

 

 

(revised from April 10, 1917 version)

 

   BACK FROM THE SOIL

 

 

For years I’d lived in city ways,

And written stories, verse and plays;

Lived midst the stress of noise and gloom,

With scarce enough of light and room,

And all the while had longed to be

Where air was pure and room was free.

Ah! Just to have a country nook

In which to dream and write a book;

A place to call my very own,

To walk and think and dream alone!

At last we scented such a place,

A spot of dignity and grace,

Where joy and quiet reigned supreme

With nooks in which to muse and dream.

 

And so we bade the town adieu

And sought for joys in pastures new,

And for a space, the briefest spell,

Life rivalled any marriage bell.

But soon the country ghost arose

And stalked into my calm repose.

The duties of a well kept place

Arose and smote me in the face.

The neighbors were so good and kind

They occupied my house and mind;

The garden must be tended to –

To let it go would never do.

 

We must, of course, raise all we eat –

Our produce must be fresh and sweet.

The lawns must have their weekly trim,

The wood supply was always slim,

Repairs were needed everywhere,

The trees and paths all needed care.

Were chores to do and stock to feed,

And every kind of household need.

And every hour, from sun to sun,

Found yours truly on the run.

 

I had no time to call my own,

To walk and think and dream alone.

My neighbors, always kind and nice,

Were faithful with their good advice.

But help was scarce, none to be had,

And life was hourly growing sad.

The cosy nooks? I knew them not,

My plots were naught but garden plots.

No stories, sketches, verse or plays

Were possible in country ways.

And so I’m back in town again

Where I may dream and use my pen!

 

(revised from Nov. 18, 1915 version)

 

UNCLE HENRY’S BATH

 

 

                                      I.

When Uncle Henry come to stay – an’ Uncle Henry did –

There come a change to our house which nearly raised the lid.

‘Cuz Uncle Henry’d lived alone for years up in the brush

An’ wasn’t used to our kind of hustle an’ of rush.

It made him nervous as could be, our careless life an’ gay,

An' ’lowed we’d have to answer for our sins at Jedgment day;

‘Cuz Uncle Henry wouldn’t laugh, life was a solemn thing,

The world was rotten to the core – the devil on the wing!

 

                                        II.

Our Uncle Henry’s notions they were funny as could be;

He was the queerest specimen our village ever see.

His speech, his manners an’ his dress belonged to years agone,

An’ so he moped around all day unhappy an’ forlorn.

When Sunday come he wished to take a “good, ol’ fashioned scrub,”

But he warn’t used to nickel work, an’ didn’t like our tub;

Nor would he use his bedroom with its rugs an’ fillergree –

“I’m ‘fraid I’ll git it all mussed up with suds an’ sech,” says he.

 

                                        III.

“I’ll take a wash-tub to the barn, an’ take my scrub out there

Where I kin sozzle all I want, an’ splash around fur fair;”

An’ so he took his tub an’ pail of water steamin’ hot,

An’ Uncle Henry an’ his bath was for a time forgot.

Bimeby we heard a wild war-hoop, a clatter an’ a splash,

The barn door swung an’ Uncle Hen made one tremenjus dash!

He waved his arms, an’ looked jest like a wild “September Morn,”

An’ dove with all the speed he had into our field of corn!

 

                                        IV.

A hornets nest had tumbled from the rafters overhead,

An’ they had stung him fore an’ aft, an’ drove him from the shed.

At first he tried to duck beneath the water where he stood;

Alas! It wasn’t deep enough – the hornets found him good.

There warn’t no time for Sunday duds, not e’en a pair of pants,

So Uncle Henry took to flight – it was his only chance!

Down through the wavin’ corn he went, naught on except his mind,

The wide world spread in front of him – the hornets close behind!

 

                                        V.

Some ladies goin’ home from church heard his despairin’ yelp,

An’ stopped, good people that they were, to see if they could help.

When Uncle Henry saw their heads above the tasselled tops

He give a louder yell an’ flew without no waits or stops.

We sent the women folks away, an’ got an overcoat,

An’ started out for Uncle Hen, who’d left for parts remote.

There was a trail of hornets from the barn out to the corn

Which give us the direction poor ol’ Uncle Hen had gone.

 

                                        VI.

We hunted all around the corn, an’ through the Lima beans,

We looked behind the rows of peas, an’ down amongst the greens;

We searched behind the chicken coops, an’ down an unused well,

But where he’d burrowed in his pain no mortal soul could tell.

We hollered, coaxed an’ whistled, an’ assured him all was right,

But Uncle Henry for the time seemed swallered out of sight.

He was afraid to show himself, or answer to our call,

But by an’ by we saw his head above the garden wall.

 

                                        VII.

He’d gone beyond the garden patch, an’ like a frightened buck,

Had scaled the vine-clad wall an’ here he’d run right into luck:

He’d found a barrel, minus heads, an’ with sardonic glee,

Was usin’ it as best he could to hide his misery.

We wrapped him in the overcoat, an’ led him back once more,

Not to the barn; Oh, no, becuz he scorned the very door.

An’ now, when Uncle Henry takes his “good, ol’ fashioned scrub,”

He takes it in the bathroom in our white enameled tub!

 

 

(revised from Aug. 12, 1914 version)

 

 

 THE VILLAGE JOKE-SMITH

(With apologies to His Neighbor, the Blacksmith.)

 

 

Under a warped and leaky roof

    The village joke-smith sits;

He’s trying hard to live upon

    His dull, corroded wits,

While now and then a coming check

    Across his vision flits.

 

His hair is sandy, thin and long,

    His face is wrinkled quite;

His brow is furrowed deep with lines

    From thoughts he would invite,

Yet no one ever said to him

    That he a joke could write.

 

Day in, day out, from dawn till dark,

    He scratches with his pen;

Week in, week out he mails his jokes,

    And they come back again.

Alas! They cannot see the point,

    Those dull newspaper men.

 

And children on their way to school

    Observe him daily sit

Beneath the rafters all alone,

    This poor, misguided wit

Toiling, sorrowing, hoping he

    Some day will make a hit.

 

The Sabbath finds him not in church,

    His clothing is too spare;

For all he’d like to get right well,

    Alas, he does not dare

Because he’s worn his trousers out

    From sitting on his chair.

 

While he soars on the wings of thought

    He hears his helpmeet’s voice

Upbraiding, every now and then,

    Unruly girls and boys,

And, knowing he is free from harm,

    It makes his heart rejoice.

 

Scratching, digging, hammering hard

    At jokes in verse and prose;

Something attempted, nothing done,

    That’s how his humor goes.

When day is done he’s earned, perhaps,

    A decent night’s repose.

 

No thanks to thee, my joking friend,

    For lessons thou hast taught;

No fortune at the flaming forge

    Of humor hast thou wrought.

Go out and get another job

    Methinks is what you ought!

 

 

(revised from Jan. 17, 1913 version)

 

                   S A M P L E   H U M O R   C O L U M N

 

    Ready Fur Winter

 

 

We’ve got fixed up fur winter,

    All over Gungy town;

We’re banked around the edges,

    Our roofs are battened down.

We’ve stopped up all the winders,

    An’ weather-stripped the doors;

An’ extry rugs an’ carpets

    Are scattered on the floors.

 

We’re all fixed up fur winter,

    The stock is snug an’ warm;

The winds don’t make us worry,

    Nur neither does the storm.

Pertaters in the sullar,

    An’ vegterbuls galore;

An’ wood stacked in the woodhouse

    A dozen cord or more.

 

We’re all fixed up fur winter,

    Espeshly down below;

We’ve apples by the barrel,

    An’ canned fruit row on row.

Now is the time fur callin’

    When winter’s mantle falls;

We’ve got a lot o’ cider –

We’ll hev a lot o’ calls!

 

(revised from Dec. 9, 1912 version)

 

                                 ------x------

     Uncle Ezra Says:

“A pick’rel bites at anything thet comes along pervidin’ it’s shiny; don’t be a pick’rel.”

                                 ------x------

 

 Street Primer

Here comes a New Year’s Resolution.

A New Year’s Resolution, Little One, is a broad Statement, made in good Faith, and Broken All Over.

“Does a New Year’s Resolution always Wobble on its Feet?”

Not always, Little One, but too Frequently, alas! A New Year’s Resolution is made from Force of Habit, and the Material is not Strong. It lacks Endurance. Only the best of Goods should be made into a New Year’s Resolution.

“Where is the New Year’s Resolution going?”

Apparently it doesn’t Know. In fact it isn’t making any Progress. It is neither Going nor Coming. If it were Going it would be difficult to tell Where, but it is Easy to Tell Whence it Came.

“Are there many New Year’s Resolutions?”

Yes, indeed, at this season of the year. Now is the Time

 

   (missing page)

 

 The Family Album.

“Do you keep a scrap book?”

“Not now; my wife keeps it.”

“How’s that?”

“Pocket book.”

 

                                 ------x------

    Hearsay.

Tommy – You just orter see the fishes my father gets when he goes fishin’. O–o-o, they’re great big ones!

Johnny – Does he bring ‘em home?

Tommy – O, my, no; he can’t; they’re too big!

 

                                 ------x------

  Pavement Philosophy.

 

A man is getting old when he wears a cap in place of his derby.

Lots of people “mean all right,” but perhaps it would be just as well if they didn’t.

“Well done thou good and faithful servants,” isn’t a familiar motto on the walls of many corporations.

It is no crime to place the mucilage brush in the ink bottle, and yet, it shows something is wrong.

There are times, no doubt, when you can fight fire with fire, but you want to know which way the wind is blowing.

 

                                 ------x------

  His Ambition

 

 

“ ‘Tis not for paltry cash I write,”

    The poet meekly said;

“ ‘Tis not for gold while I’m alive,

    Or fame when I am dead.

I spurn the whole commercial sphere,

    And soar in realms on high;

I’m satisfied if I can get

    Enough of pork and pie!”

 

 

(revised from Dec. 11, 1912 version)

 

                                 ------x------

   His Choice

 

Talk not to me

    Of mining prop’;

I’d rather be

    A Gotham cop!

 

                                 ------x------

   The Brute

 

Wife – You never praise my form like you used to.

Husband – Well, we’ve both changed some.

 

                                 ------x------

  Uncle Ezra Concludes with:

 

“The on’y way some couples kin keep together is by livin’ apart.”

 

 

a x b

 

 

NATURE SONNETS

(By the Village Poet)

Pa bought a cow of neighbor Deacon Brown,

      And brought her home and put her in the lot,

And she went grazing, and was soon forgot,

While pa hitched up the horse and drove to town

To take some eggs and other produce down.

The deacon said she was a gentle cow,

      And wouldn’t jump the lowest fence in town.

When she had had enough of feed, I vow,

      She took that fence just like a circus clown

And headed back for home like all persest,

And jumped back in the lot with all the rest!

My sakes, but pa was mad! “O, no,” says he,

“She will not jump the lowest fence, not she,

But she will take the high ones, I’ll be blessed!”

 

 

(revised from July 5, 1914 version, entitled ‘Nature Sonnet’. Included in subsequent section here under that name)

 

 

  The Forest Blue Book

 

 

The owl sat on the big oak tree,

As proud as any owl could be;

A crow flew from an upper limb

And sat just out of reach of him.

The crow was ugly, showed its claws,

And said he was the boss, “be-caws

The owl he couldn’t see by day,

And was a coward, anyway.”

“Hoot,” said the owl, with bluster, too,

“Come round tonight and see who’s hoo!”

 

 

       (revised from May 15, 1913 version – also included in the next section)

 

 

     COUNTRY CHAFF AND CHEER

 

  By Joe Cone

 

    Fixed For Winter

 

 

We’re all fixed up for winter,

    All over Gungy town;

We’re banked around the edges,

    The roofs are battened down.

We’ve stopped up all the winders,

    An’ weather-stripped the doors;

An’ extry rugs an’ carpets

    Are scattered on the floors.

 

We’re all fixed up fur winter,

    The stock is snug an’ warm;

The winds don’t make us worry,

    We dread no comin’ storm.

Pertaters in the cellar,

    An’ vegterbuls galore;

An’ wood stacked in the woodhouse

    A dozen cords or more.

 

We’re all fixed up for winter,

    Espeshly down below;

We’ve apples by the barrel,

    An’ canned fruit by the row.

Now is the time for callin’

    When winter’s mantle falls;

We’ve got a lot o’ cider –

We’ll have a lot o’ calls!

 

Revision of version included earlier (“Ready Fur Winter’) as well as of the Dec. 9, 1912 original, entitled ‘Ready for Winter’

 

 

WATCHWORD FOR JANUARY

Revenge is not always sweet. Sometimes a change in the weather curdles it.

 

 

 

                     UNCLE EZRA SAYS:

“Sometimes it’s safer to kick an ol’ hat than the one who’s wearin’ it.”

 

 

  SIGNS OF THE TIMES

A Connecticut sign reads: “Ice skates sharpened.” Perhaps they do sharpen roller skates in some places.

 

GUNGYWAMP PHILOSOPHY

The more a man keeps posted the less of a stick he is.

 

Ef you harp on one string too long it is liable to bust.

 

Even a one-hoss man these days is with considerable.

 

“Out of sight out of mind” doesn’t apply to the boil on the back of one’s neck.

 

Ef women are as old as they seem then the majority of them ain’t what they seem to be.

 

In lookin’ for a position it isn’t so much what you hev done as it is what you can’t do now.

 

People who won’t buy a pig in a bag seldom hev objections when it comes to buyin’ sausage.

 

Jest becuz a man has got on a stove pipe hat ain’t no sign that he’s fired with the ambition to give somebuddy a ton of coal.

 

Some men who have money to burn never stop to think that their wives might like a little more heat than they’ve be’n accustomed to havin’.

 

A good many women expect praise ev’ry time they make a cup of coffee, but they never think of applaudin’ their husbands when they go out an’ sift a pan of ashes.

 

 

    The Forest Blue Book

 

The owl sat on a big oak tree,

As proud as any owl could be;

A crow flew from an upper limb

And sat just out of reach of him.

 

The crow was ugly, showed its claws,

And said he was the boss be-caws

The owl he couldn’t see by day,

And was a coward, anyway.

 

“Hoot,” said the owl, with bluster, too,

“Come round tonight and see ‘hoo’s-hoo!”

 

 

 

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

 

Last week the editor of the Gungywamp Gazette received the following, which was of course, intended for the advertising deptartment:

“Havin’  found a part of a founting pen I write to say that I wisht that the owner of said pen would send menthe other half of the pen, as said pen as it now is ain’t no use to me.”

 

 

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

 

Last week the editor of the “Gungywamp Gazette” received the following, which was, of course, intended for the advertising dept.:

“Havin’  found a part of a founting pen I write to say that I wish the owner of said pen would send menthe other ha’f of the pen ‘cause said pen as it is now ain’t no use to me.”

 

 

  UN-NATURAL HISTORY

 

As far as can be learned the automobile family and the squirrel family are not very closely related, and yet it is noticeable that when the automobile becomes desperate how readily it takes to the nearest tree.

 

Rhode Islanders have a strong sense of the phonetic. Some of them who go down to the sea shores (in other words, their places of business) in automobiles don’t call them ship yards, or boat yards, but call them yacht yards.

 

Some men are not the howling successes their boyhoods promised.

 

Keep a man employed and he will be happy and contented. Fishing is employment.

 

 

 

  A YOUNG FINANCIER

 

“Young man,” said the retired squire, “my daughter is everything to me. If I should lose her I would lose everything. Of course, I would still have my fortune, but what is a fortune compared with my daughter?”

“Well, sir,” replied the suitor, sadly, “if that is the way you feel about it I am willing to swap your daughter for your fortune.”

NATURE SONNET

(A recent issue of the Gungywamp Gazette contained the following nature sonnet from the pen of one of Gungy’s gifted citizens who chooses to hide behind the nom de plume of The Village Poet.)

 

Pa bought a cow of neighbor Deacon Brown,

      And brought her home and put her in the lot,

And she went grazing, and was soon forgot,

While pa hitched up the horse and drove to town

To take some eggs and other produce down.

The deacon said she was a gentle cow,

      And wouldn’t jump the LOWEST fence in town.

When she had had enough of feed, I vow,

      She took that fence just like a circus clown

And headed back for home like all persest,

And jumped back in the lot with all the rest!

My sakes, but pa was mad! “O, no,” says he,

“She will not jump the LOWEST fence, not she,

But she will take the HIGHEST, I’ll be blessed!”

 

 

 

DOMESTIC NOTE

The first time the young husband leaves the house without kissing his wife good bye she writes the date down on something she can always keep.

 

 

 

 

TILTUP TIME

 

 

It’s tiltup ttime on Lizzard Crick,

    The ice is good and strong;

The blacksmith shop and Stokes’ store

    Have lost their daily throng.

Hen Billings, Abe and Uncle Ez,

    And all the squatter corps,

Are down in “Pick’rel Bend” today,

    Where tiltups hold the floor.

 

Jed Martin said along last fall,

    “The signs are comin’ good;

There’ll be enough of fish this year

    For Gungy’s multihood.”

So when the crick was strong enough

    The fisher folk men were there;

And “Pick’rel Bend” was covered o’er

    With tiltups and to spare.

 

Under the lee of Ackley hill

    A roaring fire was made leaps high;

With toes and fingers thawing out,

    And mittens hung to dry.

And, seated on the friendly logs,

    The yarns of bygone years

Are poured with solemn Gungy skill

    Into our youthful ears!

 

Tiltups are bobbing up and down,

    Red flags flap in the breeze;

Stout hearts don’t mind the wintry winds

    In busy days like these.

Ah, tiltup time on Lizzard Crick,

    With story, song and joke,

May nothing ever come between

    You and good Gungy folk!

 

 

  (revised from Dec. 31, 1916 version)