Up in Maine: Stories of Yankee Life Told in Verse. Holman Day
Here I am a-owin’ money—not a gol durn thing
to do!
’Tain’t no use er backin’ chances, ner er fightin’
back at Luck,
—Less ye have some way er startin’, feller’s
sartin to be stuck.
Needs a slarnt to git yer going”—then them
young uns give a carnt,
—Plank went up an’ down old Boggs went—
yas, he got it, got his slarnt.
Course the young uns shouldn’t done it—sent
mine off along to bed—
Helped to pry Boggs out the cistern—he warn’t
more’n three-quarters dead.
Didn’t no one ’prove the actions, but when all
them kids was gone,
Thunder mighty! How we hollered! Gab’rel
couldn’t heered his horn.
CY NYE, PREVARICATOR
Gy
Nye
Thunder, how he’ll lie!
Never has to stop and think—never has to try.
Says he had a settin’ hen that acted clean pos-
sessed;
Says a kag o’ powder couldn’t shake her off her
nest;
Didn’t mind a flannel rag tied around her tail;
Ev’ry now and then he’d take ’er, souse ’er in
a pail;
Never had the least effect—feathers even friz;
Then she set and pecked the ice, but ’tended
right to biz.
’Peared to care for nothin’ else ’cept to set and
set;
Didn’t seem to care a tunket what she drunk
or et.
Cy he said he got so mad he thought he’d use
’er ha’ash,
So he went to feedin’ on ’er hemlock sawdust
mash.
Hen she gobbled down the stuff, reg’lar as
could be;
“Reely seemed to fat ’er up,” Cy says he to me.
Shows the power of the mind when it gets a
clutch.
Hen imagined it was bran—helped ’er just as
much.
Then she hid her nest away—laid a dozen eggs;
’Leven chickens that she hatched all had wooden
legs,
T’other egg it wouldn’t hatch—solid junk o’
wood,
Hen’s a-wrasslin’ with it yet—thinks the thing
is good.
Thunder, how he’ll lie!
But he’s dry,
—That Cy.
Cy
Nye
Tells another lie:
Claims to be the strongest man around here;
this is why:
Says he bought a side o’ beef up to Johnson’s store,
Tucked it underneath his arm—didn’t mind it
more
Than a pound o’ pickled tripe; sauntered down
the road,
Got to ponderin’ Bible texts—clean forgot his
load.
All to once he chanced to think he meant to get
some meat,
Hustled back to Johnson’s store t’other end the
street,
Bought another side o’ beef. The boys com-
menced to laugh,
—Vummed he hadn’t sensed till then he lugged
the other half.
Can’t deny
’T he can lie,
—That Cy.
UNCLE BENJY AND OLD CRANE
Once there was a country lawyer and his name
was Hiram Crane,
And he had a reputation as the worst old file in
Maine.
And as soon’s he got a client, why, the first
thing that he’d do
Was to feel the critter’s pocket and then soak
him ’cordin’ to.
Well, sir, one day Benjy Butters bought a hoss,
and oh, ’twas raw
Way old Benjy he got roasted, and he said he’d
have the law.
So he gave the case to Hiram, and then Hiram
brought a suit
And got back the hoss and harness and what
Benjy gave to boot.
When he met him at the gros’ry Benjy asked
him for the bill,
And when Hiram named the figger, it was
steeper’n Hobson’s hill.
Poor old Benjy hammed and swallered—bill jest
sort of took his breath,
And the crowd that stood a-listenin’ thought
perhaps he’d choke to death.
But it happened that the squire felt like jokin’
some that day,
And he says, “Now, Uncle Benjy, there won’t be
a cent to pay
If you’ll right here on the instant make me up a
nice pat rhyme;
Hear you’re pretty good at them things—give
you jest three minutes’ time.”
And