For sixty years he had borne the name

Of “Plug”—plain “Plug.”

Those many years had his village fame

Published the shame of his old-time game,

Till all the folks by custom came

To call him “Plug.”

And so many years at last went by

They hardly knew the reason why;

At least they never stopped to think,

And dropped the old suggestive wink.

And he took the name quite matter-of-fact,

Till most of the folks had forgot his act;

But sometimes a stranger’d wonder at

The why of a nickname such as that,

—Of “Plug”—just “Plug.”

Then some old chap would shift his quid

And tell the story of what he did.

“He owned ten acres of punkin pine,

’Twas straight and tall, and there warn’t a sign

But what ’twas sound as a hickory nut,

And at last he got the price he sut.

They hired him for to chop it down.

He did.—By gosh, it was all unsoun’.

Was a rotten heart in every tree.

But there warn’t none there but him to see.

And quick as ever a tree was cut,

He hewed a saplin’ and plugged the butt.

—Plugged the butt, sir, and hid away

For about two months, for he’d got his pay.

But there warn’t no legal actions took,

They never tackled his pocket-book.

’Twould a-broke his heart, for he’s dretful snug;

But he never squirmed when they called him

’Plug.’

And over the whole of the country-side,

Up to the day that the critter died,

’Twas ‘Plug.’

Till some of the young folks scurcely knew

Which was the nickname, which was the true.

He left five thousand,—putty rich,—

But better less cash than a title sich

As ‘Plug.’”