The wangan camp! *
The wangan camp!
Did ye ever go a-shoppin’ in the wangan
camp?
You can get some plug tobacker or a lovely
corn-cob pipe,
*The wangan is the woods store that most of the
Maine lumber camps maintain.
Or a pair o’ fuzzy trowsers that was picked
before they’s ripe.
They fit ye like your body had a dreadful
lookin’ twist;
There is shirts that’s red and yaller and with
plaids as big’s your fist;
There are larrigans and shoe-packs for all
makes and shapes of men,
As yaller as the standers of a Cochin China
hen,
The goods is rather shop-worn and purraps a
leetle damp,
—But you take ’em or you leave ’em—either
suits the wangan camp.
The wangan camp!
The wangan camp!
There is never any mark-downs at the
wangan camp.
The folks that knit the stockin’s that they sell
to us, why say—
They’d git as rich as Moses on a half of what
we pay.
I haven’t seen the papers, but I jedge this
Bower war
Is a-raisin’ Ned with prices—they are wust I
ever saw.
I was figg’rin’ t’other ev’nin’ what I’d bought,
—by Jim, I’ll bet
That a few more pairs o’larrigans will fetch me
out in debt.
For I’ve knowed a stiddy worker to go out as
poor’s a tramp
’Cause he traded som’at reg’lar at the com-
p’ny’s wangan camp.
The wangan camp!
The wangan camp!
They tuck it to you solid at the wangan
camp.
Now just for a moment I’ll let the machine,
Grind lyrical praise of the base nicotine.
—An ode of a sort of a commonplace stripe
Addressed to plebeian cut-plug and the pipe.
Oh, answer me now, gentle friends of the line,
Who have sought the blest haunts of the
spruce and the pine,
Have you found in the woods that a fragrant
cigar
Tastes worse than an elm-root slopped over
with tar?
Queer thing, that, my friend, but it’s none the
less true,
—This quirk of tobacco—I’ll leave it to you!
But there’s savor in wreaths from the brier and
cob,
In the depths of the forest afar from the mob;
And an incense that’s sweet to ecstatic degree
Curls up from the bowl of the ancient T. D.
While choicest Perfectos smell ranker than
punk
In the shade of the hemlocks of Sourdnahunk.
Ah, here do the tables most wondrously turn!
The city olfactories sniff if you burn
Aught else than the finest Havana in rolls;
Folks turn up their noses at cut-plug in bowls;
You may roam where you like with the base
cigarette
But you can’t smoke your pipe in the house,
now you bet.
For curtains and pictures and hangings and
lace
All flutter rebukingly there in your face;
And wife and the daughters and neighbors all
cough
And wish that the pipe-smoking man would
break off.
But ah, gentle fisher, the woods shout to thee,
With fervent request that you bring the T. D.
For the reek that the flavored tobacco roll pours
Belongs back in town and not here out-of-
doors.
Leave there city manners, creased trousers,
your “job,”
Bring here to the woods your tobacco and cob,
The hemlocks above you will tenderly sigh
As the incense from pipe bowls drifts past to
the sky.
Ah, human magician, the secret is yours!
Would you work mystic charms in the world
out-of-doors?
Take you the alembic of chastened brown bowl.
Touch fire—and visions will comfort your soul,
As you gaze out at Life through the wreaths
from a junk
Of good plug tobacco at Sourdnahunk.
Men who plough the sea, spend they may—and
free!
But nowhere is there prodigal among those
careless Jacks,
Who will toss the hard-won spoil of a year of
lusty toil,
Like the Prodigals of Pick-pole and the Ish-
maels of the Axe.
You could hear him when he started from the
Rapogenus Chutes,
You could hear the cronching-cranching of his
swashing, spike-sole boots,
You could even hear the colors in the flannel
shirt he wore,
And the forest fairly shivered at the way
O’Connor swore.
’Twas averred that in the city, full a hundred
miles away,
They felt a little tremor when O’Connor drew
his pay.
Though he drew it miles away,
When O’Connor drew his pay,
The people in the city felt the shock of it that
day.
And they said in deepest gloom,
“The drive is in the boom,
And O’Connor’s drawn his wages; clear the
track and give him room.”
He rode two giant spruces thro’ the smother of
the Chutes,
He rode them, standing straddled, shod and
spurred in spike-sole boots;
And just for exhibition, when he struck Che-
suncook Rip
He rolled the logs and ran them with never
miss or slip.
For a dozen miles thro* rapids did he balance
on one log,
And he shot the Big Seboomook at a mighty
lively jog.
He reached Megantic Landing where he nim-
bly leaped ashore,
And he bought some liquid fire at the Bemis
wangan store.
For, O’Connor’d drawn his pay,
He was then upon his way
For a little relaxation and a day or two of play.
The drive was in the boom,
Safely past Seboois flume,
And all O’Connor wanted was rum enough—
and room.
O’Connor owned the steamboat from Megantic
to the Cove:
Whatever there was stavable, he forthwith
calmly stove.
He larruped crew and captain when they
wouldn’t let him steer,
Sat down upon the smoke-stack—smoked out
the engineer.
Of course he was arrested when the steamer
got to shore;
A justice fined O’Connor and he paid the fine
—and more!
He had drawn his season’s pay,
He had cash to throw away,
He had cash to burn! O’Connor’d spurn for
clemency to pray.
The drive was safely down,
He was on his way to town;
He was doing up the section and proposed to
do it brown.
O’Connor owned the railroad, as O’Connor’d
owned the craft.
Pie cronched from rear to engine, and he
chaffed and quaffed and laughed.
He smashed the plate-glass windows, for he
didn’t like the styles.
He smashed and promptly settled for a dozen
stove-pipe tiles;
They took him into limbo right and left along
the line,
He pulled his roll and willingly kept peeling off
his fine.
With his portly wad of pay
He paved his genial way,
He’d had no chance to spend it on the far-off
Brass-u-a.
But now the drive was in,
As he’d neither kith nor kin,
There seemed no special reason why he
shouldn’t throw his tin.
O’Connor reached the city and he reached it
with a jar,
He had piled up all the cushions in the center
of the car.
—Had set them all on fire, and around the blaz-
ing pile
He was dancing “dingle breakdowns” in a
very jovial style.
And before they got him cornered they had
rung in three alarms,
And it took the whole department to tie his
legs and arms.
He had spent his last lone copper, but they sold
his spike-sole boots
For enough to pay his freightage back to Rapo-
genus Chutes.
They put him in a crate,
And they shipped him back by freight,
To commence his year of chopping up in Town-
ship Number Eight.
And earnestly he swore,
When they dumped him on the shore,
He had never spent his wages quite so pleas-
urably before.
Men who plough the sea, spend they may—and
free!
But nowhere is there prodigal among those
careless Jacks,
Who will toss the hard-won spoil of a year of
lusty toil,
Like the Prodigals of Pick-pole and the Ish-
maels of the Axe.
Here’s a plain and straight story of Ozy B.
Orr—
A ballad unvarnished, but practical, for
It tells how the critter he wouldn’t lie down
When a Hoodoo had reckoned to do him up
brown.
It shows how a Yankee alights on his feet
When folks looking on have concluded he’s
beat
Now Ozy had money and owned a good farm
And matters were working all right to a charm.
When he “went on” some papers to help his
son Bill
Who was all tangled up in a dowel-stock mill.
Now Bill was a quitter, and therefore one day
Those notes became due and his dad had to pay.
So he slapped on a mortgage and then buckled
down
To pay up the int’rest and keep off the town.
Oh, that mortgage, it clung like a sheep-tick in
wool,
And the more she sagged back, harder Ozy
would pull;
But a mortgage can tucker the likeliest man,
And Ozy he found himself flat on hard pan.
He dumped in his stock and his grain and his
hay,
He scrimped and he skived and endeavored to
pay;
He sold off his hay and his grain and his stock
Till the ricky-tick-tack of the auctioneer’s knock
Kept up such a rapping on Ozy’s old farm
That the auctioneer nigh had a kink in his
arm—
And it happened at last,’long o’ Thanksgiving
time,
Old Ozy was stripped to his very last dime.
And he said to his helpmeet: “Poor mummy,
I van
I guess them ’ere critters have got all they can.
For they’ve sued off the stock till the barns
are all bare,
’Cept the old turkey-gobbler, a-peckin’ out
there;
They’d’a’ lifted him, too, for those lawyers are
rough,
But they reckoned that gobbler was rather too
tough.
So they’ve left us our dinner for Thanksgivin’
Day;
Just remember that, mummy, to-night when
you pray.
Now chirk up your appetite, for, with God’s
grace,
We’ll eat all at once all the stock on the place.”
But Ozy he was a cheerful man,
A goodly man, a godly man—
He didn’t repine at Heaven’s plan, but he took
things as they came;
And cheerfully soon he whistled his tune
That he always whistled— ’twas Old Zip
Coon,
And he whistled it all the afternoon with never
a word of blame.
While all unaware of his owner’s care,
The gobbler pecked in the sunshine there,
With a tip-toe, tip-toe Nancy air, and ruffled
like dancing dame;
Till it seemed to Ozy, whistling still
To the ripity-rap of the turkey’s bill,
That the prim old gobbler was keeping time
To the sweep and the swing of the wordless
rhyme:
Pickety-peck,
With arching neck,
The turkey strutted with bow and beck.
And a Yankee notion was thereby born
To Ozy Orr ere another morn.
A practical fellow was Ozy B. Orr,
As keen an old Yankee as ever you saw
A bit of a platform he made out of tin,
With a chance for a kerosene lantern within;
He took his old fiddle and rosined the bow
And took the old turkey—and there was his
show!
You don’t understand? Well, I’ll own up to
you
The crowds that he gathered were mystified,
too.
For he advertised there on his banner unfurled
“A Jig-dancing Turkey—Sole one in the
World.”
And the more the folks saw it, the more and
the more
They flocked with their dimes, and jammed
at the door;
For it really did seem that precocious old bird
At sound of the fiddle was wondrously stirred.
In stateliest fashion the dance would commence,
Then faster and faster, with fervor intense,
Until, at the end, with a shriek of the strings
And a furious gobble and whirlwind of wings,
The turkey would side-step and two-step and
spin,
Then larrup with ardor that echoing tin.
And widely renowned, and regarded with awe,
Was the “Great Dancing Turkey of Ozy B.
Orr.”
And the mortgage was paid by the old gobbler’s
legs—
Now Ozy is heading up money in kegs.
0149
He would calmly tuck beneath his chin
The bulge of his cracked old violin,
He sawed while the turkey whacked the tin,
the people they paid and came;
For swift and soon to the lilting tune,
When he fiddled the measure of Old Zip
Coon,
The gobbler would whirl in a rigadoon—or
something about the same!
While under the tin, tucked snugly in,
Was the worthless Bill, that brand of Sin;
And’twas Bill that made the turkey spin with
the tip of the lantern flame;
For, as ever and ever the tin grew hot
The turkey made haste for to leave that spot,
Till it seemed that the gobbler was keeping time
To the sweep and the swing of the fiddle’s
rhyme.
Pickety-peck,
With snapping neck,
The gobbler gamboled with bow and beck!
Does a notion pay? It doth—it doth!
Just reckon what O. B. Orr is “wuth.”
They have always called him “Scratchy,” Ezry
“Scratch” and “Uncle Scratch,”
Since the time he cut that ding-do in a certain
wrasslin’ match;
’Twas a pesky scaly caper; he deserved to get
the name
—If he lives to be a hundred he will carry it
the same.
He had vummed that he could wallop any feller
in the place,
He allowed that as a wrassler he could sort of
set the pace,
And he bragged so much about it that at last
we came to think.
If he’d lived in time o’ Samson—could have
downed Sam quick’s a wink.
And there wasn’t nary feller in the town nor
round about
Who had grit or grab or gumption to take holt
and shake him out.
And he set around the gros’ry keepin’ up his
steady clack
That there never was a feller who could put
him on his back.
So it went till Penley Peaslee’s oldest boy came
home from school
—And I tell you that’s a shaver that ain’t any-
body’s fool—!
He ain’t tall nor big nor husky and he isn’t
very stout,
But he’s nimble as a cricket and as spry as all
git out!
Well, he heard old Ezry braggin’ and at last
as cool’s could be
Boy says, “Uncle, shed your weskit; I will
take your stump,” says he.
Guess’twas jest about a minute’fore old Ezry
got his breath,
Then says he, “Scat on ye, youngster! I
should squat ye ha’f to death.
What ye think ye know’bout wrasslin’?
S’pose I’m go’n’ to fool with boys?”
But the crowd commenced to hoot him and they
made sech pesky noise
That at last they got him swearing and he
shed his coat and vest
And commenced to stretch his muscles and to
pound against his breast.
“S’pose I’ve got to if ye say so,” says he scorn-
ful as ye please,
“But I’ll throw that little shaver, one hand
tied and on my knees.
I can slat him galley-endways and not use one-
ha’f my strength.
What ye want bub? Take your ch’ice now;
side holts, back holts, or arm’s length?
Collar’n elbow if ye say so. Name yer pizen!
Take your pick!”
“Suit yourself,” the youngster answered;
“long’s ye git to business quick.”
As I’ve said the boy wam’t heavy;—he was
spry, though, quicker’n scat,
And he had old Ezry spinnin’ ’fore he knew
where he was at;
Hooked him solid, give a twister, doubled up
the old gent’s back
And Ez tumbled like a chimbly—smooth and
solid and ker-whack!
Well, he lay there stunned and breathless with
his mouth jam-full o’ dirt
And his both hands full o’ gingham, for he had
the youngster’s shirt.
When the crowd commenced to holler as he
staid there on the ground
Grocer Weaver’s old black tom-cat came on tip-
toe sniffin’ round.
He was just a-gettin’ ready for to gnaw off
Ezry’s nose
When the old man got his senses and he sud-
denly arose.
Then he grabbed that old black tom-cat good
and solid by the tail
And commenced to welt the youngster just as
hard as he could whale.
Ev’ry time he reached and raked him on that
bare white back of his—
Ow! them claws they grabbed in dretful and
they hurt him—ah, gee whiz!
There were howls and yowls and spittin’s; it
was rip and slit and tear,
And the air was full of tom-cat and of flyin’
skin and hair.
Final clip that Ezry hit him it was such a
tarnal clout
That the cat he stuck on solid till they pried
his toe-nails out.
So they’ve always called him “Scratchy” Ezry
“Scratch” and “Uncle Scratch.”
Since the time he cut that ding-do in a certain
wrasslin’ match;
’Twas a pesky scaly caper; he deserved to get
the name,
—If he lives to be a hundred he will carry it
the same.