Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse | Page 6

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
shorely 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.
[Illustration: "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