Keepin’ Secrets

Ol’ man Crockett come down to the store,

     He’d a secret he wanted to tell;

So he told Bill Jones in the softest of tones,

     An’ told Bill to keep it right well.

“Don’t breathe a word more,” said Crockett to Bill,

     “There’ll be thunder to pay ef you do”;

Then he met Hiram Snow, jest a little below,

     An’ took him in confidence, too.

“Don’t dare breathe a word,” he cautioned ol’ Hi’,

     “Don’t want it to git round the town”;

Then he jogged on his way, quite important an’ gay,

     Till he met neighbor Cottonwood Brown.

“Say, Cot’,” said ol’ Crockett, “I’ve somethin’ to say,

     Thet’s important, but don’t dare repeat”;

An’ then I’ll be shot ef he didn’t tell Cot’

     What he’d told to the rest up the street.

An’ so it went on till he met eight or ten,

     An’ to each he imparted the tale;

Though he cautioned them all that the heavens would fall

     If to keep the dark secret they’d fail.

Then Crockett went home with an easier mind,

     For his secret was well hammered down;

But the very next day, to his surprise and dismay,

     ‘Twas the talk uv the hull bloomin’ town.

Now the moral is here, as plain as your face:

     We wonder our secrets are plain,

When we know mighty well, if the truth we would tell,

     We’re Crocketts right over again.

Oct. 27, '10

Farm Limericks

There was an old farmer named Horn,

Who got up quite early at morn;

     He labored all day

     On a plaster, they say,

Which he needed to put on his corn.

A cow met a horse one fine day,

And tried to make love right away;

     The cow gave a “moo”,

     And said, I love you,

But the horse he said to her, “neigh neigh!”

Oct. 27, 1912

A Moving Picture

They met in New York,

     They wed in Chicago;

They lived in St. Paul,

     Then came the embargo.

They fought in Duluth

     Did he know, did she know?

He went to Spokane,

     She finished at Reno.

Oct. 27, ‘10

No Hurry

The proper way for Dr. Cook

     To get the records left behind him

On Mt. McKinley, that’s to say

     If he’s really anxious to find them,

Is just to wait till aeroplanes

     Go everywhere gaily chug-chugging,

Then take sky passage to the mount

     And save so much climbing and plugging.

Oct. 27, ‘09

(Frederick) Cook claimed to have achieved the first summit of Mount McKinley (Denali) in September 1906, reaching the top with one other member of his expedition. Other members of the team (e. g., Belmore Browne), whom he had left lower on the mountain, expressed private doubts about this immediately. Cook's claims were not publicly challenged until the 1909 dispute with Peary over who had first reached the North Pole. Peary's supporters then publicly alleged that Cook's claim of ascent of Mt. McKinley was fraudulent.

Unlike Hudson Stuck in 1913 (Ascent of Denali, 1914, photograph opposite p. 102) Cook took no photograph of the view from atop McKinley. His photograph which he claimed to be of the summit was found to have been taken of a tiny peak 19 miles away.

In late 1909 Ed Barrill, Cook's sole companion during the 1906 climb, signed an affidavit denying that they had reached the summit. Since the late 20th century, historians have found that he was paid by Peary supporters to do so. (Henderson, 2005) (Henderson writes that this fact was covered up at the time, but Bryce says that it was never a secret.) Up until a month before, Barrill had consistently asserted that he and Cook had reached the summit. His 1909 affidavit included a map correctly locating what became called Fake Peak, featured in Cook's "summit" photo, and showing that he and Cook had turned back at the Gateway.

Modern climber Bradford Washburn has gathered data, repeated the climbs, and taken new photos to evaluate Cook's 1906 claim. Between 1956 and 1995, Washburn and Brian Okonek identified the locations of most of the photographs Cook took during his 1906 McKinley foray, and took new photos at the same spots. In 1997 Bryce identified the locations of the remaining photographs, including Cook's "summit" photograph; none were taken anywhere near the summit. Washburn showed that none of Cook's 1906 photos were taken past the "Gateway" (north end of the Great Gorge), 12 horizontal bee-line miles from McKinley and 3 miles below its top.

An expedition by the Mazama Club in 1910 reported that Cook's map departed abruptly from the landscape at a point when the summit was still 10 miles distant. Critics of Cook's claims have compared Cook's map of his alleged 1906 route with the landscape of the last 10 miles. Cook's descriptions of the summit ridge are variously claimed to bear no resemblance to the mountain and to have been verified by many subsequent climbers. But, in the 1970s, climber Hans Waale found a route which fit Cook's narrative and descriptions. Three decades later, in 2005 and 2006, this route was successfully climbed by a group of Russian mountaineers.

No evidence of Cook's purported journey between the "Gateway" and the summit has been found. His claim to have reached the summit is not supported by his photos' vistas, his two sketch maps' markers, and peak-numberings for points attained, nor by his compass bearings, barometer readings, route-map or camp trash. But, samples of all such evidence have been found short of the Gateway.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frederick_Cook

Parting of the Ways

They met beneath the shades of night

     Out where ‘twas dark and still;

They tried to read each other’s eyes,

     As lovers always will.

He did not hold her tiny hand,

     Or kiss her as he ought;

But ‘neath the evening star they knew

     Just what each other thought.

He spoke to her in accents low,

     She answered him in turn;

The plaintive note in either voice

     Bespoke two hearts that yearn.

And then the unexpected came,

     And parted them, alack!

He swore, she screamed, then disappeared

     Into the night so black.

He went his way, and she went hers,

     No fond farewell for her;

A bootjack thrown from far above,

     Lay where the lovers were.

He went his way, and she went hers,

     To loneliness and pain;

Tradition says, and likely true,

     They ne’er returned again.

Oct. 27, ‘09

                                               

Worry, and Get There

It is fine to say “don’t worry”,

     To smile, an’ never stop;

To never feel no flurry,

     No matter how things drop.

But this is true, by gorry,

The man who doesn’t worry

     Will never reach the top.

Oct. 27, ‘09

Thingless Things

                 (Suggested by Horseless Carriages, Chainless Bicycles, Etc.)

I am what’s called a manless man,

     I live on foodless food;

I’m living in an ageless age,

     And have a moodless mood.

I ride upon a bikeless bike,

     And make a timeless time;

But up to date I cannot seem

     To make a rhymeless rhyme.

I fill my lungs with airless air,

     I talk a talkless talk;

At night I sleep a sleepless sleep,

     Or walk a walkless walk.

Oct. 27, ‘96

Pub, in Sunday N.Y.

Herald, Dec. 13, ‘96

A Yankee

I’m a yankee, I’m a yankee,

                   I am orkud, lean an’ lanky,

I wuz born down in Connettycut some twenty year ago;

                   They is hayseed in my whiskers,

                   Which are red, an’ grow promiskers.

While my face is freckuled over ‘ith a million spots er so.

                   I wuz raised on hasty puddin’,

                   Used a dish an’ spoon ‘twuz wooden.

Had ter help ter dig portaters, an’ went fishin’ when it rained;

                   An’ my days uv useful schoolin’,

                   They wuz spent in tricks an’ foolin’,

An’ my nights in melon patches, ef I knowed the dorg wuz chained.

                   O, my life wuz full uv trouble,

                   An’ my feet wuz full uv stubble,

An’ my pockets full uv trinkets ‘at wuz wuth ‘eir weight in gol’;

                   An’ my pants wuz full uv patches,

                   An’ my laigs wuz full uv scratches,

An’ my belly full uv cider w’en the mill begun tur roll.

O, them days uv chasin’ suckers,

Up the brook past Deacon Tuckers,

O, them days uv goin’ swimmin’, an’ uv settin’ rabbit traps;

                   O, them slidin’ days in winters,

                   With the sled-seat full uv splinters,

An’ the ketchin’ uv a raccoon in a figger-four (per’aps).

I’m a yankee, I’m a yankee,

                   I am orkud, lean an’ lanky,

They is hayseed in my whiskers, but I’ll bet yeur six tur three;

                   Thet I’ve hed more ri’ down pleasure,

In my little life’s peck measure,

Than any starched up shaver ‘at the city ever see.

Oct. 27, 1894

Pub. in Boston Courier,

   Dec. 23, ‘94

                   (as published)

Her Words

Before the open hearth we sat, the warm coals softly glowing; her hand in mine, this rustic maid, each moment dearer growing. Her red lips parted, “will she say a word quite sweet and pretty?” But ah! Imagine: “Let’s hitch back, my feet are growin’ sweaty.”

c. Oct. 27, 1894

Pub. in

B. Courier,

De, 9, ‘94

Good Enough For Me

I’ve fished in many lakes and ponds, and fished off on the sea,

But fishing here on Lizzard Crick is good enough for me.

There ain’t no trout or salmon here, nor bass that weigh a ton,

But there’s a slew of bull heads, which bite and pull like fun.

I hear about the Rangely Lakes, and Moosehead, full of trout,

How summer people go up there and pull great, big ones out;

Of course that must be lots of fun, for city folks to see,

But fishing here on Lizzard Crick is good enough for me.

Yes sir, I never fished here yet but what I ketched a mess

That filled a stringer to the top, and ma with happiness,

So fish away in Rangely Lakes, with all your fillergree,

Bull-headin’ here on Lizzard Crick is good enough for me.

Oct. 26, ‘99

(there may have been more stanzas between the second and third?)

Rural Perplexity

Dear Editor, I write you for a word of information;

Your good advice may save me from the bughouse or the station.

A simple question ‘tis I ask, pray give a simple answer,

And from the largeness of your heart please tell me if you can sir.

‘Tis not about the great canal, airships or the election;

My question more important is, and deals with life protection.

Is there a way known unto man, at great expense and labor,

That I can keep his chickens home and still speak to my neighbor?

Oct. 26, ‘08

How to Succeed

Run, says the sprinter,

     Study, says the teacher;

Ad, says the printer,

     Pray, says the preacher.

Fight, says the fighter,

     Sail, says the sailor;

Write, says the writer,

     Sew, says the tailor.

Hunt, says the hunter,

     Bake, says the baker;

Kick, says the punter,

     Bite, says the fakir.

Drum, says the drummer,

     Speed, says the chauffeur;

Plumb, says the plumber

     Loaf, says the loafer.

Oct. 26, ‘09

Mary’s Lamb

If Mary’d used her little lamb

     In just the way she should,

She would have done, without a doubt,

The future ages good.

For instance, had she started in

     Lamb farming, by the by,

There would have been so many now

     Lamb wouldn’t be so high.

Oct. 26, ‘09

Old Times and Things (Contributed by a Tailor)

You sing of old time songs and things,

     You say you love old things best;

Old days, old nights, old books and games,

     Old times forever in your quest.

How glad am I you love the old,

     I would your old-time joy enhance;

I’m sending you an old-time bill

     For one new pair of old-time pants.

c. Oct. 26 ‘09

A Little Fisherman

He gets up in the morning fair, just at the break of day,

Because, you see, the shining creek is very far away!

His legs are short, he cannot walk as fast as his papa,

And that is why he starts so soon to go so very far.

Hus worms he dug the day before and so has not to wait,

As sometimes careless boys will do, to go and dig the bait.

He takes a lunch beneath his arm, for boys who fishing go

Get very hungry on the pond, as all good fishers know.

So with his pole he saunters forth, his papa in the lead,

Down thro’ the woods and o’er the hill a happy boy indeed.

The creek at last! The boat is found, and off they quickly glide

To where the rocks make little roofs ‘neath which the fishes hide.

His papa has to bait his hook, which is no bended pin,

And pretty soon he feels the pull that nearly pulls him in.

“I’ve got a fish! I’ve got a fish!” excitedly he cries,

And soon a bass jumps nimbly out before his very eyes.

And thus the time goes quickly by, and when the twilight nears

A tired, hungry fisher boy at home once more appears;

A healthy, happy fisherman, imbued with wondrous tales,

Who by and by crawls off to bed mayhap to dream of whales!

Oct. 26, ‘07

  Two additional lines were crossed out:

                    O, would that every little boy a fisher boy could be

                    And saunter off o’er hill and dale to fish the same as he.

In Coal Bin Land

‘Tis not our fault the bin’s not full,

     The dealer is himself to blame;

Each night I to the cellar go,

     But it is empty, just the same.

I’ve written him a dozen times,

     I’ve called him on the wire;

And yet he doesn’t fill our bin

     So we can start our furnace fire.

I do not know just what to do,

     I hate to change coal dealers now;

We’ve had him for two years of more,

     It’s rather hard, it is, I vow.

‘Tis true, we owe for last year’s coal,

     Because our living cost went higher;

But I can’t see why that should count,

     He knows we’ve got to have a fire.

Oct. 26, 1910