482 
f'OREST AND STil«.AM. 
[Dkc. ig, 1903 * 
Maine Woods Songs. 
Most of them are unwritten — the songs of the Maine 
himber camps. The words have been passed down by 
word of month Hke the tales of the desert Bedouins 
and the love songs lilted at night beside the camp-fires 
in the East. 
The vocalists among the Maine woodsmen have but 
tune — a sighing, melancholy monotone like the purr of 
the night wind in the pines. Those who have under- 
standing in such matters say that this universal tunc 
and its slight variations are borrowed from the early 
English melodies. For that matter, some of the songs 
that are now sung in the far woods are in their word- 
ing corruptions of some of the old English ballads. 
The woodsmen will tell one that so far back as the 
memory of man runs in the woods these camp songs 
have not been put to paper. Therefore, so far as these 
rugged songsters of the North are concerned, their 
songs have come from lip to Hp all the way down from 
the ancestors, who brought the words across the sea. 
The sportsmen who throng the Maine woods in the 
hunting season make a practice of seeking out lumber 
camps in order to spend an evening at the hearthside 
and listen to these quaint old ballads. Half the charm 
is in the surroundings and the methods of the singers. 
The snapping ffie in the big room of the camp, flash- 
ing its eerie light on the faces of the "deacon-seat" 
crowd, the dancing flickers on the low-sloping rafters, 
blue wreaths from the pipe bowls curling lazily among 
the larrigans and leggings hung to dry, the board bunks 
filled with their spicy boughs of spruce and hemlock, 
and the deep, dark forest around with its thrills of 
sound and its sighing trees — all these are the necessary 
concomitants for a due appreciation of a camp song 
sung by a woodsman. 
.A.nd then the manner of singing! 
"Wal, Pete,'' the boss will say, after quacking briskly 
at his pipe stem to get his tobacco alight, "How's 
your voice to-night?" 
The woods camp songster is always backward. 
"All sung out," growls Pete. 
"Here, cookee," bawls the boss, "bring Pete a hand- 
ful of canary bird seed and a hunk of cuttlefish. We 
want some music." 
A bellow of laughter from the deacon-seat greets this 
well-worn woods joke, and Pete grunts in answer to 
the chaffing. But at last the chorus of appeals stirs 
his phlegm. He knocks his pipe against his heel, 
scruffs his toil-stained hand through his shaggy locks 
as though in an eft'ort to dig up ideas and scowls re- 
flectively. 
"Can't think of anything new," he grumbles. 
"We don't want anything new," shouts the boss. 
"It's only city dudes that want a new tune every time 
they turn around. It takes fifty years to make a tune 
pop'lar in the woods," he explains to the stranger who 
may be within the gates for the evening. 
"Give us the old Lake Chemo one," is a rec[uest from 
the dark corner where one lolls in his bunk kicking his 
moccasins idly over the side. 
So Pete, thus adjured, crosses one leg over the other, 
leans well forward on his elbows and beating time witli 
cocked-up toe, lifts up his voice. 
"I left old Lake Cliemo a long way behind me, 
When with many a tear back to Old Town I came; 
But if ever I live just a year from this August, 
I'll pack up my traps for old Cliemo again. 
Where the pick'rel are plenty, the perch in abiuidance, 
And whisky and new milk they both flow like rain; 
And if I but live till a year from this August, 
I'll pack up my traps for Lake Chemo again." 
There are many other verses devoted to the extolling 
of Lake Chemo, and the good things to be enjoyed 
there, and the audience listens with as much avidity 
as though it heard the song for the first time. And 
when the singer suddenly breaks from his sighing 
melody and recites the last line in cold, calm, matter- 
of-fact recitative as a signal that this is the end, the ap- 
plause is uproarious. 
That universal method of ending a woods song pro- 
duces a peculiar effect on one who listens for the first 
time. It is a sort of anti-climax, as it were, like a 
douche of cold water, but no singer ever thinks of vary- 
ing the stjde. 
With Pete once started, there is no trouble in getting 
him to sing another song. Usually his next one is a 
lilt with a chorus. He carries on the burden of the bal- 
lad — usually some narrative, and his fellows come in on 
the chorus with all the vigor of two score pairs of 
lungs. 
The old woods favorite, The Bold Baker of Ban- 
bury Town, is sung many times in the course of the 
winter. Old men who were in the Maine lumber camp's 
seventy-five years ago, say that it was sung with as 
much zest then. 
Here are two of the dozen or more stanzas which, 
with the chorus, consume a very respectable amount of 
time: . 
"There was a bold baker of Banbury Town," 
And now all the men together as loud as they can 
bawl: 
"Sing whoop, fa la larry, ling darry, sing torry lo day! 
And the baker to Mcnsfield market was bound, 
Sing whoop, fa la larry lo day! 
lie harnessed his hoss and he piled on his load, 
And away to Maiisilcld market he rode. 
Sing whoop, fa la larry lo day! 
''He hardly had got two miles on his way, 
Sing whoop, fa' la larry, ling, darry, sing torry lo day! 
When he espied three devils at play, 
Sing whoop, fa la larry lo day! 
Says they, 'Master Baker, can you tell us that. 
And that's what makes your hpss look so fat?" 
Sing whoop, fa la larry lo day I" 
Sometimes in the deep woods when the men ' are 
chopping-, one will start this song, and from all round 
among the trees the others will come in un the chorus 
with an inspiriting effect that drives sVi-.l'iled Ueer and 
wandering bob cats far to the depths of ihe forest. 
There is almost always in all ctews one song ad- 
dressed to a good cook and Iris wHHflg cookee. or 
helper. While the men are smoking' aud digesting their 
suppers, and the cook and cookec are hustling about 
their work in the dingle, scrubbing the supper tins, the 
crew will break out into some such clamorous lauda- 
tion as this, the persons thus addressed flushing self- 
consciously and grinning half shamefacedly: 
"Perhaps there- are cooks Vy'lio rn slappin'- lap grub , 
Have got eddication clear up to the nub. 
There are cooks for the rich men and cooks for the queens 
But here's to our cooks of the pork and the beans, 
Sing hey foo loo lap tarri O ! 
Go hunt ■wiisre j'e will, on the land or the sea, 
Ye'll fifld none to wrassle our cook and coCikee. 
"They're up at the peep o' day, early about 
With their grub on the tabfle.. Turn ottt, boys! Turn out! 
They boost up the .sim and they pry off the Hd 
Of the old iron pot where the beans have been hid. 
.Sing hey foo loo lap tarr, O! 
Go hunt where ye will, on the land or the sea, 
Ye'll find none to wrassle our cook and cookee." 
1'hesc are some of the more cheerful sungS. But 
lumbermen are as superstitious as sailors. For in- 
stance, there is a camp up on the Sourdnahcunk waters 
that is reputed to be haunted. It is said that it was 
built on a man's grave, and those who have been hardy 
enough to sleep in it alone aver that most extraordi- 
nary noises are heard there. Years ago some unknown 
woods composer evolved this song that ever since has 
had more or less vogue in the camps at night, especially 
when there is a storm abroad, and the woodsmen feel 
like harassing their own feelings: 
"O, I went, boys, I went to old Jumper Joe's grave. 
Clank, chank your chains, you old devil, you I 
Says he, 'Boost me up from hell-fire to save,' 
Clank, chank your chains, old Joe. 
'*He rattled underneath, and he rattled overhead. 
Whew! smell the brimstone down there below! 
I did not darst to lie down in that bed, 
\Vbere they laid out old Joe." 
There are many songs that commemorate the achieve- 
ments of the old-time lumber operators and employers 
in the Penobscot region. Of these it is related that 
John Ross, when he wanted men for his crews and 
wanted them in a hurry, would fairly lug them away 
with him into the woods. There is a song that relates 
the perils of the drive along o' John Ross, and starts 
in as follows: 
"The first night I was married, and was lying in my bed, 
Up steps John Ross, that lumberman, and stood at my bed-head 
Sayin' 'Rise, arise, young married man, and come along with me, 
For the wild woods of Chesuncook for to drive those logs so free." 
These are, of course, but scraps and snatches, but 
they give a bit of an idea of the unconventional nature 
of these lyrics of the camps. No conception of the 
music, always picturesquely characteristic and some- 
times weird, can be afforded. 
Perhaps there is no woods song more widely known 
in northern Maine than the crude ballad that was the 
swan song of one Peter Amberly. He was a chopper 
in an Aroostook camp, and the circumstances under 
which the song was written make the lines peculiarly 
pathetic. 
Amberly was an eighteen-year-old boy, a quiet, Avell- 
mannered young fellow who is remembered by some of 
the older lumbermen of Maine. 
He had been driven from home by the severity of 
his father and came into Maine from hi,s home in the 
Provinces. Amberly was crushed by falling logs while 
he was helping to load a sled. He lived two or three 
days after the accident, receiving only such rough 
nursing as the cook could give between his duties. 
While lying in his bunk awaiting death, Amberly com- 
posed some verses and left a request that they be sent 
home to his mother. The poor screed was forwarded, 
but the pathos of the affair was very close to the hearts 
of the woodsmen, and since that time the lines have 
been sung in all the camps between West Branch and 
the Allegash. The music is full of long-drawn notes 
and queer ciuavers. Plere is the fashion in which the 
ballad starts off: 
"iVIy name is Peter Amberly, as you may understand; 
I was born in Prince Edward's island, near by the ocean's strand. 
T hired to work in the lumber woods, where the logs come crush- 
ing down, 
And in loading sleds from a high-piled yard 1 received my mortal 
wovmd. 
'i'here's danger on the dashing sea when angry waves run high. 
There's danger on the battlefield when screaming bullets fly, 
There's danger, too, in the lumber woods, and death stalks 
soleinn there. 
And I have fallen a victim now into the monster's snare. 
Here's adieu rmto my father, it was he who drove me here; 
He was always harsh toward me, his treatment was severe. 
Here's adieu unto my better friend, my mother sweet and fair. 
She reared a son who fell as soon as he left lier tender care. 
Here's adieti unto my younger friends and my island girl so true. 
Long may they live to grace the soil where my first breath I 
drew. 
Here's adieu to Prince Edward's Island, that garden in the seas. 
No more I'll roam its sunny banks and drink the summer breeze. 
Near to the city of Boisetown my mouldering" bones will lay. 
Forever there neglected until the Judgment Day." 
This composition is crude, to be sure, but its sin- 
ceritj' and the circumstances under which it was writ- 
ten make it one of the most pathetic bits of folklore 
in the Maine woods. It is the Avail of a homesick boy 
dying far from home and those who loved him, with 
only the rough hands of woodsmen to ease his pillow. 
Such verse is not to be judged by the cold standard of 
metrical composition. 
Sportsmen from town who have heard tliese ditties 
when they have been sung in the proper surroundings 
and by the woodsmen themselves, have carried away 
a memory of the forest both piquant and lasting. 
HoLMAN Day, 
AUBUKN, M«. 
Back-Trailing Horses. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
Emerson Carney's notes as tt) 'hdrses following the 
back trail remind me of an interesthig ride I had last 
summer in the Rocky Mountains. 
Our camp was on Swift Current River, near the St. 
Mary's lakes, which are located in the northwestern part 
of Montana, We left camp early one morning to ride 
to the glacier at head of the south fork of Swift Current, 
which is reached by crossing the Continental Divide and 
going to the west side of the range. I was mounted on 
the Abbot, a light bay delicately built Indian pony that 
had at one time been a race horse. He was fleet of foot, 
ambitious, and always wanted to be in the lead. 
We rode up the middle fork of Swift Current, follow- 
ing a plain open trail until we reached the heavy timber^ 
where we turned off on a blazed trail. , This led along 
throiTgh the pines with Swift Current and a high moun- 
tain on our left while on our right was Mount Wilbur, 
with many streams running down its sides and emptying 
in the river on our left. 
We forded these as we came to them; then we passed 
on through the forest, stepping over fallen timber and 
Avinding in and out through and past the lodge pole 
pines, balsam and other trees. 
Presently the man in the lead turned his horse toward 
an opening in the trees and we followed. To the unini- 
tiated this opening would have meant nothing and would 
have been passed unnoticed, but we were now on an old 
Kootenai game trail. This we followed much in the same 
way, through streams and among the tall straight pines, 
-with the mountains towering above us on either side. 
Then we came to a more open place where grew tall 
grass and many beautiful flowers. In front of us and in 
the distance was the great wall of rock over which we 
were to pass. It seemed a continuation of the tremendous 
mountains on either hand, and showed no break or open- 
ing through which we might pass. We werp no 
longer in the timber, There were scattering pines in the 
valley. AboA'e us on tlie drifts high upon the mountain 
sides we could see the tracks of goats, making long lines 
on the snow. Our course bore to the left as Ave followed 
the range. 
As we approached the very head of the valley we 
turned to the left, and then, rounding a point of the 
mountain, to the right, and there the trail began to climb. 
From here on, the way Avas hard. Soon we were obliged 
to dismount and lead our horses. Even this was difficult, 
as the ascent was so steep and winding that the horses 
began to crowd on each other, and it seemed that one 
might be pushed off the narrow trail at any moment and 
roll down the mountain. This did not happen, but after 
great efforts we finally reached the top — ^the continental 
divide looking tOAvard the Pacific. 
The climb on foot to the glacier occupied most of the 
day, so that when we got back to our horses we had only 
time to build a fire and make some chocolate, for if we 
did not get down the divide before dark we should have 
to spend the night on the mountain. It was Avith great 
difficulty that we got doAvn. 
The snow over which Ave had to pass seemed harder 
than when Ave came up, sO' that the horses slipped and 
floundered and could hardly keep their feet. The -light 
began to fade, the Avind blew, and the air was cold. The 
Avaterfalls which surrouirded us on every side seemed 
louder and more threatening than earlier in the day. Our 
horses slipped and slid and stumbled, but we finally 
reached the bottom just as it Avas growing dark. 
it was here that Jack Monroe said, "You and Abbot 
may lead the outfit if yon like." The Abbot seemed to 
understand the words. As I turned him toAvard the 
camp his ears pricked and he led off with a vigor and 
understanding which Avere unmistakable. Tie Avas so 
qiu'ck that the last of the party Avere hardly off the moun- 
tain before we were well on the trail. To be alone with 
one's horse and he taking you through a wild and un- 
known country Avith mountains towering on every side, 
brings to one a comprehension of the intelligci:ce and 
fidelity of the dumb beast. As we Averc passing along 
through some heavy underbrush with nothing tO' show 
that Ave had gone that Avay before, the Al.)l>ot shied to one 
side and a large dark animal was seen ahead of us in the 
lowering light. I was not afraid of the porcupine, but my 
legs clung tighter to the Abbot's sides as Ave then plunged 
intO' a dense black hole and were in the forest. My reins 
hung loose over the horse's neck, and I let him 
go Avhere he would. It was so dark that I could dis- 
tinguish little as I looked ahead while the Abbot swung 
along with perfect confidence. AVe came to streams and 
he plunged into them, scrambling up on the opposite bank, 
winding his way in and out between the trees. The others 
of the party folloAved close at our heels. The Abbot's 
swiftness Avould have left them behind had I not checked 
him and Availed so that we might all keep together and 
no one get lost. He seemed ahvays to be on the alert, 
sometimes turning his head to one side. 
We came to one stream that had grown higher and 
more threatening since our crossing in the morning, but 
I trusted to the Abbot and he carried me over, although 
from the great depth of the stream I Avas confident that 
wc were wrong. Only once he seemed to leave the trail, 
and then he showed his OAvn good judgment in going 
around a place which Avas wet and deep Avith mud. 
We had many miles to go through the forest, which 
was so black, mysterious, and silent, save for the sound 
of the falling water and the voices of our our own part}'. 
I strained my eyes for possible sign or moving object, 
hut saw none. The only thing that relieved the intense 
blackness Avere the tall flowered heads of the soap weed 
Avhich grcAv in little openings and which looked ghost-like 
as we passed along. The Abbot finally brought us out of 
the forest. 
We then rode along SAvift Current down to our camp. 
When Ave got out in the open cottntry and the other horses 
came alongside, I felt thc}^ all owed the Abbot a great 
debt of thanks. 
At another time the same horse brought mc back to 
camp, but it \vas daylight, and at times I could see the 
tracks made in going out, so I knew that we Avere on the 
trail. Back-trailing, I believe, is. a trait not found i"n all 
horses to the same degree. 
When one finds a horse to whom he caix trust his life, 
do you wonder in such a country as the West, where one 
