And whenever the trees on the mountain-tops thrill
And the fierce winds they blow 'em,
In most awful pause every bear shall stand still—
He 's writing a poem!
Whittier evidently enjoyed the fun, and after the rest had had their say, he remarked, "That old fellow in the bear-trap must be in extremis. He ought to make his will. Suppose we help him out!" He asked one of us to get pencil and paper and jot down the items of the will, each to make suggestions. It ended, of course, in his making the whole will himself, and doing it in verse. It is perhaps the only poem of his which he never wrote with his own hand. It came as rapidly as the scribe could take it. Every one at that fireside was remembered in this queer will—even the "boots" of the inn, the stage-driver, and others who were looking upon the sport from the doorway.
THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF THE MAN IN THE BEAR-TRAP
Here I am at last a goner,
Held in hungry jaws like Jonah;
What the trap has left of me
Eaten by the bears will be.
So I make, on duty bent,
My last will and testament,
Giving to my Bearcamp friends
All my traps and odds and ends.
First, on Mr. Whittier,
That old bedstead I confer,
Whereupon, to vex his life,
Adam dreamed himself a wife.
I give Miss Ford the copyright
Of these verses I indite,
To be sung, when I am gone,
To the tune the cow died on.
On Miss Lansing I bestow
Tall Diana's hunting bow;
Where it is I cannot tell—
But if found 't will suit her well.
I bequeath to Mary Bailey
Yarn to knit a stocking daily.[9]
To Lizzie Pickard from my hat
A ribbon for her yellow cat.
And I give to Mr. Pickard
That old tallow dip that flickered,
Flowed and sputtered more or less
Over Franklin's printing press.
I give Belle Hume a wing
Of the bird that wouldn't sing;[10]
To Jettie for her dancing nights
Slippers dropped from Northern Lights.
And I give my very best
Beaver stove-pipe to Celeste—
Solely for her husband's wear,
On the day they're made a pair.
If a tear for me is shed,
And Miss Larcom's eyes are red—
Give her for her prompt relief
My last pocket-handkerchief![11]
My cottage at the Shoals I give
To all who at the Bearcamp live—
Provided that a steamer plays
Down that river in dog-days—
Linking daily heated highlands
With the cool sea-scented islands—
With Tip her engineer, her skipper
Peter Hines, the old stage-whipper.[12]
To Addie Caldwell, who has mended
My torn coat, and trousers rended,
I bequeath, in lack of payment,
All that 's left me of my raiment.
Having naught beside to spare,
To my good friend, Mrs. Ayer,
And to Mrs. Sturtevant,
My last lock of hair I grant.
I make Mr. Currier[13]
Of this will executor;
And I leave the debts to be
Reckoned as his legal fee.
This is all of the will that was written that evening; but the next morning, at breakfast, I found under my plate a note-sheet, with some penciling on it. As I opened it, Mr. Whittier, with a quizzical look, said, "Thee will notice that the bear-trap man has added a codicil to his will." This is the codicil:—
And this pencil of a sick bard
I bequeath to Mr. Pickard;
Pledging him to write a very
Long and full obituary—
Showing by my sad example,
Useful life and virtues ample,
Wit and wisdom only tend
To bear-traps at one's latter end!
I had to go back to my editorial desk in Portland that day, and immediately received there this note from Mr. Whittier:—
"Dear Mr. P.,—Don't print in thy paper my foolish verses, which thee copied. They are hardly consistent with my years and 'eminent gravity,' and would make 'the heathen rage, and the people imagine vain things.'"