Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse | Page 8

on his slate,
Or, maybe chewin' paper-balls to
throw,
And teacher's sort er lazy, too--why, then there'll come a
knock And everybody'll brace up quick's they can;
We boys and
girls'll set up straight, and teacher'll smooth her frock, Because it's
him--the school-committee man.
He'll walk in kinder stately-like and say, "How do, Miss Brown?" And
teacher, she'll talk sweet as choclate cake;
And he'll put on his specs
and cough and pull his eyebrows down And look at us so hard 't would
make yer shake.
We'll read and spell, so's he can hear, and speak a
piece or two, While he sets there so dreadful grand and cool;
Then
teacher'll rap her desk and say, "Attention!" soon's we're through, And
ask him, won't he please address the school.
He'll git up kinder calm and slow, and blow his nose real loud, And put
his hands behind beneath his coat,
Then kinder balance on his toes
and look 'round sort er proud And give a big "Ahem!" ter clear his
throat;
And then he'll say: "Dear scholars, I am glad ter see yer here,
A-drinkin'--er--the crystal fount of lore;
Here with your books,
and--er--and--er--your teacher kind and dear, And with--ahem--er--as I
said before."
We have ter listen awful hard ter every word of his
And watch him

jest like kittens do a rat,
And laugh at every joke he makes, don't care
how old it is, 'Cause he can boss the teacher,--think of that!
I useter
say, when I growed up I 'd be a circus chap
And drive two lions
hitched up like a span;
But, honest, more I think of it, I b'lieve the
bestest snap Is jest ter be a school-committee man.

WASTED ENERGY
South Pokus is religious,--that's the honest, livin' truth; South Pokus
folks are pious,--man and woman, maid and youth; And they listen
every Sunday, though it rains or snows or shines, In their seven shabby
churches, ter their seven poor divines, Who dispense the balm and
comfort that the thirstin' sperit needs, By a-fittin' of the gospel ter their
seven different creeds, Each one sure his road ter Heaven is the only
sartin way,-- Fer South Pokus is religious, as I started off ter say.
Now the Pokus population is nine hundred, more or less,
Which, in
one big congregation, would be quite a church, I guess, And do lots of
good, I reckon; but yer see it couldn't be,-- Long's one's tweedledum
was diff'rent from the other's tweedledee. So the Baptists they are
Baptists, though the church is swamped in debt, And the Orthodox is
rigid, though expenses can't be met,
And the twenty Presbyterians 'll
be Calvinists or bust,--
Fer South Pokus is religious, as I said along at
fust.
And the Methodist is buried, when his time comes 'round ter die, In the
little weedy graveyard where no other sect can lie,
And at Second
Advent socials, every other Wednesday night,
No one's ever really
welcome but a Second Adventite;
While the Unitarian brother, as he
walks the village streets, Seldom bows unless another Unitarian he
meets;
And there's only Univers'lists in a Univers'list's store,-- Fer
South Pokus is religious, as I think I said before.
I thought I'd read that Jesus come ter do the whole world good,-- Come
ter bind the Jew and Gentile in a lovin' brotherhood;
But it seems that

I'm mistaken, and I haven't read it right, And the text of "Love your
neighbor" must be somewhere written "Fight"; But I want ter tell yer,
church folks, and ter put it to yer strong, While you're fighting_ Old
Nick's fellers _pull tergether right along: So yer'd better stop your
squabblin', be united if yer can, Fer the Pokus way of doin' ain't no use
ter God or man.

WHEN THE MINISTER COMES TO TEA
Oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair,
And they've got the tidies hangin' jest exactly on the square; And the
what-not's fixed up lovely, and the mats have all been beat, And the
pantry's brimmin' over with the bully things ter eat; Sis has got her
Sunday dress on, and she's frizzin' up her bangs; Ma's got on her best
alpacky, and she's askin' how it hangs; Pa has shaved as slick as can be,
and I'm rigged way up in G,-- And it's all because we're goin' ter have
the minister ter tea.
[Illustration]
Oh! the table's fixed up gaudy with the gilt-edged chiny set, And we'll
use the silver tea-pot and the comp'ny spoons, you bet; And we're goin'
ter have some fruit-cake and some thimbleberry jam, And "riz
biscuits," and some doughnuts, and some chicken, and some ham. Ma,
she'll 'polergize like fury and say everything is bad,
And "Sich awful
luck with cookin'," she is sure she never had; But, er course, she's only
bluffin', for it's as prime as it can be, And she's only