Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse Part 2

Do yer 'member how yer bought 'em, weeks and weeks ahead of time, After savin' all yer pennies till they footed up a dime?

Do yer 'member what they looked like? I can see 'em plain as plain, With a dragon on the package, grinnin' through a fiery rain.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Do yer 'member how yer fired 'em, slow and careful, one by one?

Do'n't it seem like each was louder than the grandest sort of gun?

Can't yer see the big, red flashes, if yer only shut yer eyes, And jest smell the burnin' powder, sweeter'n breaths from paradise?

O you boys, gray-haired and bearded. O you youngsters grown ter men, We can't buy them kind of crackers now, nor never shall again!

Fer the joys thet used ter glitter through the fizz and puff and crash, Has, ter most of us, been deadened by the grindin' c.h.i.n.k of cash; But I'd like ter ask yer, fellers, how much of yer h.o.a.rded gold Would yer give if it could buy yer one glad Fourth like them of old?

How much would yer spend ter gain it--that light-hearted, joyous glow That come with yer fust fire-crackers, when yer bought 'em long ago?

WHEN NATHAN LED THE CHOIR

I s'pose I hain't progressive, but I swan, it seems ter me Religion isn't nigh so good as what it used ter be!

I go ter meetin' every week and rent my reg'lar pew, But hain't a mite uplifted when the sarvices are through; I take my orthodoxy straight, like Gran'pop did his rum, (It never hurt him, neither, and a deacon, too, by gum!) But now the preachin' 's mushy and the singin' 's lost its fire: I 'd like ter hear old Parson Day, with Nathan leadin' choir.

I'd like ter know who told these folks that all was perfect peace, And glidin' inter heaven was as slick as meltin' grease; Old Parson Day, I tell yer what, his sermons made yer _think_!

He'd shake yer over Tophet till yer heard the cinders clink.

And then, when he'd gin out the tune and Nate would take his stand Afore the chosen singers, with the tuning-fork in hand, The meetin'-house jest held its breath, from cellar plum ter spire, And then bu'st forth in thunder-tones with Nathan leadin' choir.

They didn't chime so pretty, p'r'aps, as does our new quartette, But all them folks was there ter sing, and done it, too, you bet!

The ba.s.ses they 'd be rollin' on, with faces swelled and red, And racin' the supraners, who was p'r'aps a bar ahead; While Nate beat time with both his hands and worked like drivin' plow, With drops o' sweat a-standin' out upon his face and brow; And all the congregation felt that Heav'n was sh.o.r.ely nigher Whene'er they heerd the chorus sung with Nathan leadin' choir.

Rube Swan was second tenor, and his pipes was kinder cracked, But Rube made up in loudness what in tune he might have lacked; But 'twas a leetle cur'us, though, for p'r'aps his voice would balk, And when he'd fetch a high note give a most outrageous squawk; And Uncle Elkanah was deef and kind er'd lose the run, And keep on singin' loud and high when all the rest was done; But, notwithstandin' all o' this, I think I'd never tire Of list'nin' ter the good old tunes with Nathan leadin' choir.

We've got a brand-new organ now, and singers--only four-- But, land! we pay 'em cash enough ter fee a hundred more; They sing newfangled tunes and things that some folks think are sweet, But don't appeal ter me no more'n a fish-horn on the street.

I'd like once more ter go ter church and watch old Nathan wave His tunin'-fork above the crowd and lead the glorious stave; I'd like ter hear old Parson Day jest knock the sinners higher, And then set back and hear a hymn with Nathan leadin' choir.

HEZEKIAH'S ART

My son Hezekiah's a painter; yes, that's the purfession he's at; An artist, I mean,--course he ain't a whitewasher or nothin' like that.

At home he was always a-drawin' and shirkin' his work 'round the place, And kept me continyerly jawin' or dressin' him down with a trace; Till I says ter Mother, "Between us, this thing might's well be understood; Our Hez is jest simply a gen'us, and a gen'us is _never_ no good; He won't stop fer jawin's and dressin's; he'll daub and he'll draw all the while; So he might as well have a few lessons, and learn how ter do it in style."

So I sold a slice of the wood-lot ter the folks at the summer hotel, That fetched me some cash--quite a good lot--so now he's been gone a long spell; He's got a room up ter the City, an' calls it a name that is queer-- I ain't up in French, more's the pity--but something that's like "attyleer."

I went up last month on a visit, and blamed if that place wa'n't a sight!

The fourteenth or fifteenth--which is it?--well, anyhow, it's the top flight; I wouldn't have b'lieved he could be there, way up on that breath-takin' floor, If't wa'n't fer the sign that I see there--"H. Lafayette Boggs"--on the door.

That room was a wonder fer certain! The floor was all paint-spots and dirt, Each window was hung with a curtain, striped gay as a calico shirt; The walls was jest like a museum, all statoos and flim-flam and gush And picters--good land! when I see 'em I jest had ter turn 'round and blush; And Hez! he looked like a gorilla,--a leetle round hat on his head, And hair that would stuff a big piller, and necktie blue, yeller, and red; I swan, he did look like a daisy! I tell yer, it went ter my heart, 'Cause, course I supposed he was crazy, until he explained it was ART.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I swan, he did look like a daisy!"]

This Art, it does stagger a feller that ain't got a connerseer's view, Fer trees by its teachin' is yeller, and cows is a shade of sky-blue.

Hez says that ter paint 'em like natur' is common and tawdry and vile; He says it's a plaguey sight greater to do 'em "impressionist style."

He done me my portrait, and, reely, my nose is a ultrymarine, My whiskers is purple and steely, and both of my cheeks is light green.

When Mother first viewed it she fainted--she ain't up in Art, don't yer see?

And she had a notion 'twas painted when Hez had been off on a spree.

We used ter think Hezzy would shame us by bein' no good anyhow, But he says some day he'l be famous, so we're sort er proud of him, now.

He says that the name he's a-makin' shall ring in Fame's thunderin' tone; He says that earth's dross he's forsaken, he's livin' fer Art's sake alone.

That's nice, but what seems ter me funny, and what I can't get through my head Is why he keeps writin' fer money and can't seem ter earn nary red.

I've been sort er thinkin' it over, and seems ter me, certain enough, That livin' _for_ Art is just clover, but that livin' _on_ it is tough.

THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC

Oh! the horns are all a-tootin' as we rattle through the town, And we fellers are a-hootin' and a-jumpin' up and down, And the girls are all a-gigglin' and a-tryin' ter be smart, With their braided pig-tails wigglin' at the joltin' of the cart; There's the teachers all a-beamin', rigged up in their Sunday clothes, And the parson's specs a-gleamin' like two moons acrost his nose, And the sup'rintendent lookin' mighty dignerfied and cool, And a-bossin' of the picnic of the Baptist Sunday-school.

Everybody's got their basket brimmin' full of things ter eat, And I've got one--if yer ask it--that is purty hard ter beat,-- 'Cept that Sis put in some pound-cake that she made herself alone, And I bet yer never found cake that was quite so much like stone.

There'll be quarts of sa.s.s'parilla; yes, and "lemmo" in a tub; There'll be ice-cream--it's vernilla--and all kinds of fancy grub; And they're sure ter spread the table on the ground beside the spring, So's the ants and hoppergra.s.ses can just waltz on everything.

Then the girls they'll be a-yippin', 'cause a bug is in the cream; And a "daddy-long-legs" skippin' round the b.u.t.ter makes 'em scream; And a fuzzy caterpillar--jest the littlest kind they make-- Sets 'em holl'rin', "Kill her! kill her!" like as if it was a snake.

Then, when dinner-time is over and we boys have et enough, Why, the big girls they'll pick clover, or make wreaths of leaves and stuff; And the big chaps they'll set 'round 'em, lookin' soft as ever wuz, Talkin' gush and actin' silly, same as that kind always does.

Then, we'll ride home when it's dark'nin' and the leaves are wet with dew, And the lightnin'-bugs are sparklin' and the moon is shinin', too; We'll sing "Jingle bells" and "Sailing," "Seein' Nelly home," and more; And that one that's slow and wailin', "Home ag'in from somethin' sh.o.r.e."

Then a feller's awful sleepy and he kinder wants ter rest, But the stuff he's et feels creepy and like bricks piled on his chest; And, perhaps, he dreams his stummick has been stepped on by a mule; But it ain't: it's jest the picnic of the Baptist Sunday school!

"AUNT 'MANDY"

Our Aunt 'Mandy thinks that boys Never ought ter make a noise, Or go swimming or play ball, Or have any fun at all; Thinks a boy had ought ter be Dressed up all the time, and she Hollers jest as if she's hurt At the _littlest mite_ er dirt On a feller's hands or face, Or his clothes, or any place.

Then at dinner-time she's there, Sayin', "Mustn't kick the chair!"

Or "Why _don't_ yer sit up straight?"

"'Tain't perlite to drum yer plate."

An' yer got ter eat as _slow_, 'Cause she's dingin' at yer so.

Then, when Chris'mus comes, she brings Nothin', only _useful_ things: Han'kershi'fs an' gloves an' ties, Sunday stuff yer jest _despise_.

She's a ole maid, all alone, 'Thout no children of her own, An' I s'pose that makes her fuss 'Round our house a-bossin' us.

If she 'd had a boy, I bet, 'Tween her bossin' and her fret She'd a-killed him, jest about; So G.o.d made her do without, For he knew _no_ boy could stay With Aunt 'Mandy _every_ day.

THE STORY-BOOK BOY

Oh, the story-book boy! he's a wonderful youth, A prodigy reeking with goodness and truth; As brave as a lion, as wise as a sage, And sharp as a razor, though twelve years of age.

His mother is good and she's awfully poor, But he says, "Do not fret, _I'll_ provide for you, sure!"

And the hard grasping landlord, who comes to annoy, Is braved to his teeth by the story-book boy.

Oh, the story-book boy! when he sees that young churl.

The Squire's spoiled son, kick the poor crippled girl, He darts to the rescue as quick as he can, And dusts the hard road with the cruel young man; And when he is sought by the vengeful old Squire, He withers the latter with tongue-lashing ire; For the town might combine his young nerve to destroy, And never once shake him--the story-book boy.