O’CONNOR FROM THE DRIVE

Men who plough the sea, spend they may—and

free!

But nowhere is there prodigal among those

careless Jacks,

Who will toss the hard-won spoil of a year of

lusty toil,

Like the Prodigals of Pick-pole and the Ish-

maels of the Axe.

You could hear him when he started from the

Rapogenus Chutes,

You could hear the cronching-cranching of his

swashing, spike-sole boots,

You could even hear the colors in the flannel

shirt he wore,

And the forest fairly shivered at the way

O’Connor swore.

’Twas averred that in the city, full a hundred

miles away,

They felt a little tremor when O’Connor drew

his pay.

Though he drew it miles away,

When O’Connor drew his pay,

The people in the city felt the shock of it that

day.

And they said in deepest gloom,

“The drive is in the boom,

And O’Connor’s drawn his wages; clear the

track and give him room.”

He rode two giant spruces thro’ the smother of

the Chutes,

He rode them, standing straddled, shod and

spurred in spike-sole boots;

And just for exhibition, when he struck Che-

suncook Rip

He rolled the logs and ran them with never

miss or slip.

For a dozen miles thro* rapids did he balance

on one log,

And he shot the Big Seboomook at a mighty

lively jog.

He reached Megantic Landing where he nim-

bly leaped ashore,

And he bought some liquid fire at the Bemis

wangan store.

For, O’Connor’d drawn his pay,

He was then upon his way

For a little relaxation and a day or two of play.

The drive was in the boom,

Safely past Seboois flume,

And all O’Connor wanted was rum enough—

and room.

O’Connor owned the steamboat from Megantic

to the Cove:

Whatever there was stavable, he forthwith

calmly stove.

He larruped crew and captain when they

wouldn’t let him steer,

Sat down upon the smoke-stack—smoked out

the engineer.

Of course he was arrested when the steamer

got to shore;

A justice fined O’Connor and he paid the fine

—and more!

He had drawn his season’s pay,

He had cash to throw away,

He had cash to burn! O’Connor’d spurn for

clemency to pray.

The drive was safely down,

He was on his way to town;

He was doing up the section and proposed to

do it brown.

O’Connor owned the railroad, as O’Connor’d

owned the craft.

Pie cronched from rear to engine, and he

chaffed and quaffed and laughed.

He smashed the plate-glass windows, for he

didn’t like the styles.

He smashed and promptly settled for a dozen

stove-pipe tiles;

They took him into limbo right and left along

the line,

He pulled his roll and willingly kept peeling off

his fine.

With his portly wad of pay

He paved his genial way,

He’d had no chance to spend it on the far-off

Brass-u-a.

But now the drive was in,

As he’d neither kith nor kin,

There seemed no special reason why he

shouldn’t throw his tin.

O’Connor reached the city and he reached it

with a jar,

He had piled up all the cushions in the center

of the car.

—Had set them all on fire, and around the blaz-

ing pile

He was dancing “dingle breakdowns” in a

very jovial style.

And before they got him cornered they had

rung in three alarms,

And it took the whole department to tie his

legs and arms.

He had spent his last lone copper, but they sold

his spike-sole boots

For enough to pay his freightage back to Rapo-

genus Chutes.

They put him in a crate,

And they shipped him back by freight,

To commence his year of chopping up in Town-

ship Number Eight.

And earnestly he swore,

When they dumped him on the shore,

He had never spent his wages quite so pleas-

urably before.