Read Ebook: Pine Tree Ballads: Rhymed Stories of Unplaned Human Natur' up in Maine by Day Holman

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Ebook has 3462 lines and 143691 words, and 70 pages

That there ain't no greater comfort than this 'ere--to understand

That a dozen faithful critters owe their com- fort to my hand.

Oh, the dim old barn seems homelike, with its overhanging mows,

With its warm and battened tie-up, full of well- fed sheep and cows.

Then I shet the door behind me, drop the bar and drive the pin

And, with Jeff a-waggin' after, lug the foamin' milk pails in.

That's the style of things to our house--marm and me we don't pull up

Until ev'ry critter's eatin', from the cattle to the pup.

Then the biskits and the spare-rib and plum preserves taste good,

For we're feelin', me and mother, that we're actin''bout's we should.

Like as can be, after supper mother sews an- other patch

And she says the duds look trampy, 'cause she ain't got goods to match.

Fust of all, though, comes the mealbins and the hay-mows; after those

If there's any extry dollars, wal, we'll see about new clothes.

But to-night, why, bless ye, mother, pull the rug acrost the door;

--Warmth and food and peace and comfort-- let's not pester God for more.

JOHN W. JONES

A sort of a double-breasted face had old John W. Jones,

Reddened and roughened by sun and wind, with angular high cheek-bones.

At the fair, one time, of the Social Guild he re- ceived unique renown

The maidens giggled, the women smiled, the men laughed loud and long,

And old John W. leaned right back and ho- hawed good and strong.

And never was jest too broad for him--for all of the quip and chaff

That assailed his queer old mug through life he had but a hearty laugh.

"Ho, ho", he'd snort, "haw, haw", he'd roar; "that's me, my friends, that's me!

Now hain't that the most skew-angled phiz that ever ye chanced to see?"

And then he would tell us this little tale.

"'Twas one dark night", said he,

"I was driving along in a piece of woods and there wasn't a ray to see,

And all to once my cart locked wheels with another old chap's cart;

We gee-ed and backed but we hung there fast, and neither of us could start.

Then the stranger man he struck a match, to see how he'd git away,

And I vum, he had the homeliest face I've seen for many a day.

Wal, jest for a joke I grabbed his throat and pulled my pipe-case out,

And the stranger reckoned I had a gun, and he wrassled good and stout.

But I got him down on his back at last and straddled acrost his chest,

And allowed to him that he'd better plan to go to his last long rest.

He gasped and groaned he was poor and old and hadn't a blessed cent,

And almost blubbering asked to know what under the sun I meant.

Said I, 'I've sworn if I meet a man that's homelier 'n what I be,

I'll kill him. I reckin I've got the man.' Says he, 'Please let me see?'

So I loosened a bit while he struck a match; he held it with trembling hand

While through the tears in his poor old eyes my cross-piled face he scanned.

Then he dropped the match and he groaned and said, 'If truly ye think that I

Am ha'f as homely as what you be--please shoot! I want to die.'"

And the story always would start the laugh and Jones would drop his jaw,

And lean'way back and slap his leg and laugh,

"Ho, haw--haw--haw-w-w!" That was Jones, --John W. Jones,

Queer, Gothic old structure of cob-piled bones; His droll, red face Had not a trace

Of comeliness or of special grace;

But I tell you, friends, that candor glowed In those true old eyes--those deep old eyes,

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