0241
P. Mortimer Perkins cursed and swore,
But Elkanah slammed right through that door,
And he pulled that drummer out of bed
And brandished a chair’round over his head;
He poked his ribs and made him dress
So sleepy still that his gait cut S
As he staggered down to the dining-room
And ate his meal in the cheerless gloom,
While over him stood the grim old man
With a stick and a steaming coffee can.
“Now, mister,” allowed Elkanah, “sence
It’s a special breakfus’ it’s thutty cents.”
When the feller paid, as meek’s a pup,
And stuttered “Now, can I be put up?”
“Why, sartin, mister,” Elkanah said;
“Ye can go to tophet or back to bed;
There hain’t hard feelin’s, no, none at all,
But when a feller he leaves a call
At the Atkinson House for an early meal,
He gits it served right up genteel,
An’ when it’s served, wal, now you bet
There hain’t no peace till that meal’s been et.
Of course we hain’t no big hotel,
But some few things we dew quite well.”
’Twas a battered old, double-B, twisted bass
horn,
With a yaw in the flare at its end;
A left-over veteran, relic forlorn
Of the halcyon days when a band had been
born
To the village of Buckleby Bend.
The band was dismembered by time and by
death
As the years went a-scurrying by,
And only one player was left with his breath
And that was old Obadi’ I.
P. Frye.
Old Obadi’ Isaac Pitt Frye.
With a glow in his eye
He would plaintively try
To puff out the tune that they marched to at
training;
But the tremolo drone
Of the brassy old tone
Quavered queerly enough with his scant breath
remaining.
Ah, the years had been many and bent was his
back,
And caved was his chest and departed his
knack;
So, though he was filled with musicianly pride
And huffed at the mouthpiece and earnestly
tried
To steady his palsied old lip and control
The old-fashioned harmonies stirring his soul—
There was nothing in Buckleby quite so for-
lorn
As the oomp-tooty-oomp of that old bass horn.
To the parties and sociables, quiltings and sings
They invited old Obadi’ Frye;
He’d give ’em doldrums of old-fashioned
things
With occasional bass obligato for strings
—Or at least he would zealously try.
The minister coaxed him to buy a cornet
And chirk up a bit in his tune,
But none could induce him to ever forget
His love for that old bassoon,
Whose tune
Was the solace of life’s afternoon.
So he’d splutter and moan
With his thin, gusty tone
But his empty old lungs balked his anxious en-
deavor.
He hadn’t the starch
For a jig or a march,
And with double-F volume he’d parted forever.
For he hadn’t the breath for a triple note run,
’Twas a whoof and a pouf! and alas, he was
done;
But the pride of his heart was that old double-
bass,
He was happy alone with its lips at his face.
So he sat in his old leather chair day by day
And whooped the one solo he’d power to play,
An anthem entitled, “All Hail Christmas
Morn,”
As rendered by gulps on an old bass horn.
“All hail—hoomp—hoomp—bright Christmas
morn,
Hail—hoomp, hoomp—hoomp—fair
hoomp—hoomp—dawn;
Turn—hoomp—hoomp, eyes
Hoomp—hoomp,
HOOMP—skies,
When—hoomp—hoomp,
hoomp—H O O M P—boom.
While a-tooting one morning his breath flick-
ered out
With a sort of a farewell purr;
Of course there are many to scoff and to scout,
But’twas sucked by that cavernous horn with-
out doubt,
At least, so the neighbors aver.
They laid him away in the churchyard to rest
And with grief that they sought not to hide,
They placed the old battered B-B on his breast
And that Christmas hymn score by his side—
His pride,
‘Twas the tune that he played when he died.
Now, who here denies
That far in the skies
He is probably calmly and placidly winging;
That his spirit new-born
With his score and his horn
Takes flight where the hosts are triumphantly
singing.
Yet it irks me to think that he’s far in that
Land
With only the score of one anthem in hand.
For the music Above must be novel and
strange—
Too intricate far for that double-B range,
But at last when the Christmastide rings in the
skies
There’ll be some queer quavers in fair Para-
dise,
For an humble old spirit will calmly allow
“I reckin I’ll give ’em that horn solo now.”
Up there we are certain there’s no one to carp
Because Obadiah won’t tackle a harp—
Seraphs and cherubs will hush their refrain
When a new note of praise intermingles its
strain,
And he’ll add to the jocund delight of that
morn
With his anthem, “All hail,” on that old bass
horn.
“All hail—hoomp—hoomp—bright Christmas
morn,
Hail—hoomp, hoomp—hoomp—fair
hoomp—hoomp—dawn;
Turn—hoomp—hoomp, eyes
hoomp—hoomp,
HOOMP—skies,
When—hoomp—hoomp,
hoomp—HOOMP—born.”
Flappy-doodle, flam, flam—whack, whack,
whack!
Balance to the corners and forward folks and
back;
Gaffle holt an’ gallop for an eight hands round,
While the brogans and the cowhides they pessle
and they pound;-
No matter for the Agger providin’ there’s the
time.
Jest cuff’er out and jig’er;—jest hoe’er down
and climb!
No matter’bout your toes or corns; let rheu-
matiz go hang,
For we’re weltin’ out the wickin at the old
folks’ whang.
—At the old folks’ whang
Hear the cowhides bang,
When we “up and down the center” at the old
folks’ whang.
Yang, tangty, yee-yah!—yang, yang, yang!
Old Branscomb plays the fiddle at the old folks’
whang;
And he puts a sight o’ ginger in the chitter of
the string,
—It isn’t frilly playin’ but he makes that fiddle
sing.
He slashes out promis’cus, sort o’ mixin’ up
the tune,
—Takes theIrish Washerivoman, slams’er up
aginZip Coon;
And heSpeeds the Plougha minute, then he’ll
sort o’change his mind
And go off a-gallivantin’ with theGirl I left
Behind.
Oh, he mixes up his music queerest way I ever
saw,
For he shifts the tune he’s playin’ ev’ry time
he shifts his chaw;
But we never mind the changes for he keeps us
on the climb,
—He may twist the tune a little but he’s thun-
der on the time!
So line up and choose your pardners—we’re
the old ones out for fun,
You’ll forgit your stiff rheumaticks jest as soon
as you’ve begun.
’Course we ain’t so spry and spiffy as we used
to be, but yet
We can show them waltzy youngsters jest a
thing or two, you bet.
We will dance the good old contras as we used
to years ago,
Jest as long as Uncle Branscomb has the
strength to yank the bow.
There is no one under sixty—we’ve shet out
the youngster gang
And we’re goin’ to welt the wickin’ at the old
folks’ whang.
—At the old folks’ whang
Hear the cowhides bang,
When we canter up the center at the old folks’
whang.
O, the sleddin’s gettin’ ragged and it’s dodge
and skip and skive,
Till it’s jest an aggravation for to try to start
and drive.
Fust to this side, then to t’other—here some
ice and there some snow,
—Just continyal gee and holler; fust “Gid-
dap,” and then it’s “Whoa!”
Takes a half a day to git there, round by way
o’ Robin Hood;
Like as not ye’ll bust your riggin’ haulin’ out
your hay and wood.
’Tain’t no way o’ doin’ bus’ness; ’tain’t no
way to haul a load,
—You must do your hefty haulin’ in the mid-
dle of the road.
If ye want to keep a-hoein’
Better wait for settled goin’,
For twice the heft goes easy in the middle of
the road.
O, in dealin’s with your neighbors, brother,
sure as you’re alive,
It’s better to go straight ahead and never skip
or skive.
For the man who keeps a-dodgin’ back and
forth across the way
Like enough will find his outfit in the gutter,
stuck to stay.
Till the road is clear and settled, till with can-
dor in your heart
You can see your way before you, guess ye
hadn’t better start;
For to get there square and easy; and to lug
your honest load,
You’ll find it’s best to travel in the middle of
the road.
—So’s to make an honest showin’
Better wait for settled goin’,
Then, s’r, hustle brisk and stiddy in the mid-
dle of the road.
Drivin’ the stage,
Oh, drivin’ the stage,
With the wind fairly peelin’ your hide with its
aidge!
Jest got to git through with the’Nited States
For the contract provisions don’t have the
word “Fail.”
So it’s out and tread drifts while the snow
howls and sifts
For a dollar a trip—and no extrys—no gifts.
For them star-route contractors they figger it
fine
And take it right out of the chaps on the line.
They set in an office and rake in their slice
While the drivers are tusslin’ the snow and the
ice.
It may howl, it may yowl, it may snow, it may
blow
But that’Nited States mail, wal, it jest has to
go.
So it’s out and unhitch, leave the pung where
it’s stuck,
Lo’d the bags on the hosses and then, durn ye,
huck!
And it’s waller and struggle, walk stun’-walls
and rails
For they don’t stand no foolin’—them’Nited
States mails.
And at last when ye git there, jest tuckered
and beat,
And sling in the bags and crowd up to the
heat,
The gang round the stove they don’t give ye
no praise
But set there and toast themselves’side of the
blaze;
And ev’ry old, wobble-shanked son of a gun
Sets up there and tells ye how he would have
done!
—If there’s any one job gives your temper an
aidge,
It’s drivin’ the stage,
—It’s drivin’ the stage.
In his big, fur coat and with mittens big as
hams,
With his string of bells a-jingling, through the
country side he slams.
There are lots of calls to make and he’s always
on the tear,
A-looming in his cutter like an amiable bear.
And it’s hi-i-i, there!
Johnny don’t ye care,
Though’tis aching something awful and is
most too much to bear.
Just—be—gay!
As soon as it is day,
That pain will go a-flyin’, for the doctor’s on
the way.
There are real, true saints; there are angels all
around,
But there isn’t one that’s welcomer than he is,
I’ll be bound.
When he bustles in the bed-room and he dumps
his buff’ler coat,
And sticks a glass thermometer a-down the
suff’rin throat.
And it’s chirk, cheer up!
Mother, bring a cup!
You’re going to like this bully when you take
a little sup.
There—there—why,
There’s a twinkle in your eye!
You’ll be out again to-morrow, bub; gid-dap,
gid-dap, good-bye!
When Mis’ Augusty Nichols joined the Tufts
Minerva Club,
She polished up on manners and she then com-
menced to rub
At the hide of Mister Nichols who, while not
exactly rude,
Was hardly calculated for a howling sort of
dude.
Now when Augusty Nichols got to see how
style was run,
You bet she went for Nichols and she dressed
him down like fun;
And the thing in all his actions that she couldn’t
bear to see
Was to have him fill his saucer and go whoof-
ling up his tea.
After more’n a month of stewing;—making
mis’able his life,
She taught him not to shovel all his vittles
with his knife.
And after more’n a volume of pretty spicy talk
She got him in the hang of eating pie with just
his fork.
She trained him so’s he didn’t slop the vittles
round his plate,
She plagued him till he wouldn’t sit in shirt-
sleeves when he ate,
And then she tried her Waterloo, with faith in
high degree
That she could revolutionize his way of drink-
ing tea.
He drank it as his father always quaffed the
cheering cup,
He poured it in his saucer, raised the brimming
puddle up
And gathered in the liquid with a loud re-
sounding “Swoof”
That now at last inspired Mrs. Nichols’ fierce
reproof.
But here was where the victim—ah, here was
where the worm
Arose and fairly scared her by the vigor of his
squirm,
—Sat down his steaming saucer and with a
dangerous light
A-gleaming in his visage, he upbore a Yan-
kee’s right.
From the days of Boston’s party up to now I
think you’ll see
That a Yankee’s independent when you bother
with his tea.
“Consarn your schoolmarm notions,” thun-
dered Mrs. Nichols’ spouse,
“You’ve kept a’dingin’ at me till I’m meechin
round the house.
I’ve swallered that and t’other for I didn’t like
to row
But ye ain’t a-going to boss me in the thing
ye’ve tackled now.
I’m durned if I’ll be scalded all the time I’m
being stung
So I’ll cool my tea, Mis’ Nichols, while ye jab
me with your tongue.”
There are rights ye cannot smother, tyrants,
whoso’er ye be,
And the good, New England Yankee’s mighty
touchy, sir, on tea.
When I was a youngster and lived on the farm
It sickened my heart—did that morning alarm!
When dad came along to the foot of the stairs
And summoned me back to my duties and
cares;
—Put all of my glorious visions to rout
With “Breakfast is ready! LP h’ist out there,
h’ist out!”
And when I came yawningly, sleepily down,
My eyes “full of sticks” and my face all
a-frown,
I got for a greeting this jocular hail,
“Wal, always behind like an old cow’s tail.”
I’ll own to you, neighbor, that work on the
farm
Had features not wholly surrounded by charm.
And when I am fashioning lyrical praise
For matters bucolic of earlier days,
You’ll note that my lyre, sir, operates best
When I tune up and sing of the blessings of
rest.
I’ve stood in the stow-hole and “tread” on the
load,
And waltzed with a bush scythe and worked
on the road,
But somehow or other the language won’t
spring
When prowess of muscle I venture to sing.
But when I am piping of “resting” or fun
Or lauding the time after chores are all done,
Why, somehow—why, blame it, as sure as
you’re born,
I mentally feel that my trolley is on!
And a trolley, you know, would be certain to
fail,
Unless’twas behind like an old cow’s tail.
The elephant he started in and made tremen-
dous fuss
Alleging he was crowded by the hippopotamus;
He entertained misgivings that the earth was
growing small,
And arrived at the conclusion that there wasn’t
room for all.
Then the hippo got to thinking and he was
frightened too
And so he passed the word along and sassed the
kangaroo.
The kangaroo as promptly took alarm and
talked of doom
And ordered all the monkeys off the earth to
give him room.
And the monkeys jawed the squirrels and the
squirrels jawed the bees,
While the bees gave Hail Columby to the
minges and the fleas,
—In the microscopic kingdom of the microbes,
I will bet
That word of greedy jealousy is on its travels
yet;
All just because the elephant got scared and
made a fuss
Alleging he was crowded by the hippopotamus.