Its length may be understood when it is stated that it detailed all the campaigns of the first Napoleon, and “Hitchbiddy” sang it doubled forward, his elbows on his crossed knees, and the toe of his moccasin flapping for the beat. He came down “the stretch” on the last verse with vigor and expression:
“Next at Waterloo those Frenchmen fought,
Commanded by brave Bonaparte [pronounced ‘paught’],
Assisted by Field Marshal Ney—
He never was bribed by gold.
But when Grouchy let the Prussians in
It broke Napoleon’s heart within.
‘Where are my thirty thousand men?
Alas, stranger, for I am sold.’
He led one gallant charge across,
Saying, ‘Alas, brave boys, I fear ’tis lost.’
The field was in confusion with dead and dying woes.
When the bunch of roses did advance,
The English entered into France—
The grand Conversation [sic] of Napoleon arose.”
To signal that the song was done, “Hitchbiddy” dropped the tune on the last line, and in calm, direct, matter-of-fact recitative announced that “the grand Conversation of Napoleon arose.” In the fifty years during which that song has been sung in the Maine lumber-camps, no one has ever displayed the least curiosity as to that last line. Away back, somewhere, a singer twisted a nice, fat word of the original song, and it has stayed twisted, and no one has tried to trouble it by idle questions.
“Hitchbiddy’s” most rapt listener was Foolish Abe of the Skeets. The shaggy giant squatted behind the stove beside the pile of shavings he was everlastingly whittling for the cook-fire. It was the only task that Abe’s poor wits could master, and he toiled at it unceasingly, paying thus and by a sort of canine gratitude for the food he received and the cast-off clothes tossed to him.
A mumbled chorus of commendation followed the song. But the chopping-boss, his humorous gaze on the witling, remarked:
“I reckon I’ll have to rule that song out, after this, ‘Hitchbiddy.’”
“What for?” demanded the amazed songster.
“It seems to have a damaging and cavascacious effect on the giant intellect of Perfessor Skeet,” remarked the boss, with irony. “Look at him!”