AMERICAN FOLKWAYS

 EDITED BY ERSKINE CALDWELL

 BLUE RIDGE COUNTRY

 by

 JEAN THOMAS

 DUELL, SLOAN & PEARCE · NEW YORK

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 COPYRIGHT, 1942, BY JEAN THOMAS

 All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. 

 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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 To My Brother

 DOCTOR GEORGE G. BELL

 A once itinerant "Tooth Dentist" who became the first Republican county judge in more than a quarter of a century at the mouth of Big Sandy and whose unique sentences have become legendary throughout the Blue Ridge

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 APPALACHIAN RITUAL

 Emerald nobility Reaching to the sky, Makes the eye a ruler Fit to measure by. 

 In the spring an ecstasy Lies upon the hills-- Purpling with new red-buds, Ruffling colored frills. 

 Make an early ritual For the mountain side; Pine and beech are spectators, White dogwood a bride. 

 Give a pair of ivory birch For a wedding gift, All the mountain side a church Where wild flowers sift

 Velvet carpet-petals down To the edge of hill and town, Showing wild-grape fringes through Opal cloud-thrones dropped from blue. 

 Now the summer like a queen Does her mountain home in green; With a season for a bier Some old majesty lies here. 

 Autumn gold is swift and fleet With a wing upon the feet, Rushing toward a winter breath Pausing for immaculate death. 

 In such economic bliss And a swift parenthesis-- In immortal mountain trails, There are resurrection tales. 

 All the while the mountains know Sudden death is never so. 

 --Rachel Mack Wilson

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 CONTENTS

 1. THE COUNTRY AND THE PEOPLE 3 THE LAND 3 THE PEOPLE 10 BLAZING THE TRAIL 16 THE MOUNTAINEER 40 2. LAND OF FEUDS AND STILLS 46 HATFIELDS AND MCCOYS 46 PEACEMAKER 55 TAKING SIDES 72 MARTIN-TOLLIVER TROUBLES 91 FAMILY HONOR 105 3. PRODUCTS OF THE SOIL 112 TIMBER 112 WOMAN'S WORK 117 4. TRADITION 122 PHILOMEL WHIFFET'S SINGING SCHOOL 122 RIDDLES AND FORTUNES 135 THE INFARE WEDDING 151 5. RELIGIOUS CUSTOMS 155 FUNERALIZING 155 OLD CHRISTMAS 158 FOOT-WASHING 161 NEW LIGHT 164 6. SUPERSTITION 168 BIG SANDY RIVER 168 WATER WITCH 169 MARRYING ON HORSEBACK 172 DEATH CROWN 177 A WHITE FEATHER 178 7. LEGEND 180 CROCKETT'S HOLLOW 180 THE SILVER TOMAHAWK 186 BLACK CAT 189 THE DEER WOMAN AND THE FAWN 194 GHOST OF DEVIL ANSE 199 THE WINKING CORPSE 203 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN GABLES 205 8. SINGING ON THE MOUNTAIN SIDE 210 OF LAND AND RIVER 210 FEUD 216 LEGEND 218 TRAGEDY 228 PATRIOT 239 9. RECLAIMING THE WILDERNESS 248 VANISHING FEUDIST 248 SILVER MOON TAVERN 250 BLOOMING STILLS 255 LEARNING 258 MOUNTAIN MEN 269 COAL 273 PUBLIC WORKS 274 BACK TO THE FARM 283 VALLEY OF PARKS 301 WHEN SINGING COMES IN, FIGHTING GOES OUT 317 VANISHING TRAIL 327 INDEX 331

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 BLUE RIDGE COUNTRY

 1. THE COUNTRY AND THE PEOPLE

 THE LAND

High mountain walls and bridgeless streams marooned the people of theBlue Ridge for centuries, shut them off from the outside world so thatthey lost step with the onward march of civilization. A forgotten peopleuntil yesterday, unlettered, content to wrest a meager living from thegrudging soil, they built for themselves a nation within a nation. Bytheir very isolation, they have preserved much of the best that isAmerica. They have held safe and unchanged the simple beauty of the songof their fathers, the unsullied speech, the simple ideals andtraditions, staunch religious faith, love of freedom, courage andfearlessness. Above all they have maintained a spirit of independenceand self-reliance that is unsurpassed anywhere in these United States ofAmerica. They are a hardy race. The wilderness, the pure air, the ruggedoutdoor life have made them so: a people in whom the Anglo-Saxon strainhas retained its purest line. 

The Blue Ridge Country comprises much of Appalachia, happily called fromthe great chain that runs along the Atlantic coast from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the Gulf of Mexico. It is a well-watered region havingnumerous streams and rivers throughout, being drained by the Cumberlandand Tennessee as well as by smaller, though equally well-known, rivers--Big Sandy in northeastern Kentucky, which flows into the Ohio, and the Yadkin in North Carolina, which eventually reaches the AtlanticOcean. 

In general the region includes three parallel chains, the Cumberlands, Alleghenies, and Blue Ridge. Like a giant backbone the Blue Ridge, beginning in the southwest portion of Old Virginia, continuesnortheasterly, holding together along its mountainous vertebrae someeight southern states; northeastern Kentucky, all of West Virginia, theeastern part of Tennessee, western North Carolina, the four northwesterncounties of South Carolina, and straggling foothills in northern Georgiaand northeastern Alabama. The broad valley of the Tennessee Riverseparates the mountain system on the west from the Cumberland Plateauwhich is an extension of the West Virginia and Kentucky roughs. 

Throughout its vast course the Blue Ridge is not cut by a single river. A narrow rampart, it rises abruptly on its eastern side south of thePotomac to a height of some two thousand feet, cutting Virginia intoeastern and western, and descends as abruptly on the west to theShenandoah Valley. Similar in topography in its rough, broken steepnessto the Alleghenies across the valley, it consists of a multitude ofsaddles or dividing ridges many of which attain an elevation of sixthousand feet. As it extends south, rising from the Piedmont Plateau, itgrows higher. In North Carolina alone there are twenty-one peaks thatexceed Mt. Washington's six thousand feet in New Hampshire. Contiguousto the Blue Ridge there is another chain between the states of NorthCarolina and Tennessee, which to Carolina mountaineers is still theAlleghenies. However, the United States Geological Survey has anothername for it--the Unakas. It is higher as a whole than the Blue Ridge towhich it is joined by transverse ranges with such names as Beech andBalsam and a sprinkling of Indian names--Cowee, Nantahala, Tusquitee. Itdiffers, too, in physical aspect. Instead of being in orderly paralleltiers the entire system, unlike the Blue Ridge, is cut by many rivers:the Nolichucky, French Broad, Pigeon, Little Tennessee, Hiawassee. Theparts so formed by the dividing rivers are also named: Iron, NorthernUnaka, Bald, Great Smoky, Southern Unaka or Unicoi. Though many of itssummits exceed six thousand feet, the chain itself dwindles to foothillsby the time it reaches Georgia and crosses into Alabama. 

If you flew high over the vast domain of the Blue Ridge, you would viewa country of contrasting physical features: river and cascade, rapidsand waterfall, peak and plateau, valley and ridge. Its surface isrougher, its trails steeper, the descents deeper, and there are more ofthem to the mile than anywhere else in the United States. 

The southern mountaineer has to travel many steep, rocky roads to get toany level land, so closely are the mountains of Appalachia crowdedtogether. It is the geography of their country that has helped to keepour highlanders so isolated all these years. 

This region has the finest body of hardwood timber in the United States. Black walnut is so plentiful and so easy for the carpenter to work thatthis wood has been used freely for gunstocks and furniture, and even inbarns, fences, and porches. 

White and yellow poplars grow sometimes six to nine feet in diameter. "Wide enough for a marrying couple, their waiters, and the elder tostand on, " a mountaineer will say, pointing out a tree stump left smoothby the cross-cut saw. The trunks are sixty to seventy feet to the firstlimb. Chestnuts are even wider, though sometimes not so tall. White oaksgrow to enormous size. Besides pine, and the trees common generally toour country, these southern mountain forests are filled with buckeye, gum, basswood, cucumber, sourwood, persimmon, lynn. The growth is soheavy that there are few bare rocks or naked cliffs. Even the "bald"peculiar to the region which is sometimes found on the crown of amountain belies its name, for it is covered with grass--not of theuseless sage type either, but an excellent grass on which sheep might"use" if they chose to climb so high. 

The lover of beauty finds delight in these mountains from the firstdaintiness of spring on through the glorious blaze of wonder that isfall in the Blue Ridge. Beginning with the tan fluff of the beeches, thered flowering of maples, the feathery white blooms of the "sarvis, " onthrough the redbud's gaiety and the white dogwood's stark purity, all isloveliness. The enchantment continues in the flame of azaleas, which isfollowed by the waxy pink of the laurel and the superb glory of therhododendron. These have scarcely vanished before the coves are goldenwith the fragrance of grape blossom. 

The beauty of the woodland is a paradise for birds. Early in the springthe spotted thrush wings its way through leafy boughs. The cardinal inhis bright red coat stays the year round. Neither snow nor winter winddulls his plumage or stills his song. His mate, in somber green, singstoo, but he, unmindful of southern chivalry, attacks her furiously whenshe bursts into song; ornithologists explain that jealousy prompts theungallant act. The oriole singing lustily in the spring would seemconscious of his coat of orange and black. These are the heraldic colorsworn by the servants of Lord Baltimore. The nightingale and thewhippoorwill sing unpretentiously in the quiet of eventide. Theblackbird makes up for his somber dress in good deeds. He destroysinsects on leaf and bark. The eagle still finds a haven of safety ingiant trees and hollowed trunks. 

There is neither tarantula nor scorpion to be feared in the Blue Ridge;the harmless lizard is called scorpion by the mountaineer. Nor are therelarge poisonous reptiles. There are snakes of lesser caliber, but onlyrattlers and copperheads among them are venomous. The highlander is notbedeviled by biting ants but there are fleas and flies in abundancethough no mosquitoes, thanks to the absence of stagnant pools and lakes. There are no large lakes as in the eastern section of the United Statesand few small ones though the country has numerous cascades, rapids, andwaterfalls. 

The Blue Ridge is a well-watered region, and characteristic of thecountry are the innumerable springs which form creeks and small streams. A mild and bracing climate results from these physical features. Therapidity with which the streams rise and their swiftness, together withalmost constant breezes in the mountains, reduce the humidity soprevalent in the southern lowlands. Although the rainfall is greaterthan anywhere else in the United States, except Florida, the sudden fallin the topography of the watercourses brings quick drainage. The sun maybe scorching hot in an unprotected corn patch on a hillside, yet it iscool in the shade. And, as in California and the north woods, a blanketis needed at night. The climate is contrasting, being coldest in thehighlands where the temperature is almost as low as that of northernMaine. Yet nowhere in the United States is it warmer than in thelowlands of the Blue Ridge. 

In the highlands, carboniferous rocks produce a sandy loam which isresponsible for the vast timber growth there. Throughout it is rich inminerals, coal, iron, and even gold, which has been mined in Georgia. Insome sections there are fertile undulating uplands contrasting with thequagmired bottoms and rocky uplands of other parts of the Blue Ridge. There are high and uninviting quaternary bluffs that lure only the eye. It was the fertile valleys with their rich limestone soil producingabundant cane that first proved irresistible to the immigrants of Europeand lured them farther inland from the Atlantic seaboard. 

Long before man came with ax and arrow the wilderness of the Blue Ridgeteemed with wild animal life. The bones of mastodon and mammoth remainedto attest their supremacy over an uninhabited land thousands uponthousands of years ago. Then, following the prehistoric and glacialperiod, more recent fauna--buffalo, elk, deer, bear, and wolf--madepaths through the forest from salt lick to refreshing spring. These saltlicks that had been deposited by a receding ocean centuries before cameto have names. Big Bone Lick located in what today is Boone County, Kentucky, was one of the greatest and oldest animal rendezvous in NorthAmerica, geologists claim. It took its name doubtless from the varietyof bones of prehistoric and later fauna found imbedded in the saltyquagmire. 

Man, like beast, sought both salt and water. Following the animal trailscame the mound builder. But when he vanished, leaving his earthen houseand the crude utensils that filled his simple needs--for the moundbuilder was not a warrior--there was but little of his tradition fromwhich to reconstruct his life and customs. 

A century passed before the Indian in his trek through the wildernessfollowed the path of buffalo and deer. Came the Shawnee, Cherokee, andChickasaw to fight and hunt. To the Indian the Blue Ridge was a favoritehunting ground with its forests and rolling plains, while the fertilevalleys with thick canebrakes offered bread in abundance. Sometimesthese primeval trails which they followed took their names from thepurpose they served. For instance, the Athiamiowee trail was, in theMiami dialect, the Path of the Armed Ones or the Armed Path and becameknown as the Warrior's Path. It was the most direct line ofcommunication between the Shawnees and the Cherokees, passing due southacross the eastern part of the Cuttawa country (Kentucky) from the mouthof the Sciotha (Scioto) to the head of the Cherokee (Tennessee). Anothertrail was called Old Buffalo Path, another Limestone because of thesoil. Then there was a Shawnee Trail named for the tribe that traversedit. 

The Indian was happy and content with his hunting ground and the fertilefields. The streams he converted to his use for journeys by canoe. Hehad his primitive stone plow to till the soil and his stone mill forgrinding grain. The fur of animals provided warm robes, the tanned hidesgave him moccasins. Tribal traditions were pursued unmolested, though attimes the tribes engaged in warfare. Each tribe buried its dead in itsown way and when a tribe wearied of one location it moved on. Unlike themound builders, the Indian had a picture language and he delighted torecord it in cuttings on rocks and trees. He would peel the bark fromthe bole of a tree and with a sharp stone instrument carve deep into thewood figures of feather-decked chieftains, of drums, arrows, wildbeasts. And having carved these symbols of the life about him, depictingscenes of the hunt and battle and conflict, he covered the carving withpaint fashioned in his crude way from the colored earth on the mountainside. The warrior like his picture language vanished in time from theBlue Ridge. But not his trails. 

These trails, the path of buffalo and deer and the lines ofcommunication between the tribes, finally marked the course of explorer, hunter, and settler. As each in turn made his way to the wilderness hewas glad indeed to find paths awaiting his footsteps. The scene was setfor a rugged race. They came and stayed. 

 THE PEOPLE

The men and women who came to settle this region were a stalwart race, the men usually six feet in height, the women gaunt and prolific. Theywere descendants of English, Scotch, and Scotch-Irish who landed alongthe Atlantic coast at the close of the sixteenth century--around 1635, when the oppression of rulers drove them from England, Scotland, andIreland. Some were impelled by love of religious freedom, while otherssought political liberty in the new world. Their migration to Americareally started with a project, a project that had its beginning inIreland as far back as 1610. It was called the English invasion ofIreland. King after king in England had sent colonists to the EmeraldIsle and naturally the native sons resented their coming. Good QueenBess in turn continued with the project and tried to keep peace betweenthe invaders and the invaded by donating lands there to court favorites. But the bickerings went on. It was not until after Elizabeth's deaththat King James I of England worked out a better project--temporarily atleast. He sent sturdy, stubborn, tenacious Scots to Ulster; theirnatures made of them better fighters than the Irish upon whose landsthey had been transplanted. But even though it was English rulers whohad "planted" them there the Scots were soon put to all sorts of trialsand persecution. They resented heartily the King's levy of tax upon thepoteen which they had learned to make from their adopted Irish brothers. Resentment grew to hatred of excise laws, hatred of authority that wouldenforce any such laws. These burned deep in the breast of theScotch-Irish, so deep that they live to this day in the hearts of theirdescendants in the southern mountains. 

So political strife, resentment toward governmental authority, hatredtoward individuals acting for the rulers developed into feuds. In somesuch way the making of poteen and feuds were linked hand-in-hand longbefore the Anglo-Celtic and Anglo-Saxon set foot in the wilderness ofAmerica. 

They were pawns of the Crown, used to suppress the uprisings of theIrish Catholics and in turn themselves even more unfairly treated by theCrown. They could not--these Presbyterians--worship as they chose;rather the place and form was set by the State. Their ships were barredfrom foreign trade, even with America; they were forbidden to shipproducts or cattle back to England, though after the Great Fire ofLondon, Ireland generously sent thousands of head of cattle to London. Barred then from engaging in profitable cattle trade, they turned togrowing wool. This too was defeated by prohibitive duties, and whenIreland undertook to engage in producing linen, England thwarted thatindustry too. They were forbidden to possess arms, they were expelledfrom the militia, and what with incessantly being called upon to paytithes, added rents, and cess they had little left to call their own, little to show for their labors. Then adding insult to injury, the Crowndeclared illegitimate the children born of a marriage performed by theministers of these Presbyterians, so that such offspring could notlegally inherit the lands of their parents. 

Oppressed and persecuted for a century, they could bear it no longer;these transplanted Scotch-Irish (as America came to call them) turnedtheir faces to the new world. 

The massacres of 1641 sent them across the uncharted seas in greatnumbers. And to stimulate and spur their continued migration to Americathese "adventurers" and "planters" were offered land in Maryland by LordBaltimore--three thousand acres for every thirty persons brought intothe state, with the provision of "free liberty of religion. " ButPennsylvania offered a heartier welcome and "genuine religious liberty"besides. 

Oppression and unfairness continued to grow in Ireland. Protestantsthere had never owned outright the land which they struggled to clearand cultivate. Moreover they toiled without pay. Protest availed themlittle. And the straw that broke the camel's back was laid on in theform of rent by Lord Donegal. In 1717 when their leases had expired inCounty Antrim, they found themselves in a worse predicament than ever. Their rents were doubled and trebled. Now, to hand over more than twothirds of what they had after all the other taxes that had been imposedupon them left them with little or nothing. How was a man to pay theadded rent? Pay or get out! demanded Lord Donegal. Eviction from thelands which their toil had developed--a wasteland converted into fertileproductive fields--stirred these Scotch-Irish to fury. They didn't sitand tweedle their thumbs. Not the Scotch-Irish. 

In 1719, just two years after the Antrim Eviction, thirty thousand moreProtestants left Ulster for America. They continued to come for the nexthalf century, settling in various parts of our land. There was a goodlysettlement in the Virginia Valley of Scotch-Irish. You'd know by theirnames--Grigsby, Caruthers, Crawford, and McCuen. 

As early as 1728 a sturdy Scot from Ulster, by name AlexanderBreckinridge, was settled in the Shenandoah Valley, though later he wasto be carried with the tide of emigration that led to Kentucky. 

Naturally, first come first served--so the settlers who arrived first onthe scene chose for themselves the more accessible and fertile lands, the valleys and rich limestone belts at the foot of the Blue Ridge andthe Alleghenies. The Proprietors of Pennsylvania, who had settled onvast tracts, were prevailed upon by the incoming Scotch-Irish to sellthem parts of their lands. The newcomers argued that it was "contrary tothe laws of God and nature that so much land should lie idle whenChristians wanted it to labor on and raise their bread. " But that wasn'tthe only reason the Scotch-Irish had. There were other things in theback of their heads. A burnt child fears the fire. Their unhappyexperience in Ulster had taught them a bitter lesson and one they shouldnever forget, not even to the third and fourth generation. They wouldnot be renters! Hadn't they been tricked out of land in Ulster? Theywould not rent! They would buy outright. And buy they did from theProprietors at a nominal figure. Nor were the Pennsylvanians blind tothe fact that the newcomers were good fighters and that they could actas a barrier against Indian attacks on the settlement's fringe. Therewas still a fly in the ointment for the Scotch-Irish. That was--theProprietors' exacting from them an annual payment of a few cents peracre. It wasn't so much the amount that irked the newcomers as the legalhold on their land it gave the Proprietors. They objected stoutly anddidn't give up their protest until their perseverance put an end to thesystem of "quitrents. "

This cautious characteristic persists to this day with the mountaineerand can be traced back to the persecution of his forbears in Ulster. Mountaineers in Kentucky refused point-blank to accept fruit treesoffered them gratis by a legislator in 1913, fearing it would give thestate a hold on their land. 

But to get back to the settling of the Blue Ridge Country. 

When political and religious refugees continued to come to America insuch vast shoals they found the settlements along the Atlantic coastalready well occupied by Huguenots who had been driven from France, byQuakers, Puritans, and Catholics from England, Palatine Germans escapingthe scourge of the Thirty Years' War. Here too were Dunkers, Mennonites, Moravians from Holland and Germany. Among them also were followers ofCromwell who had fled the vengeance of Charles II, Scots of theHighlands who could not be loyal to the Stuarts and at the same timefriends to King George. 

The Scotch-Irish among the newcomers wanted land of theirown--independence. Above all independence. So they drifted down thecoast to the western fringe of settlement and established themselves inthe foothills east of the Blue Ridge in what is now the Carolinas. Migration might just as well have moved west from Virginia and acrossthe Alleghenies. However, not only did the mountains themselves presentan impenetrable barrier, but settlers were forbidden to cross by"proclamation of the authorities" on account of the hostility of theIndians on the west of the mountain range. Then too there were invitingfertile valleys on this eastern side of the Blue Ridge, where they mightdwell. 

But these newcomers, at least the Scotch-Irish among them, were notprimarily men who wanted to till the soil. They were not by naturefarmers like the Germans in Pennsylvania. And they did not intend tobecome underlings of their more prosperous predecessors and neighborswho had already taken root in the valleys and who had set up projects tofurther their own gains. Furthermore, being younger in the new worldthey were more adventurous. The wilderness with its hunting andexploring beckoned. And so they pressed on deeper into the mountains. There was always more room the higher up they climbed. And as they movedon they carried along with them, as a surging stream gathers up the lifealong its course, a sprinkling of all the various denominations whoselives they touched among the settlements along the coast. 

In that day many men were so eager for freedom and a chance to get afresh start that before sailing, through the enterprises set up byshipowners and emigration agents, they bound themselves by writtenindentures to work for a certain period of time. These persons werecalled Indents. Their labor was sold, so that in reality they werelittle more than slaves. When finally they had worked out their timethey had earned their freedom, and were called Redemptioners. Thepractice of selling Redemptioners continued until the year 1820, all offorty-four years after "Honest" John Hart had signed his name to theDeclaration of Independence. It is said that a lineal descendant ofEmperor Maximilian was so bound in Georgia. 

Many were imposed upon in another way. Their baggage and possessionswere often confiscated and even though friends waited on this side readyto pay their passage, innocent men and women were duped into sale. 

Then there were the so-called convicts among the pioneers of the BlueRidge. It must be remembered that in those days offense constitutingcrime was often a mere triviality. Men were imprisoned for debt; even sothey were labeled convicts. But, as Dr. James Watt Raine assures us inhis _The Land of Saddle-Bags_, the few such convicts who were sent byEnglish judges to America could scarcely have produced the five millionor more people who today are known as southern mountain people. 

Widely different though they were in blood, speech, and customs, therewas an underlying similarity in the nature of these pioneers. It wastheir love of independence. Independence that impelled them to give upthe security of civilization to brave the perils of uncharted seas, thehazards of warfare with hostile Indians, to seek homes in an untamedwilderness. 

 BLAZING THE TRAIL

Sometimes a single explorer went ahead of the rest with a few friendlyIndians to accompany him. If not he went alone, tramping into theforest, living in a rough shack, suffering untold hardship throughbitter winter months. For weeks when he had neither meal nor flour helived on meat alone--deer and bear. It was the stories of valuable fursand the vast quantities of them which trickled back to the settlementsthat lured others to follow. Hunters and trappers came bringing theirfamilies. The stories of furs and the promise of greater possessions tobe had in the wilderness grew and so did the number of adventurers. Theybegan to form little settlements and their coming crowded before themthe earlier hunter or trapper who wanted always the field to himself. 

In the meantime settlers in the Valley of Virginia were growing moresmug and prosperous. They wanted to invest part of their earnings. Theywanted to set up other undertakings. So they began sending outexpeditions into the wilderness with the intention of trading with theIndians and possibly of securing lands for settlers. 

As early as 1673 young Gabriel Arthur had set out on an expedition forhis master Colonel Abraham Wood of Virginia with a small party. Throughthe Valley of Virginia went the young adventurer, taking thewell-defined Warrior's Path; he followed watercourses and gaps that cutthrough high mountain walls, down the Holston River through Tennessee, through the "great gap" into the Cuttawa country. Finally separated fromhis companions, the lad lost all count of time. Even if he had had acalendar tucked away in the pocket of his deerskin coat, however, itwould have done him no good for he could neither read nor write. Weeksand months passed. Winter came. Finally after many adventures youngArthur started on the long journey back to Virginia. As he drew nearColonel Wood's home he heard merriment within and the voice of hismaster wishing his household a merry Christmas. Not till then did theyoung adventurer know how long he had been away. 

With the master and the household and the friends who had gathered tocelebrate and offer thanks at the Yuletide season, with all listeningeagerly, young Gabriel Arthur, though unable to bring back any writtenrecord, told many a stirring tale. A swig of wine may have spurred thetelling of how he had been captured by the Shawnees (in Ohio), of how hehad been surrounded by a wild, shouting tribe who tied him to a stakeand were about to put a flaming torch to his feet when he thought of away to save his life. They were charmed with the gun he carried, and theshiny knife at his belt. If they'd set him free he promised to bringthem many, many knives and guns. Once young Gabriel made his escape hedidn't intend to be caught napping again. He painted his fair face withwild berry juice, and color from bark and herbs. After much wandering hefound himself with friendly Cherokees in the upper Tennessee Valley. They were so friendly, in fact, that a couple of them accompanied him onhis return to Virginia. He returned along other watercourses--by way ofthe Rockcastle and Kentucky Rivers. He crossed the Big Sandy--theIndians called it Chatterawha and Totteroy. He got out of their canoe ata point where the Totteroy flows into the Ohio and stood on the bank andlooked about at the far-off hills. So it was young Gabriel Arthur whowas the first white man to set foot in Kentucky, and that at the mouthof the Big Sandy. 

Young Gabriel's tales traveled far. Soon others, fired with the spiritof adventure, were turning to the wilderness. Nor was adventure the onlyspur. Investors as well as hunters and trappers saw promise of profitsin Far Appalachia. Cartographers were put to work. A glimpse at theirdrawings shows interesting and similar observations. 

In 1697 Louis Hennepin's map indicated the territory south of the GreatLakes, including the southern Appalachians and extending as far west asthe Mississippi River and a route which passed through a "gap across theAppalachians to the Atlantic seaboard. " Later the map of a Frenchmannamed Delisle labeled the great continental path leading to theCarolinas "Route que les François. " Successive maps all showed thepassing over the Cumberland Mountain at the great wind gap, indicatingportages and villages of the Chaouanona (Shawnees) in the river valleys. Lewis Evans' map in 1755 of "The Middle British Colonies in America"shows the courses of the Totteroy (Big Sandy River) and of the KentuckyRiver. Thomas Hutchins in 1788, who became a Captain in the 60th RoyalAmerican Regiment of Foot, was appointed Geographer General underGeneral Nathanael Greene and had unusual opportunity to observegeographically the vast wilderness beyond the Alleghenies. On his mapthe Kentucky River (where Boone was to establish a fort) was called theCuttawa, the Green River was the Buffalo, the Cumberland was indicatedas Shawanoe, and the Tennessee was the Cherokee. Though there werenumerous trails in the Cumberland plateau, the Geographer Generalindicated only one, the Warrior's Path which he called the "Path to theCuttawa Country. " He too showed the Gap in the "Ouasioto" Mountainsleading to the Cuttawa Country. 

With the increase of map-making, more projects were launched. There werelarge colonizing schemes to induce settlement along the frontier, butcolonizing was not the only idea in the heads of the wealthy Virginiainvestors. They were not unmindful of the riches in furs to be garneredin the Blue Ridge. In this connection Dr. Thomas Walker's expedition forthe Loyal Land Company in 1750 was important. Dr. Walker, an Englishman, was sent into what is now Kentucky where the company had a grant of"eight hundred thousand acres. " A man could buy fifty acres for fiveshillings sterling, the doctor explained. He was not only a physicianbut a surveyor as well, and primarily the purpose of these earlyexpeditions was surveying--to lay out the boundaries of the land to besold to incoming settlers. Such an expedition was composed usually ofsome six or eight men each equipped with horse, dog, and gun. Fortunately the doctor-surveyor was not illiterate like young GabrielArthur. Walker set down an interesting account of the expedition whichwas especially glowing from the trader's point of view. In their fourmonths in the wilderness the Walker expedition killed, aside frombuffalo, wild geese, and turkeys, fifty-three bears and twenty deer. Andthe doctor added that they could have trebled the number. Walkerfollowed the Warrior's Path as young Gabriel Arthur had more thanseventy years before. The rivers they crossed, as well as the places onthe way which were sometimes no more than salt licks, bore Indian names. But when Dr. Walker reached the great barrier between Kentucky andVirginia he was so deeply moved by the vastness and grandeur of themountains that he called his companions about him. "It is worthy of anoble name, " said Dr. Walker. "Let us call it Cumberland for our Duke infar-off England. " When the expedition reached the gap that permittedthem to pass through into the Cuttawa country he cried exultantly, "Thistoo shall be named for our Duke. " So Cumberland Gap it became and themountain known to pioneers as Laurel Mountain became instead CumberlandMountain. 

The doctor-surveyor could not know that one day he would be hailed as"the first white man in Cumberland Gap" by those sturdy settlers whowere to follow his course. When Dr. Walker reached the Indians' TotteroyRiver, or rather the two forks that combine to make it, he called thestream to the right, which touched West Virginia soil, Louisa or Levisafor the wife of the Duke of Cumberland. 

This leader of the expedition of the Loyal Land Company jotted down muchthat he saw. There was the amazing "burning spring" that shot up rightout of the earth, its flame so brilliant the doctor could read his mapby the glow at a distance of several miles. Apparently he was notconcerned with the cause but rather with the effect of the burningspring. He saw the painted picture language of the Indians on mountainside and tree trunk. 

Dr. Walker returned on a second expedition in 1758, but he gained onlypartial knowledge of the wilderness land. However, the mountain he nameddetermined the course of the trail which was to be laid out by DanielBoone, and the gap through which he passed became the gateway forthousands of horizon-seekers. 

Their coming was not without hazard. 

The southern Indians resented the invasion of their hunting ground bythe English. The French-Indians incited by the French settlers in theMississippi Valley who wanted the wealth of fur-bearing animals forthemselves, began to swoop down on the settlements of theEnglish-speaking people along the frontier, massacring them by thehundreds. 

The Assembly in Philadelphia turned a deaf ear to the frontiersmen'splea for help, so the Scotch-Irish, accustomed to fighting for theirrights, organized companies of Rangers to defend themselves against theattacks of the Indians. With continued massacre of their people theirdesperation grew. If they could have no voice in governmental matters inPennsylvania and could expect no protection from that source against thewarring Indians, they could move on. They did. On down the Valley ofVirginia they came into Carolina. They built their little cabins, planted crops, and by 1764 had laid out two townships, one of which, Mecklenburg, figured in an important way in America's independence. 

As each settlement became more thickly settled the more venturesomespirits pressed on into the mountains. And as they moved forward, clearing forests and planting ground for their bread, they dislodgedhunters and trappers who had preceded them. For all of them there wasalways the troublesome Indian to be reckoned with. A cunning warrior, hepounced upon the newcomer at most unexpected times. To maintain ameasure of safety the pioneer began to build block houses and fortsalong the watercourses traveled by the Indians. Fur-trading posts wereset up by the Crown but even when the Indian seemed satisfied with theexchange he might take prisoner a trader or explorer and subject him totorture, or even put him to death. The homes of settlers were objects ofconstant attack. It would take white men of more cunning than the Indianto deal with him: fearless and daring fighters. 

About the time Dr. Walker had started on his expedition in 1755, afamily living in Pennsylvania packed up their belongings and moved downinto the Valley of Virginia. There were the father, his sons, and hisbrothers. They hadn't stayed long in Rockingham County, barely longenough to raise a crop, when they moved again. This time they journeyedon down to the valley of the Yadkin River in North Carolina and therethey stayed. All but one son--Daniel Boone, a lad of eighteen. Even as aboy he had roamed the woods alone, and once was lost for days. When hisfather and friends found him, guided by a stream of smoke rising in thedistance, Daniel wasn't in tears. Instead, seated on the pelt of a wildanimal he had killed and roasting a piece of its meat at the fire, hewas whistling gaily. He had made for himself a crude shelter of branchesand pelts. It was useless to chide his son, the older Boone found out. So he saved his breath and let Daniel roam at his will. Soon the boy wasexploring and hunting farther and farther into the mountains. 

On one such venture the young hunter alone "cilled a bar" and left therecord of his feat carved with his hunting knife upon a tree. Hisimagination was fired with the tales of warfare about him, of thecourage and independence of the men who dwelt far up in the mountains. He knew of the heroism of George Washington who, four years after theBoones left Pennsylvania, had led a company of mountain men against theFrench. He had heard the stories of how Washington had been driven backwith his mountain men at Great Meadows. Boone longed to be in the thickof the fray. So in 1755, when General Braddock came to "punish theFrench for their insolence" and Washington accompanied him with onehundred mountain men from North Carolina, Daniel Boone, for all hisyouth, was among them--as brave a fighter and as skilled a shot as thebest. 

This was high adventure for young Daniel. It spurred him to furtherdaring, and he set out on more and more distant explorations. Each timehe returned from his trips with marvelous tales of what he had seen, ofunbelievable numbers of buffalo and deer and wild beasts he hadencountered. He always had an audience. No one listened with greatereagerness than the pretty dark-eyed daughter of the Bryans who wereneighbors to the Boones. Daniel was still a young man, onlytwenty-three, when in 1755 he married Rebecca Bryan. They had five sonsand four daughters. Rebecca stayed home and took care of the children, while her adventurous husband continued to rove and hunt on longexpeditions. 

Neighbors gossiped, even in a pioneer settlement. They said Danielwasn't nice to Rebecca, going away all the time on such long huntingtrips. They even talked to Rebecca about her careless husband. ButRebecca paid little heed, though she may have chided him in private forreturning so tattered. Sometimes his hunting coat, which was a loosefrock with a cape made from dressed deerskin, would literally be tiedtogether when he returned. Even the fringe which Rebecca hadpainstakingly cut to trim his leggings and coat had been left hanging onjagged rocks and underbrush through which he had dragged himself. Hiscoonskin cap, with the bushy brush of it hanging down on his neck, wassometimes a sorry sight. One can hear Rebecca asking, as the hunterremoved his outer garments, "Were there no creeks on your journey?" Hisleather belt he hung upon a wall peg after he had oiled it with beargrease. His tomahawk which he always wore on the right side, and thehunting knife which he carried on the left with his powder horn andbullet pouch, he laid carefully aside. He inspected his trusty flintlockrifle. . . . He had slept under cliffs, wrapped in his buffalo blanket withhis dog, with leaves and brush for a pillow. His thick club of hair hadnot been untied in weeks. The chute bark with which it was fastened wasfull of chinks. There was something worse. "What are you scratchingfor?" Rebecca would pause from stirring the kettle at the hearth, tosurvey her husband who was digging his fingers into his scalp. "Lice!"gasped Rebecca. Instead of jowering, she would give him a goodscrubbing, comb out his matted hair, and clean him up generally andthoroughly. 

Daniel was a restless soul. And every time he returned home he was morerestless. So the Boones moved from place to place and each time otherswent along with them. Daniel had a knack of leadership, but no soonerwould everyone be settled around him than he'd pack up and go to anotherplace. Daniel couldn't be crowded. He had to have elbow room no matterwhere he had to go to get it. 

In the twenty-five years he spent in North Carolina Boone clearedground, cut timber, and built a home many times--and all the while hecontinued to hunt and explore. 

Finally returning from one of his long expeditions he told glowing talesof another country he had found. Bears were so thick, and deer, it wouldtake a crew of men to help him kill them and salvage the rich hides. Hepersuaded Rebecca to come along with him and bring the children. Oncemore Rebecca packed up their few worldly goods, while Daniel made surehis guns were well oiled, his hunting knife whetted, his dogs fit forthe journey--they meant as much to Boone as wife and children, gossipssaid--and the family started for a new home. 

This time, in 1760, they went far from the Yadkin into the Wataugacountry of Tennessee. He crossed the Blue Ridge and the Unakas, andsettled in what was then western North Carolina, now eastern Tennessee. That year he led a company as far westward as Abingdon, Virginia. But nosooner were they settled than Daniel up and left to go deeper into theforest. 

Not only was he a great hunter, he was a good advance agent. Soon, through his glowing accounts, the fame of the country spread far, evento Pennsylvania and Virginia. Hunters came to join him. Some stayed withhim wherever he went. It was through his leadership that the firstpermanent settlement was made in Tennessee in 1768. 

But to go back a year. In 1767 Boone worked his way over the Big SandyTrail in the country which Dr. Walker had seen back in 1750. Daniellived alone in a crude hut on a fork of the Big Sandy River, close to asalt lick, you may be sure, for he had to have salt to season the wildmeat which was his only food. He too saw the burning spring that hadhelped Dr. Walker to scrutinize his maps at night. In 1768 he enteredKentucky through Cumberland Gap and traversed the Warrior's Path. FromPilot Knob he viewed the Great Meadow. That would be something more totell about when he got back home. 

Though his neighbors may have considered him a shiftless fellowconcerned only with hunting and exploring, a fellow who was ever movingfrom pillar to post, his very first visit to Watauga was not withoutsignificance. 

It was the way of the wilderness that settlers followed the firsthunters, and Boone with his companions had been in Watauga first in1760. Eight years afterward a few families had followed the hunters'trail for good reason. 

Things had been going miserably for immigrants in North Carolina. Thesituation was fast reaching a desperate point. Some of the oppressedwere for violence if that was needed to obtain justice in the courts. Others reasoned that there was a better way out. Why not move away in abody? The wilderness of the Blue Ridge beckoned. It was under Virginiarule and perhaps life would not be so hard there. Because of Indiantreaties the lands had been surveyed in those rugged western reaches andcould be legally leased or even purchased. The more level-headedmountain people reasoned in this way: Why not send one of their numberon ahead to look over the region, negotiate for boundaries, and stakethem out for families who decided to take up their abode there? AScotch-Irishman named James Robertson took upon himself this task. 

During this period of unrest in North Carolina, Boone had returned withRebecca and the children to Watauga where they found others to welcomethem. If indeed Daniel needed a welcome or wanted it. Again he cleared apiece of ground and built a log house. But the smoke no sooner curled upfrom the chimney than scores of Scotch-Irish from North Carolina, whocould no longer bear the injustice of government officials, began tocrowd into the valley around him. This irked Daniel, for he loved thefreedom of the wilds. "I've got to have elbow room, " he complained toRebecca, "I know a place--"

The Scotch-Irish, however, stayed on in Watauga. 

They had had enough of injustice and were glad to escape a country wherethe more prosperous were making life hard for the less fortunateimmigrants who continued to come down the Virginia Valley, and themountain people who settled in the rugged western part of the state. Like their Scotch-Irish brothers in Pennsylvania, they had determined tofind a remedy. They remembered how the Rangers in the Pennsylvaniaborder settlements had been forced to take matters in their own hands toprotect life and home, and they organized their protective band calledthe Regulators. If armed force was needed, they meant to use it. Theyfound the Governor as indifferent to their appeals for fairness as thePennsylvania Assembly had been to the Rangers' protests. If NorthCarolina's Governor had been a man of cool and fair judgment, thetragedy of Alamance might have been averted. On the other hand, thefirst decisive step toward American independence might have been lost, or at least delayed. 

In ironic response to the pleas of the Regulators, the Governor of NorthCarolina summoned a force of one thousand militia men and led them intothe western settlements. At the end of the day, May 16, 1771, twohundred and fifty of the two thousand Regulators who had gathered withtheir rifles at Alamance when they heard of the coming of the militia, lay dead. The living were forced to retreat. 

If Robertson had planned his return it could not have come at a moreauspicious moment. His neighbors had been sorely tried. They eagerlywelcomed words of a better land in which to live, and sixteen familiesfollowed their leader to the Watauga country. 

Things loomed dark for the new settlers for a time. It turned out thatthe lands staked out for them were neither in Virginia nor Carolina. Indeed Robertson and his neighbors found themselves quite "outside theboundaries of civilized government. "

The Scotch-Irish had not forgotten Ulster, and they lost no time inmaking a treaty with the Indians upon whose territory they really were. They drew up leases, and some of the seventeen families even purchasedpart of the land. 

Soon the ax was ringing in the forest. A cluster of cabins sprang up. Another settlement was established and before long thousands came tojoin the seventeen families who had followed James Robertson. So long asthere had been only a handful of neighbors the problem of government didnot present itself. The level-headed thinkers of the group again puttheir heads together and pondered well. Now that they had burned theirbridges behind them they must make firm the rock upon which they built. Above all they must stand united, with hearts and hands together for thewell-being of all. To that end they formed an Association, the WataugaAssociation they called it, and adopted a constitution (1772) by whichto live. It was "the first ever adopted by a community of American-bornfreemen, " says Theodore Roosevelt in _The Winning of the West_. 

If Daniel Boone had been a man to glow with pride he might well havedone so over the outcome of that first hunting trip he made to theWatauga country. But Daniel was a hunter, an adventurer, an explorer wholoved above all else space. He didn't like being crowded by a lot ofneighbors. So again in 1773, calling his little family around thefireside one night, he told them he meant to pull up stakes and move on. They had only been there four years which was a brief time consideringthe laborious journey they'd had to get there, the hardships of life, ofclearing ground and taking root again. However, if Rebecca offeredprotest it was overcome. Daniel had a way with him. Perhaps she evenhelped her husband convince members of her family that it was the thingto do. Her folks, the Bryans, told others. The word passed around thefamily circle until forty of the Bryans had decided they'd join Danieland Rebecca. Boone sold his home. Why bother with it! He'd probablynever be back there to live, for this time Daniel and Rebecca, withtheir children, the Bryans, and Captain William Russell, were going on along journey. They were headed for Kentucky. Daniel had told them somefine and promising yarns about his lone expedition to that far-offcountry. 

The way wasn't easy. Following watercourses, fording swollen streams, picking their way over rocks and loose boulders, through mud and sand. Besides there was the constant dread of the Indian. Their fears wereconfirmed before they reached Cumberland Gap. While they were still inPowell Valley a band of Indians attacked Boone's party. The womenhuddled together in terror while the men seized their guns. 

But for all his skill as a marksman, Daniel Boone could not stay thehand of the Indian whose arrow pierced the heart of his oldest son. There was another grave in the wilderness and the disheartened partyreturned to the Watauga country. This time, however, Boone settled inthe Clinch Valley. 

The Indians continued on a rampage. Consequently it was nearly two yearsbefore Boone started again for Kentucky. This time he gained his goal, though at first he did not take Rebecca and his family. He meant to makea safe place for them to live. 

These were times to try men's souls. Everywhere man yearned for freedom. About this time a young Scotch-Irishman in Virginia astounded hishearers by a speech he made at St. John's Church in Richmond. When thezealous patriot cried, "Give me liberty, or give me death, " the fervorand eloquence of his voice echoed down the valleys. It re-echoed throughthe mountains. That young orator, "Patrick Henry, and his Scotch-Irishbrethren from the western Counties carried and held Virginia forIndependence, " it has been said. 

There was unity in thought and purpose among the Scotch-Irish whetherthey lived in highland or lowland and their purpose was to gain freedomand independence. A bond of feeling that could not have existed amongthe Dutch of New York, the Puritans of New England, the English ofVirginia, even if they had not been so widely separated geographically. Moreover, the isolation of the Scotch-Irish in the wilderness, though itcut them off from voice in the government or protection by it, made themself-reliant people. They had had enough of royal government. Added tothis was their natural hatred of British aggression, distaste for theunfairness of those in political power from whom they were so farremoved by miles and mountains. They thought for themselves and actedaccordingly. Their individualism marked them for leadership that wasreadily followed by others who also had known persecution: the PalatineGermans, the Dutch, and the Huguenots. They had another strong ally inthe English who had come from Virginia to settle in the mountains andwhose traditions of resolute action added to the mountaineer's spirit ofindependence. The flame of agitation was fanned by the unfairness ofgovernment officials in the lowlands. The mountain people had long sincelooked to their own protection and their Scotch-Irish nature persistedin resentment of unfairness from authority of any source. This spiritprevailed among the incoming settlers in Carolina. There wasdissatisfaction between them and the planters, the men of means andinfluence who with unfair taxation and injustice persecuted the lessprosperous newcomers. Discontent grew and brought on events that wereforerunners of the expansive militant movement that came in Americanlife. 

First was the Declaration of Abingdon, Virginia, in January, 1775. Daniel Boone had led an expedition there sixteen years earlier and mayhave planted the seed in the minds of those who stayed on, while he wenton to Kentucky. Title to much of the land which embraced Kentucky wasclaimed by the Cherokees. England still claimed the right to anyterritory in America and the war's beginnings left the whole thing indoubt. England might even make void Virginia's titles if she were soinclined. In the midst of these doubts and disputed claims several NorthCarolina gentlemen, including Richard Henderson and Nathaniel Hart, inthe spring of 1775 formed themselves into the Transylvania Company forthe purpose of acquiring title to the territory of Kentucky from theCherokees. They meant to operate on a great scale, to establish anindependent empire here in the "expansive West. " They looked about for aman to help them. They didn't have to look long. 

There was Daniel Boone. He had a background. He'd scouted all over thecountry. He'd fought with Washington against the French when he was onlyin his teens. He was a fearless fellow; he knew how to deal with theIndian. So the Transylvania Company employed Daniel as theirrepresentative to negotiate with the Cherokees. The council met atSycamore Shoals on the Watauga, a tributary of the Holston River. Therethe Cherokees ceded to the company for "ten thousand pounds, all thevast tract of land lying between the Ohio and Cumberland rivers, andwest and south of the Kentucky. " This region was called Transylvania. 

So, just six years after his first hunting trip to Kentucky, Boone beganto colonize it and that in flat defiance of the British government. Hethumbed his nose too at a menacing proclamation of North Carolina'sroyal governor. 

Now that the land was acquired by the Transylvania Company they wouldhave to charter a course leading to and through it for prospectivesettlers. For theirs was a "land and improvement company. " Again DanielBoone was employed. This time his task was to open a path through thewilderness. 

With ax and tomahawk, with fighting and tribulations, he blazed thetrail from Holston River to the mouth of Otter Creek on the KentuckyRiver. "Boone's Trace, " they called it, connecting with the Warrior'sPath and its extensions into eastern Tennessee and western NorthCarolina through Cumberland Gap and even beyond. It became theWilderness Trail or Wilderness Road. It was the first through coursefrom the mother state of Virginia to the West. 

In spite of the purchase of land from the Indian, in spite of all thetreaties of peace, the cunning warrior persisted in attack upon thewhite men, in massacre of women and children, in capture of hunter andtrapper. 

Daniel Boone and his men had to safeguard their families and the futureof their company. They set about building a fort. As for Boone, he felthimself "an instrument ordained to settle the wilderness. " No hardshipwas too great, no sorrow too deep to deter him in his mission of"pioneering and subduing the wilderness for the habitation of civilizedmen. "

After two years of hardship and toil a fort was built on the banks ofthe Kentucky River. It consisted of cabins of roughhewn logs surroundedby a stockade. Over this crude fort, in one cabin of which Boone andRebecca lived with their family, a flag was raised on May 23, 1775. Itmarked a new and independent nation called Transylvania. 

Only a week after the flag-raising in Kentucky the people ofMecklenburg, which had been established only eleven years, made anotherstep toward independence. On May 31, 1775, the Mecklenburg Resolutionswere adopted in North Carolina. 

In the meantime the Revolution had begun and mountain men were first tojoin Washington against the British in the forces of Morgan's Riflemenand Nelson's Riflemen. Their skill with firearms, their fearlessness, made them invaluable to Washington. "It was their quality of coolcourage and personal independence, " said Raine, "that won the battles ofKings Mountain and Cowpens and drove Lord Cornwallis to his surrender atYorktown. "

Each movement toward independence in Tennessee, Kentucky, Virginia, andNorth Carolina had been under the leadership of mountain men and theaccomplishment of their several declarations paved the way for the morewidespread Continental Declaration of Independence at Philadelphia, July4, 1776. 

It echoed around the world, but Daniel Boone, that young rebel, didn'teven hear of it until the following August. Whereupon the fearlesshunter with the abandon of a happy lad danced a jig around the bonfireinside the stockade. It could have been an Elizabethan jig, ironicallyenough, for the Boones were English. Daniel tossed his coonskin cap intothe air again and again and let out a war whoop that brought theterrified Rebecca hurrying to the cabin door, a whoop that pierced thesilence of the forest beyond. 

By the time the Declaration was signed the mountain people constitutedone sixth of the settlement of the United States. 

As for Daniel Boone, twenty-five years had passed since he, a boy ofsixteen, had left Pennsylvania with his father and brothers. He wasforty-one years old when he set up housekeeping at Boonesborough wherethe fort stood on the banks of the Kentucky. Never in all his life hadhe been quite so settled. Daniel had acquired title to lands from theTransylvania Company and things looked promising. Rebecca too must havebeen happy in their security. The children could safely play inside thestockade even if they did squabble with the neighbors' children. Rebeccamust have sung a ballad betimes as she cooked venison or wild turkey atthe hearth, or swept the floor with her rived oak broom. For Danielcould whittle a broom for her while he sat meditating aloud on his pastadventures. Daniel was satisfied. Rebecca could see that. Now with thecolony established in the wilderness Daniel Boone had realized the dreamof his life. 

In the thirteen years Boone lived in Kentucky he continued to hunt andtrap and explore. He took others along with him on his variousexpeditions. In January, 1778, with a party of thirty men he went tomake salt at Blue Lick. He knew the places to go for he had found thempreviously by following the path of buffalo, deer, and bear that hadgone there to lick salt. Boone and his men threw up rough shelters forthemselves. Soon the kettles were boiling, the salt was made. They werein the midst of preparations to pack up their belongings and load thesalt into bags when Daniel's keen ears caught the sound of moccasinedfeet in the underbrush nearby. Suddenly as if they had popped up out ofthe ground a band of Indians pounced upon the white men. All but threeof Boone's party were captured. They escaped and after hiding thekettles took the salt back to the stockade. Daniel and two of hiscompanions were borne off to Detroit. 

Boone was a wary fellow, so he pretended to be quite contented with hislot and the Indians were so pleased with him they adopted him as a soninto their tribe. He would have looked a fright to Rebecca for theIndians cropped his hair close to the scalp save a tuft on the top ofhis head which was bedecked with trinkets--shells, teeth of wildanimals, feathers. The women dressed him up in this fashion, firsttaking him to the river and giving him a thorough scrubbing "to take outhis white blood. " Then they painted his face with colors as bright asthose of any chieftain in the tribe. Daniel was a good actor. Hepretended to be highly pleased, but he was only awaiting the chance toescape. One day there was quite a stir in the camp. Daniel observed manynew faces among the warriors. They talked and gesticulated excitedly, and Boone soon gathered the purpose of the powwow. "They're going on thewarpath, " Daniel said to himself, "and to my notion they're headedtoward our stockade. " While they continued to harangue among themselvesDaniel stealthily made his escape. He covered the intervening onehundred and sixty miles in five days. 

The Indians didn't carry out their plan to attack the fort until someweeks later and when they did march into view they were led by CaptainDuquesne of the English Army. 

The siege lasted for nine days but the veteran riflemen of the fort, under Boone's skillful direction, gained the day with only a loss ofthree or four men, while many of the four hundred Indians fell. 

There were many other battles with the Indians who crossed the Ohio intoKentucky, and though Boone was always in the thick of the fray he cameout uninjured. 

And then misfortune came in another way. 

Things had looked fair enough in the beginning when the TransylvaniaCompany sold boundaries of land to settlers, with Colonel Henderson, abright lawyer who had once been appointed Associate Chief Justice, tolook after the legal side of the transactions. The company asked onlythirteen and one third cents per acre for the land for one year and anadded half cent per acre quitrent to begin in 1780. At such a low rateit was possible for a man to purchase a boundary of six hundred acres. When Daniel talked it over with Rebecca they concluded he would not beoverreaching himself to invest in such an acreage. 

The Transylvania Company did a land-office business. By December of thefirst year after Colonel Henderson opened up his office for business inBoonesborough 560, 000 acres were sold. That was all right for thecompany, but what of the purchaser? What with the squabbles and disputesconcerning title between Indian and settler, English and French, Boonelike others soon found himself with not a leg to stand on. He had bought"wildcat" land. Land-sharks cleaned him out. 

At the age of fifty-four, in 1788, Daniel had to start all over again. With Rebecca at his side and a larger family he moved on. 

Boone had scouted through the West Virginia country long before, when hehad passed a solitary winter in a hut on the Big Sandy. So now once morehe turned in that direction, pressing on until he reached the mouth ofthe Great Kanawha River. He lived from place to place in the Kanawhacountry, following his old pursuits of hunting and trapping, and asusual absented himself from his fireside for long days at a stretch. ButRebecca was used to his ways. She looked after the family, cooked andmended. When Daniel returned home Rebecca always cleaned him up againbefore he started on another hunting trip. 

Eleven years passed without a word being said about land titles. Thenone day Daniel found himself facing the same situation that had robbedhim of his acres in Kentucky. A man of sixty-five, and with a family ofseven, three boys and four girls--two of their boys had been killed inbattle with the Indians--Daniel, though still a fearless hunter, didn'twant to be bothered with squabbles over land titles. He told Rebeccathere was an easier way around. There were places outside of thejurisdiction of the United States altogether. "We don't have to bebeholden to anyone, " he said boastfully. 

Pioneer women followed their men. So once more Rebecca made ready forthe journey. She mended garments; she gathered up their few cookingutensils and the furry hides that were their blankets. She tied some ofher choice things in her apron. That she'd carry right on her arm. Theboys helped their father make ready the great cumbersome cart that wasto carry their possessions. When all was in readiness Daniel pulled onhis coonskin cap and whistling up his dogs he started off resolutelyahead of his family. 

On and on they went until they reached Spanish territory beyond theMississippi in Upper Louisiana. There at Charette (fifty miles west ofSt. Louis) Daniel Boone remained for a score of years, still hunting andtrapping. 

Even after Rebecca died he stayed on in the log cabin that had beentheir home for so long. An old man of seventy-eight he was, with many asorrow to look back upon. For him the trail had been a "bloody one, "Daniel often reflected. He had seen two of his boys fall under thetomahawk, and his brothers too. He had seen Rebecca's grief and terrorat bloodshed; her anxiety in the lonely life of the wilderness. He hadseen her despair when the very ground in which they had taken root wastorn from under their feet. He had known the suffering of winter winds, the desolation of the forest. He had suffered innumerable hardships. Allthese things he lived again as he sat alone in the house where Rebeccahad died. 

But the spirit of the hunter still burned in the old man's bosom at theage of eighty-five. Even then he was all for shouldering his gun oncemore and setting out with an Indian lad to explore the Rockies. His sonpersuaded him to give up the thought. "You're too old, Pa. If you fallover a cliff your bones would be broke to smithereens. Come and livewith me. My house is safe. It's all built of stone. The Indians can'tburn down a stone house. " After much bickering Daniel finally heeded hisson and went to live with him. He died there in 1822. 

The fort which he so proudly built and valiantly defended continues tobear his name, being one of at least thirty localities in the UnitedStates which take their name from the first pioneer of the great valleyof the Mississippi. His body lies in a little cemetery in Kentucky'scapital. A humble grave, though as you stand beside it you feel thespirit of the great hunter hovering near. A courageous explorer inleather breeches and coonskin cap blazed the trail through an unbrokenwilderness to help build America. 

At length through Cumberland Gap following Boone's Wilderness Trail camethe ancestors of David Crockett, Samuel Houston, John C. Calhoun, "Stonewall" Jackson, and Abraham Lincoln. The Boones and Lincolns hadbeen neighbors back in Pennsylvania in one of the most Germansettlements. Yet both families themselves were English. 

 THE MOUNTAINEER

Difficulties of communication are enough to explain the isolation ofmountaineers. For long years, even until yesterday, the only roads werethe beds of tortuous and rockstrewn watercourses that were dry when youstarted at sunup and were suddenly transformed by a downpour to swollen, turbulent streams, perilous even to ford. 

But for all that, in 1803 there were a million settlers in the southernhighlands. Hardships of life there might have shaken a man's faith butnot his love of the country. In Kentucky alone in 1834 there were 500pensioners of the Revolution. And when the guns roared at the opening ofthe Civil War, the southern highlanders sent 180, 000 riflemen to theUnion Army. 

An isolated people drops easily into illiteracy. Cut off as the mountainmen were from the outside world, they knew little of what was going onbeyond their mountain walls. Even if newspapers had found their way tothe mountaineer's cabin they would have been of little use to men whocould not read. On the other hand, had the mountain men known of thegreat westward movement toward the plains few of them could have joinedthe caravans. The mountaineer had no money because he had no way toproduce money. For that reason he could not even reach the nearestlowlands. Even if he had moved down into the lowlands he could not hopeto own land but would only have fallen once more into the unbearablestate of his forbears in Ulster--that of tenant, or menial, withproprietors and bosses to harass his life. This peril alone was enough, aside from the lack of money, to make the highlander shrink from thesociety of the lowlands. The few who straggled down were glad enough toreturn to the cloister of the mountains. Besides the mountaineer didn'tlike the climate or the water down there. The sparkling, cool mountainbrook, the constant breeze and bracing air were much more to his liking. Indeed the climate has had its effect upon the mountaineer, not onlyupon his physical being--he is tall and stalwart; few mountain men aredwarfed--but the bracing air enables him to toil for long days in theopen. He can walk--or hoe corn on an almost perpendicular cornpatch--from daylight till dark. He is patient and is never in a hurry. Time means nothing to him. Down in the Unakas a mountaineer once had acataract removed from the right eye. The surgeon told him to return in acouple months when it would be safe to operate upon the other eye. Twenty years elapsed before the fellow returned to the doctor's office;when he was chided for the delay he answered unconcernedly, "I 'lowed'twas no use to be in a hurry about it. "

Yet for all their seeming indifference the people of the Blue Ridge, wholocked their offspring generation after generation in mountainfastnesses that have barred the world, have kept alive and fresh inmemory the unwritten song, the speech, the tradition of theirAnglo-Saxon and Anglo-Celtic ancestors. 

Down through the centuries the blood and traditions of the pioneers havecarried, creating a stalwart, a fearless people. Hidden away in the highcrannies of the Blue Ridge they have come to be known as Mountaineers, Southern Highlanders, Appalachian Mountaineers, and SouthernMountaineers. But if you should ask a name of any of the old folk of theBlue Ridge country they doubtless will tell you, "We are mountainpeople. " Never hill-billies! A hill-billy, the true mountain man orwoman would have you know, is one born of the mountains who has gotabove his raising, ashamed to own his origin, one who holds his ownmountain people up for scorn and ridicule. To mountain folk the wordhill-billy is a slur of the worst sort. A slur that has caused murder. 

They recognize no caste in the Blue Ridge Country. They are hospitablebeyond measure, I have come to know in my long years of roaming throughthe mountains, first as court stenographer in isolated courts, then asballad collector. I have never entered a mountain home throughout theBlue Ridge, no matter how humble the fare, where man, woman, or childoffered apology for anything, their surroundings or the food andhospitality given to the stranger under their roof. "You're welcome towhat we've got, " is the invariable greeting--though the bed be a crudeshuck tick shared with the children of the family, the fare cornbreadand sorghum. 

As a child I used to go to the cabin home of one of my father's kinsmen, a man who could neither read nor write, though he knew his Bible fromcover to cover and could cite accurately chapter and verse of any textfrom which he chose to preach. There was but one room in his house oflogs with its lean-to kitchen of rough planks, but never did I hearfather's kinsman or his wife offer any word of excuse for anything. Whenit was time for victuals his wife, with all the graciousness ofnobility, would stand behind her guests, while her man, seated at thehead of the table, head bowed reverently, offered thanks. Then, liftinghis head, he would fling wide his open palms in hospitality, "Thar hitis afore you. Take holt and eat all you're a-mind to!" And turning tohis wife, "Marthie! watch their plates!" My great-aunt kept a vigilanteye on us as she walked around the table inviting us to partake, "Hure, have more of the snaps. Holp yourself to the ham meat. Take anotherpiece of cornbread. 'Pon my word, you're pickin' like a wren. Eathearty!" she urged, while above our heads she swished the fly-brush, abranch from the lilac bush in summer, otherwise a fringed paper attachedto a stick. 

They learned through necessity to put to use the things at hand, madetheir own crude implements to clear and break the stubborn soil; theylearned to do without. 

Their poteen (whiskey) craft, handed down by their Scotch-Irishancestors, survives today in what outlanders term moonshining. Resentment against taxation of homemade whiskey survives too. Themountaineer reasons--I've heard them frequently in court--that the landis his, that he "heired it from his Pa, same as him from hisn, " that heplants him some bread without no tax. Why can't he make whiskey from hiscorn without paying tax?

As for killing in the Blue Ridge Country. In my profession of courtstenographer I have reported many trials for killing and almostinvariably my sympathy has been with the slayer. Usually he admits thathe had it to do either for a real or fancied wrong, or for a slur to hiswomenfolks. I've never known of gangsters, fingermen, or paid killers inthe Blue Ridge Country. 

With an inherent love of music, handed down from the wandering minstrelsof Shakespeare's time, and with a wealth of ballads stored up in theirheads and hearts, they found in these a joyful expression. Even thechildren, like their elders, can turn a hand to fashion a make-believewhistle of beech or maple, although they may never know that in so doingthey are making an imitation of the Recorder upon which Queen Elizabethherself was a skilled performer. Little Chad at the head of RaccoonHollow will cut two corn stalks about the length of his small arms andearnestly proceed to make music by sawing one across the other, singinghappily:

 Corn stalk fiddle and shoe-string bow, Best old fiddle in the country, oh!

not knowing that Haydn, the child, likewise sawed one stick upon anotherin imitation of playing the fiddle. And there's Little Babe of LonesomeCreek who delights in a gourd banjo. His grandsir, finding a straight, long-necked gourd among those clustered on the vine over kitchen-housedoor, fashioned it into a banjo for the least one. Cut it flat on oneside, did the old man, scooped out the seed, then covered the openingwith a bit of brown paper made fast with flour paste, strung it with catgut. And there, bless you, as fine a banjo as ever a body would want topick. 

They are neighborly in the Blue Ridge Country. They ask no favor of anyman. Yet the road is never too rough, the way too far, for one neighborto go to the aid of another in time of sickness or death. I knew alittle boy who was dangerously sick with a strange ailment thatprimitive home remedies could not heal. Neighbor boys made a slide, aquilt tied to two strong saplings, and carried their little friend someten miles over a rough mountain footpath to the nearest wagon road. There, placing him in a jolt wagon, the bed of which had been filledwith hay to ease his suffering in jolting over the rough creek-bed road, they continued the journey on for thirty miles to the wayside railroadstation where the cars bore the afflicted child on to town and thehospital. 

A feud is the name given to their family quarrels by the level-landers. Mountain people never use the word. They say war or troubles. Theirclannishness was inherited from their Scotch ancestors, and the wild, rugged mountains lent themselves perfectly to warfare among the clans. They had lived apart so long, protected from invasion and interferenceby their high mountain walls, that they learned to settle their owndifferences in their own way. They knew no law but the gun. If Johnwarned his neighbor Mark that Mark's dog was killing his sheep and theneighbor did nothing about it, John settled the matter forthwith byshooting the dog. Families took sides. The flame was fanned. The feudgrew. 

However, in time of disaster, with grim faces and willing hands, theycome to the aid of an unfortunate neighbor. Once when a terrible floodcaused Troublesome to overflow its banks, carrying everything in itsraging course, I saw a team of mules, the only means of support of awidowed mother of a dozen children, swept away. She hired the team toneighbors and thus earned a meager living. I remember the despair ofthat white, drawn face as the widow looked on helplessly at thedestruction. Not a word did she speak. But before darkness the next dayneighbor men far and wide, and none of them were prosperous, chipped infrom their small hoards and got another team for the woman. 

 2. LAND OF FEUDS AND STILLS

 HATFIELDS AND MCCOYS

When Dr. Walker, the Englishman, the first white man in Cumberland Gap, followed the course of Russell Fork out of Virginia into Kentucky backin 1750, he came upon a wooded point of land shaped like a trianglewhich was skirted by two forks of tepid water. The one to the left, ashe faced westward, this English explorer called Levisa after the wife ofthe Duke of Cumberland. 

Generations later a lovely mountain girl wore the name he had given thestream and she became the wife of the leader of a blood feud in thecountry where he set up his hut. It was a blood feud and a war ofrevenge that lasted more than forty years, the gruesome details of whichhave echoed around the world, cost scores of lives, and struck terror tothe hearts of women and innocent children for several decades. 

Devil Anse Hatfield, the leader of his clan, himself told me much of thestory when I lived on Main Island Creek in Logan County, West Virginia, and on Tug Fork of the Big Sandy River. His wife Levicy--she who hadbeen Levicy Chafin--did not spell her name as the name of the stream wasspelled though she pronounced it the same way. It was a story that beganwith the killing of Harmon McCoy in 1863 by Devil Anse, who was afearless fighter, a captain in a body of the Rebel forces known as theLogan Wildcats. Later, when Jonse Hatfield, the leader's oldest boy, grew to young manhood, he set eyes upon Rosanna McCoy, old Randall'sdaughter, and loved her at sight. But Devil Anse, because of the hatredhe bore Rosanna's father, wouldn't permit his son to marry a McCoy. Rosanna loved Jonse madly. And he, swept away with wild, youthfulpassion, determined to have her. He did, though not in lawful wedlock. 

Quarrels and bickerings between the sides sprang up at the slightestprovocation. Even a dispute over the ownership of a hog resulted inanother killing. Old Randall grew more bitter as time went on, what withRosanna the mother of an illegitimate child and Jonse, even though helived with her under his father's own roof, being faithless to the girl. And when, after the McCoys stabbed Ellison Hatfield to death, Devil Anseavenged his brother's death by inciting his clan to slay Randall's threeboys, Little Randall, Tolbert and Phemer, the leader of the McCoys vowedhe'd not rest until he wiped out the last one of the other clan. 

There were killings from ambush, open killings, threats, house-burnings. Once the McCoys had outtricked Devil Anse and had stolen his favoriteson Jonse away while he was courting Rosanna. They meant to riddle himwith bullets. But the Hatfields got word of it. Rosanna had betrayed herown family, so the McCoys felt, for the love of Jonse. The Hatfieldscame galloping along the road by moonlight, surrounded the McCoys, demanded the release of the prisoner, young Jonse, and even made a McCoydust young Hatfield's boots. 

When the law tried to interfere, Devil Anse built a drawbridge to spanthe creek beside which his house stood, stationed a bevy of armedHatfields around his place, and ruled his clan like a czar, directingtheir every deed. 

The bloody feud did not end until 1920, after Sid Hatfield on Tug Fork, which with Levisa forms Big Sandy, had shot to death some nine men ledby Baldwin-Felts detectives. They had killed Mayor Testerman of thevillage of Matewan. And when they came to arrest Sid on what he termed atrumped-up charge he reached for his gun. Sid, then chief of police ofMatewan, West Virginia, had been accused of opposing labor unions amongthe coal miners and the coming of the detectives was the result. ThoughHatfields and McCoys were both miners and coal operators, the killing ofthe detectives by Sid had no direct bearing upon the early differencesbetween the clans. But the wholesale killing on the streets of Matewanin 1920 marked the end of the Hatfield-McCoy feud. 

Devil Anse lived to see peace between his family and the McCoys. 

Through thick and thin Levicy Chafin Hatfield stood by her man, thoughshe pleaded with him to give up the strife. 

They waged their blood battles on Levisa Fork and Tug, on Blackberry andGrapevine, creeks that were tributaries to the waters that swelled theBig Sandy as they flowed down through the mountains of West Virginia andKentucky, emptying at last into the Ohio. 

Levicy bore her mate thirteen children and died a few years after 1921when the old clansman had passed to the beyond. There was not even abullet mark on the old clansman. He died a natural death, mountainkinsmen will tell you proudly. He was buried with much pomp, as pompgoes in the mountains, on Main Island Creek of West Virginia, in thefamily burying ground. 

I knew Devil Anse and "Aunt" Levicy quite well. For, long centuriesafter my illustrious kinsman had returned to Merrie England to reportupon his expedition for the Loyal Land Company in the Blue Ridge, Ifollowed the same course he had blazed out of Virginia into themountains of Kentucky and West Virginia. I lived for a number of yearson Levisa Fork and Tug Fork and on Main Island Creek in West Virginia, where my nearest neighbors and best friends were Hatfields and, strangely enough, McCoys. 

One day Devil Anse stopped at my house out of a downpour of rain and ashe sat looking out of the open door he fell to talking of another rainyday many years before. "This puts me in the mind of the time I had to goaway on business down to the mouth of Big Sandy, " he said in his slow, even tones. All the time his eagle eyes were fixed on me. "I had to godown to the mouth of Big Sandy, " he repeated, "on some business of myown. A man has a right to protect his family, " he interrupted himselfand arched a brow. "Anyway there come an awful rainstorm and creeksbusted over their banks till I couldn't ford 'em--not even on Queen, ashigh-spirited a nag as any man ever straddled. But she balked that dayseeing the creeks full of trees pulled up by the roots and evencarcasses of calves and fowls. Queen just nat'erly rared back on herhaunches and wouldn't budge. Couldn't coax nor flog her to wade into thewater. A feller come ridin' up on a shiny black mare. Black and shiny asI ever saw and its neck straight as a fiddle bow. He said the waterslooked too treacherous and turned and rode off over the mountain, hisblack hair drippin' wet on his shoulders. Anyway there I was held backanother day and night till that master tide swept on down to the BigWaters [the Ohio]. When I got home my little girls Rosie and Nancy comerunnin' down the road to meet me. 'Pappy, look! what a strange man giveus!' Rosie held out her hand and there was a sil'er dollar in it andNancy brought her hand from behind her and openin' her fist she had asil'er dollar too and little Lizbeth she come runnin' to show me whatshe had. Another sil'er dollar, bless you. 'This strange man were mostpowerful free-hearted, ' sez I, gettin' off of Queen. I throwed thebridle over the fence rail and went on up to the house, packin' mysaddle pockets over my arm and my gun and cartridge belt over myshoulder. My little girls come troopin' behind. Their Ma stood waitin'in the door twistin' the end of her apron like she ever did when she waswarned. 'Captain Anderson!' sez she, that were her pet name for me, 'I've been nigh in a franzy. I 'lowed sure you and Queen had been washedplum down in the flood. Here, let me have them soppin' clothes and themmuddy boots. ' Levicy was the workinest woman you ever saw. Washed andscoured till my garmints looked like new. And after I'd got on clean dryclothes such a feast she set before me. 'Pon my word, it made me feelright sheepish. 'A body would think, Levicy, ' sez I, 'that I were theProdigal Son come home. ' She spoke right up. 'See here, AndersonHatfield, I won't have you handlin' no such talk about the sire of mylittle girls, ' sez she, spoonin' the sweet potatoes on my plate, andsmilin' so tender and good on me. Then my little girls gathered round tosee what I'd fetched them. There was store candy and a pretty hairribbon for each one that I taken out of the saddle pockets. And a goldbreast pin for Levicy. Never saw a woman so pleased in my life. 'I don'taim to hold it back just to wear to meetin', ' sez she. And she didn't. From then on she wore that gold breast pin every day of her life. Saidshe meant to be buried with it. Well, 'ginst my little girls had ettheir candy and plaited each other's hair and tied on their new ribbonsthey hovered around me again to show their sil'er the strange man hadgive them. 'Captain Anderson, ' sez Levicy, 'he was handsome built andset his saddle proud and fearless. But not half so proud and fearless asyou. Nor were he half so handsome. ' I could feel her hand on my shouldera-quiverin' a little grain like Levicy's hand ever did when she was plumhappy. Then she went on to tell as she washed the dishes and Nancy andRosie dried them and Lizbeth packed them off to the cupboard, about thestrange man. 'He laid powerful admiration on our little girls. ' Levicywas wipin' off the oilcloth on the table with her soapy dish rag. 'Hehad them line up in a row to see which was tallest, whilst I set him asnack. "Shut your eyes, " sez he, "and open your mouth. " They did, andbless you, Captain Anderson, what did he do but put a sil'er dollar intheir mouth--each one. ' By this time Nancy and Rosie and Lizbeth hadfinished the dishes and they come hoverin' round my knee again whilst Icleaned and polished my gun. Each one holdin' proud their sil'er dollar, turnin' it this way and that, rubbin' it on their dress sleeve to makethe eagle shine. Just then, Jonse, my oldest boy, come gallopin' up theroad on Prince, his little sorrel. He never stopped till he got right tothe kitchen-house door. The chickens made a scattermint before him. 'Pa!' he shouted out, throwin' Prince's bridle out of his hand andjumpin' down to the ground. 'They've caught him! Robbed the bank atCharleston!' Levicy was drying the tin dishpan. She starred at Jonse andso did I. 'Caught who?' sez I. 'Jesse James' brother, Frank! It was himthat was here. Him that Ma fed t'other day. Him that give Nancy andRosie and Lizbeth a sil'er dollar!' Levicy dropped the dishpan andretched a hand to the table. 'Mistress Levicy Chafin Hatfield!' sez I, 'never again can I leave this house in peace. A man's family's not safewith such scalawags prowlin' the country!'"

Then Devil Anse went on with the rest of the story. 

Devil Anse, the leader of the Hatfield clan whose very name struckterror to the hearts of people, and Jesse James' brother Frank, highwayman and bank robber, had met on a mountain road, each unaware ofthe other's identity, each intent on his own business. Captain Andersonhad gone down to the mouth of Big Sandy, the county seat, Catlettsburg, Kentucky, to buy ammunition with which to annihilate the McCoys. Thatstory too the outside world heard afterward, for the clans met onBlackberry Creek and engaged in battle for several hours with dead anddying from both sides on the field--or rather in the bushes. 

Whatever else has been attributed to Devil Anse he liked to prank aswell as anyone. He took particular glee in telling the following storyto me, his eagle eyes twinkling:

"One day a tin peddler come with his pack of shiny cook vessels in ashiny black oilcloth poke on his back. The fellow wore red-topped bootsand a red flannel shirt, for all it was summer. His breeches had morepatches than a scarecrow and his big felt hat had seen its best daystoo. He kept at Levicy to buy his wares but she was one that didn'tfavor shiny tinware. 'It rustes out, ' she told the peddler. 'Nohow I'vegot plenty of iron cook vessels. ' All the time the old peddler wastrying to wheedle and coax her into buying something, a quart cup, amilk bucket, a dishpan, a washpan. I was inside in the sitting roomresting myself on the sofa. I could hear the peddler outside on thestoop, bickering and haranguing at Levicy to buy. Finally I got my fillof it and I tiptoed out through the kitchen-house, my gun over myshoulder. I went to the barn lot and turned loose Buck, a young bull wehad that I'd been aimin' to swop Jim Vance. I give Buck one good wollopacross the rump with the pam of my hand. He kicked up his heels andrushed forward, me close behind with my gun. The peddler took one lookat Buck, so it peered to me, and Buck took one look at the peddler, lowered his head and charged. The peddler let out a war whoop and flewdown the hillside like a thousand hornets had lit on him. The pack fellfrom his back and there was a scattermint of tinware from top to bottomof that hill. Buck shook his head and snorted. His eyes bugged outtenthe sockets. I couldn't tell if he was ragin' mad at the shiny tin cookvessels that was tanglin' his hoofs, or if it was the red shirt andred-topped boots of the peddler that riled Buck. Nohow Buck ducked hishead again and bellowed, caught a shiny quart cup on each horn and acouple washpans on his forefeet and kept right on down the hill. By thistime the tin peddler had scooted up a tall tree quick as a squirrel andthere he set on a limb. Buck was ragin' and chargin' in circles aroundthat tree. That bull was riled plum to a franzy and that tin peddler wasyaller as a punkin. Skeert out of his wits. 'Come on down, you porecritter!' sez I. But he just opened his mouth and couldn't say a word, just a dry croak like a frog bein' swallored in sudden quicksand. 'Comeon down, ' I coaxed, 'I'll quile Buck down till he's peaceable as akitten. '

"But the peddler just starred at me and shivered on the limb like asparrow bird freezin' of a winter time in the snow. 'I'll tend to Buck!'I promised him. 'Come on down!' And to put his mind at ease I up with myrifle-gun, shot the quart tin cups offen Buck's horns and the washpansoffen his front hoofs. 'Now get back to the barn where you belong andbehave yourself!' I sez to Buck and he scampered back up the hill asfrolicsome as a lamb, pickin' his way careful like as a Jenny Wrenthrough that scattermint of tinware. 

"The peddler was still shiverin' on the tree limb overhead and his eyesbuggin' out worser'n Buck's had when he ketched first sight of thefeller's red shirt and the shiny tinware. 'Buck's gone, ' I sez to himcoaxin' like. 'You don't need to be skeert of him no more!' 'T-t-tain'tB-b-buck!' the feller's teeth chattered. 'It's you, D-d-evil A-a-nse!'With that he drapped off the limb down to the ground at my feet. Swoonded dead away!"

Devil Anse Hatfield chuckled heartily. "'T-t-ain't Buck! B-b-uck, ' sezhe when he ketched his wind and revived up. 'It's you--D-d-evil Anse!'"

The rest of the story Captain Anderson himself would never tell but AuntLevicy told me how he packed the tin peddler back up the hill to thehouse on his shoulder and had her cook him a big dinner of fried chickenand cornbread; how he gave the peddler a couple greenbacks that made himplum paralyzed with pleasure and surprise; and how he had Jonse take thepeddler back to the county seat, the peddler riding behind Jonse onQueen, where he bought a new supply of tinware and went on his way. 

Except for such interludes of pranking, doubtless Aunt Levicy and oldRandall's wife, Sarah McCoy, could never have survived the ordeal of theHatfield-McCoy feud. 

The women of both households lived days of torture, ever watchful of theapproaching enemy. They spent sleepless nights of anguish, knowing toowell the sound of gunshot, the cry of terror that meant another outbreakof the clans. And when the cross grew too heavy even for their stoicshoulders to bear they ventured unbeknownst to their menfolks to theGood Shepherd of the Hills to beg his intercession, his prayers forpeace. 

 PEACEMAKER

Autumn had painted the wooded hillside bright scarlet, golden brown, vivid orange, and yellow that shone in the late September sunlight likea giant canvas beyond the rambling farmhouse at the head of Garrett'sFork of Big Creek where dwelt the Good Shepherd of the Hills, WilliamDyke Garrett and his gentle wife. Here in Logan County in the heart ofthe rugged West Virginia country, Uncle Dyke and Aunt Sallie lived inthe selfsame place for all of seventy years. Sallie Smith, she was, ofCrawley's Creek, a few miles away, before she wed the young rebel of theLogan Wildcats. That was away back in 1867, February 19th, to be exact. He was twenty, she in her teens. He had been born and grew to youngmanhood in a cabin only a stone's throw from where he and Miss Sallie, as he always called her, went to housekeeping. As for their neighbors, there wasn't a person in the whole countryside that didn't love SallieGarrett, nor one that didn't revere the kindly Apostle of the Book. Solong had Dyke Garrett traveled up and down the valley comforting thesick, praying with the dying, funeralizing the dead. 

I had heard him preach in various places through the West Virginiahills. 

"Hello, Uncle Dyke!" I called from the roadside one autumn day in 1936. 

"Howdy! and welcome!" he replied cheerily, rising at once from hisstraight chair and taking his place in the door. His wife stepped nimblyto his side, for all her ninety-odd years, and echoed the husband'sgreeting. 

It is the way of the mountains. 

I lifted the wood latch on the gate and went up the white-pebbled path. Flower-bordered it was, with brilliant scarlet sage, purple bachelorbuttons, golden glow. There was pretty-by-night, too, though theirsnow-white blossoms were closed tight in the bud for it was not yetsundown; only in the twilight and by night did the buds bloom out. "That's why they wear the name Pretty-by-Night, " mountain folk will tellyou. There were clusters of varicolored seven sisters lifting up theirbright petals. Moss, some call it in the mountains. There were brightcockscomb and in a swamp corner of the foreyard a great bunch ofcat-o'-nine tails straight as corn stalks. 

Tall, erect stood the Good Shepherd of the Hills, fully six feet threein his boots, his white patriarchal beard pillowed on his breast. Theblue-veined hands rested upon the back of his chair as he gazed at mefrom friendly eyes. Aunt Sallie, a slight bird-like little creature, reached scarcely to his shoulder. Her black sateen dress with fittedbasque and full skirt was set off with a white apron edged withcrocheted lace. The small knot of silver hair atop her head was held inplace with an old-fashioned tucking comb. About her stooped shoulderswas a knitted cape of black yarn. 

"Take a chair, " invited Uncle Dyke when I reached the porch, waving meto a low stool. "Miss Sallie al'lus favors the rocker yonder on accountthe high back eases her shoulders. She's not quite as peert as she wasback in 1867. "

"It took a bit of strength to tame Dyke and I had it to do. " Sheaddressed me rather than her husband. "He was give up to be the wildestyoung man in the country when he came back from the Home War. "

The Civil War having been ended for some two years and the young privateof the Logan Wildcats having been tamed, he became converted toreligion. Thereupon he began to preach the Gospel. 

But never in all the years of his ministry from 1867 to 1938, whenfailing health took him from the pulpit, did Uncle Dyke Garrett receivea penny for preaching. He never had a salary. William Dyke Garrett gothis living from the rugged little hillside farm that he tended with hisown hands. 

"Before I was converted to religion, " he said, straightening in hischair, "I played the fiddle and many a time went to square dances. Butonce I got the Spirit in here, "--placing a wrinkled hand upon hisbreast--"I gave up frolic tunes and played only religious music. Thereare other ways for folks to get together and enjoy themselves withoutdancing. Now there's the Big Meeting! Every year on the first Sunday ofSeptember folks come from far and near here to Big Creek and bring theirbasket dinner. "

"Dyke started it many a year ago, " Aunt Sallie interposed with pridefulglance at her mate. 

Again he took up the story. "After we've spread our basket dinner out onthe grass all under the trees we have hymn-singing and--"

"Dyke reads from the Scripture and preaches a spell. " Aunt Sallie meantthat nothing should be left out. Nor did the old man chide her. 

"Many a one has been converted at the Big Meeting"--his eyesglowed--"and nothing will stop it but the end of time. They'll have theBig Meeting every year long after I'm gone. I'm certain of that. "

Presently his thoughts looped back to his wedding to Sallie Smith. "Ourinfare-wedding lasted three days. The first day at Sallie's, the secondday at Pa's house, and the third right here in our own home. That wasthe way in those times. And I got so gleeful I fiddled and danced at thesame time! That'll be seventy-one year come February of the yearnineteen thirty-seven. " Slowly he rolled his thumbs one around theother, then he stroked his long beard, eyes turned inward upon histhoughts. "Well, sir, if I should get married one hundred times I'dmarry Miss Sallie Smith every time. We've traveled a long way togetherand we've had but few harsh words. "

His mate lifted faded eyes to his. "Dyke, it was generally my fault, "she said contritely, "but I was bound to scold when you'd get carelessabout your own self. I vow, " the little old lady turned to me, "he tookno thought of his health nor his life nor limb. There was nothing hefeared--man nor beast nor weather. In the early days there were no roadsin this country and he rode horseback from one church to another throughthe wilderness. In the dead of night I've known him to get up out of bedand go with a troubled neighbor who had come for him to pray with thedying. "

Uncle Dyke chuckled softly. "Sometimes they were not as near death as Ithought. Once I remember John Lawton came from way over in Hart County. His wife was at the point of death, he said. She had lived a mightysorry life had Dessie Lawton. "

"Parted John and his wife!" piped Aunt Sallie, "and that poor girl wentto her grave worshiping the ground John Lawton walked on; hoping he'dcome back to her. Dyke claims there's ever hope for them that repent, sowhen John brought word that Dessie wanted to make her peace with theLord before she died, Dyke said nothin' could stay him. So off he rodebehind John to pray over that trollop!" Aunt Sallie's eyes blazed. "Theyforded the creek no tellin' how many times. They got chilled to thebone. When they got there Dyke stumbled into the house as fast as hiscold, stiff legs could pack him, fell on his knees 'longside Dessie'sbed and begun to pray with all his might. Then he tried to sing a hymn, but still never a word nor a moan out of Dessie, covered over from headto foot in the bed. Directly John reached over to lay a hand on hershoulder. 'Dessie, honey, ' he coaxed, 'Brother Dyke Garrett's come topray with you!' He shook the heap of covers. And bless you, what theythought was Dessie turned out to be a feather bolster. John snatchedback the covers. The bed was empty except for that long feather bolsterthat strumpet had covered over lengthwise of the bed. Come to find outDessie had sent John snipe huntin', so to speak, and she skipped outwith a timber cruiser. Dyke was laid up for all of a week; took a deepcold on his chest from riding home in his wet clothes. "

The old preacher smiled at the memory. "Could have been worse, like JohnLawton said that night. 'Dessie's got principle!' said he. 'She coulda-took my poke of seed corn, but there it is a-hangin' from the rafters. And she could a-took my savin's. ' With that John Lawton pried a stoneout of the hearth with the toe of his boot. Underneath it lay a littleheap of silver coins. John blinked at it a moment. 'There it is. Dessie's shorely got principle. No two ways about it. ' He shifted thestone back to place, tilted back in his chair, and patting his footbegan to whistle a rakish tune. He was still whistling as I rode offinto the bitter night. "

There was another time Dyke recalled when old Granny Partlow sent wordthat she couldn't hold out against the Lord no longer. Granny wasnearing eighty and for thirty of her years she had sat a helplesscripple in a chair. At the birth of her seventeenth child, paralysis hadovertaken Deborah, wife of Obadiah Partlow, rendering her useless to herspouse and their numerous offspring. She had protested bitterly, sayingright out that it wasn't fair and that so long as the affliction wasupon her she meant to ask no favor of the Lord. Deborah Partlow wasthrough with prayer and Scripture and Meeting, though in health neverhad been there a more pious creature than Obadiah Partlow's wife. Neighbor folk saw her wither and pine through the years. A grim figure, she sat day in and day out in her chair wherever it was placed. Lifelessfrom the waist down, using her hands a little to peel potatoes or stringbeans, though so slow and laborious were the movements of the stifffingers her children and Obadiah said they'd rather do any taskthemselves than to give it to her. At last she had become an old woman, shriveled, grim, still bitter about her fate. 

No one was more surprised than Uncle Dyke Garrett when she sent for him. 

"Granny Partlow craved baptism, " Uncle Dyke remembered the story asclearly as though it had happened but yesterday. "The ice was all of afoot thick in the creek but men cut it with ax and maddock, spade andsaw. It had to be a big opening to make room for Deborah Partlow and herchair. Though her children and grandchildren and old Obadiahprotested--'It'll kill you!' 'You'll be stone dead beforenight!'--Granny had her way. Nor would she put on her bonnet or shawl. Resolute, she sat straight in her chair as neighbor men packed herthrough the snow to the creek. The women standing on the bank wept andwailed till they couldn't sing a hymn. 'It'll kill Granny Partlow!' theycried. "

Uncle Dyke was silent a long moment. "No one could ever rightly say howit come about. But the minute my two helpers brought the old woman upout of the icy waters she leaped out of her chair and took off up thebank for home, fleet as a partridge, through snow up to her knees, holding up her petticoats with both hands as she flew along. Lived to bea hundred and three. Hoed corn the day she died of sunstroke. " The GoodShepherd of the Hills sighed contentedly. "Deborah Partlow bein'baptized under ice brought a heap of converts to religion. "

"But that baptizin' caused me no end of anxiety, " Aunt Sallie took upthe story. "That day when Dyke went out to saddle old Beck the snow wasplum up to his boot tops. The mountains were white all around and thecreek froze in a sheet of ice. But go Dyke would. I wropt his mufflertwice around his neck, got his yarn mittens and pulse warmers too andthrowed a sheep hide over the top of his wood saddle and one underit--to ease the nag's back. He had wooden stirrups too. Made the wholething himself. I dreaded to see Dyke ride off that winter's day forthere was a sharp wind that come down out of the hollow and froze eventhe breath of him on his long black beard till it looked white--white asit is today. I watched him ride off. Heard the nag's feet crunching inthe snow. All of three full days and nights he was gone, for at best theroad to Hart County was rough and hard to travel. In the meantime come ablizzard. Not a soul passed this way, so I got no word of Dyke. Iconjured a thousand thoughts in my mind. Maybe he'd met the same fate ofold man Frasher who fell over a cliff in a blinding snowstorm. Maybe thenag had stumbled and sent Dyke headlong over some steep ridge. Thechildren, we had several then, could see I was troubled, though I triedto hide it. Finally on the third night I had put our babes to bed andwas sitting by the fire too troubled to sleep. I had about give up hopeof seeing Dyke alive again. It was in the dead of night I heard a voice. It sounded strange and far off, calling 'Hallo! Hallo!', more like apitiful moan it was. I lighted a pine stick at the hearth and hurried asbest I could through the snow to where the voice was coming from. Istumbled once and fell over a stump and the pine torch fell from myhand. It sputtered in the snow and nearly went out before I could pullmyself up to my feet. And all the time the voice seemed to be gettingfarther away. But it wasn't. It was just getting weaker. In a few moresteps I come on the nag deep in a snowdrift up to its shanks and thereslumped over in the saddle was Dyke. His feet were froze fast in thestirrups. He was numb and nigh speechless. I wropt my shawl around himand hurried, back to the house, heated the fire poker red hot and withit I thawed Dyke Garrett's boots loose from them wooden stirrups. " AuntSallie sighed. "Of course no mortal can tell when salvation will takeholt on their heart but after Granny Partlow's baptizing and Dyke havingto be thawed out of his stirrups I was powerful thankful when the Spiritdescended on a sinner in fair weather. "

"It's not always womenfolks like Granny Partlow who are slow to opentheir heart to the Spirit. Now take Captain Anderson!

"In his home there never lived a more free-hearted man. Loved to havefolks come and stay as long as they liked. Once I recall a man came tothe county seat in court week. He was making tintypes and charged a fewcents for them. Captain Anderson had his picture made and was so pleasedwith it he coaxed the fellow to go home with him so that he could get atintype of Levicy and the children. He never stopped until he had tendollars' worth of tintypes and then he didn't want the fellow to leave. But he did. Finally settled over on Beaver. His name was Jerome Baileyand he died a rich man and always said he got his start with the tendollars he earned making tintypes for Captain Anderson Hatfield. "

Uncle Dyke reflected a long moment. "There's good in all of us no matterhow wicked we may seem to others. And down deep in the heart of me Iknew my Captain would one day open his heart to salvation. "

Anyone could tell you how the Good Shepherd of the Hills through thelong years had pleaded and prayed with Devil Anse to forsake the thornypath, even far back when they returned from the Home War. Already theCaptain of the Wildcats had made a notch on his gunstock by killingHarmon McCoy in 1863. He was already the leader of his clan. And all thetime Uncle Dyke kept pleading with his comrade to give up sin. But notuntil Uncle Dyke Garrett had preached and prayed for nearly fifty yearsand Devil Anse too had become an old man did he admit the error of hisway. Not until then were the patience, faith, and hope of Uncle Dykerewarded. 

"It was one of the happiest days of my life, " he told me, "when CaptainAnderson took my hand. Sitting right here we were together. It was inthe falling weather. These hills all around about were a blaze of glory, like they are today. And here sat Captain Anderson, in this very rockingchair where Miss Sallie is sitting now. We were alone. Miss Sallie wasbusy with her posies down yonder near the gate. 'Dyke, ' says the Captainof the Logan Wildcats, in a voice so soft I could scarce hear, 'I'vecome into the light! I crave to own my God and Redeemer. I long to godown into the waters of baptism and be washed spotless of mytransgressions. ' I could not move hand or foot. My tongue clove to theroof of my mouth. Captain Anderson gripped the arms of the rocker thereas if to steady himself. A man who had tracked mountain lion and bear, panther and catamount. I could see the face of him, that olddaredeviltry vanish away and on his countenance a childlike look ofrepentance. It took a heap o' courage for Captain Anderson to admit histransgressions even to me, his lifelong friend. But I always knew thatdown deep in the heart of him there was good and that his hour wouldcome when he'd fall upon his knees before the Master and say, 'Here Iam, forgive me Lord, a poor sinner!' But when the words fell from histrembling lips I could not even cry out in rejoicing, 'Thank God!', likeI always aimed to do when my comrade should come within the fold. I satwith my jaws locked, my tongue stilled. Captain Anderson spoke again. 'Dyke, ' sez he, 'brother Dyke . . . ' I could feel my heart pounding likeit would burst out of my breast. 'Brother Dyke, ' he repeated the wordsslowly, pleadingly, 'ain't you aimin' to give me the hand offellowship?' Then, still unable to utter a word, I reached out my handand my comrade seized it, gripped it tight. There we sat looking at eachother and so Miss Sallie found us as she came up the path there with herarms filled with posies, golden glow, and scarlet sage, and snow-whitepretty-by-night just burst into bloom for it was sundown. 'Men!' saidshe, 'at last you're brothers in the faith! I know it. Ah! I'd know itfrom the look of peace on the faces of the two of you, even if I did notwitness the sign of your hands clasped in fellowship!' The next Sabbathday, it fell like on the third Sunday of the month, we witnessed thebaptism of a once proud and desperate rebel. A rebel against the Master!The baptism of him and six of his sons as well who had not beforereceived salvation. "

Swiftly the word passed along the creeks and through the quiet hollows. "Devil Anse has come through!" There was great rejoicing throughout theWest Virginia hills, indeed throughout the southern mountains. Not onlythe leader of the Hatfields, but six of his sons, had "got religion" and"craved baptism. " Hundreds flocked from out the hollows of West Virginiaand Kentucky to witness the Hatfield baptizing. 

That was another autumn day only a few years ago as time goes. 

The sun was sinking behind the mountain, casting long shadows on thewaters of Island Creek when the Good Shepherd of the Hills moved slowlydown the bank to the water's edge. Behind him followed his old friend, no longer the emboldened Devil Anse with fire in his eagle eye, but ameek, a silent, penitent figure. The autumn breeze stirred hissnow-white hair, his scant gray beard. Upon his breast the old clansmanheld respectfully his wide-brimmed felt as he walked with head upliftedin supplication. Behind him followed his six sons. Jonse came first, Jonse, who had loved pretty Rosanna McCoy, reckless Jonse, who like hisfather had slain he alone knew how many of the other side. Then cameCap, Elias, Joseph, Troy, Robert. 

Slowly and with steady stride Uncle Dyke walked into the water. Up tothe waist he stood holding the frayed Bible in his extended right hand. "Except ye shall repent and go into the waters of baptism ye shallperish. But if ye repent and accept salvation, though your sins be asscarlet they shall be washed whiter than snow, " the voice of the GoodShepherd of the Hills drifted down the valley. 

"Amen!" intoned the trembling voice of Devil Anse. 

"Amen!" echoed the six sons grouped about their aged sire. 

Then Aunt Levicy, wife of the grim clansman, began singing in aquavering voice:

 Amazing grace, how sweet the sound That saved a wretch like me; I once was lost, but now I'm found, Was blind, but now I see. 

The wives and daughters, mothers, sisters, and sweethearts of McCoystook up the doleful strain:

 'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, And grace my fears relieved; How precious did that grace appear The hour I first believed. 

"Hit's our sign of peace!" shouted old Aunt Emmie McCoy clapping herpalsied hands high above her head, "the sign of peace 'twixt us andt'other side!" Whereupon Young Emmie McCoy, still in her teens, who hadloved Little Sid Hatfield since their first day at school on Mate Creek, threw her arms about his sister and cried, "Can't no one keep me andLittle Sid apart from this day on. "

"Amen!" the voice of Devil Anse led the solemn chant. "Amen! God bepraised!"

Jonse, the first-born of the Hatfields, bowed his head and hisdeep-throated "Amen! God be praised!" echoed down the valley. Then Capand Troy, Tennis, Elias, Joe, Willis, and the rest joined in. All eyesturned toward Jonse. He who had loved pretty Rosanna McCoy when he was alad, she a shy little miss. 

Many at the baptizing remembered the first meeting of the twostar-crossed lovers one autumn day long ago on Blackberry Creek. The daywhen young Randall and Tolbert, her brothers, were there. Old folksremembered too the time when Devil Anse had slain Harmon McCoy. But thatwas long ago and forgiven. "Let bygones be bygones, " Levicy had pleadedwith her mate, and Sarah, wife of Old Randall, did likewise with herspouse. But only Levicy, of the two sorely tried women, had survived towitness the answer to her prayers--peace between the households with thebaptism of Devil Anse and his six sons. 

As one by one they went down into the waters of baptism, it was thevoice of Levicy Chafin Hatfield that led in that best-loved hymn tune ofthe mountains:

 On Jordan's stormy banks I stand and cast a wistful eye Toward Canaan's fair and happy land where my possessions lie. I'm bound for the Promised Land, I'm bound for the Promised Land. Oh! who will come and go with me, I'm bound for the Promised Land. 

The hills gave back the echo of their song. 

It was a day of rejoicing. 

As for Uncle Dyke Garrett he continued to journey up and down the broadvalley and through the hills, preaching the Gospel of repentance, forgiveness, salvation. Above all he told of the baptism of CaptainAnderson and his six boys. 

From the very first Dyke Garrett was more than a preacher. 

Along lonely creeks into quiet hollows he went to pray at the bedside ofthe dying, to comfort the bereft, to rejoice with the penitent. In theearly days he was the only visitor beyond the family's own blood kin, soremote were the homes of the settlers one from the other. Like a breathfrom the outside world were Uncle Dyke's words of cheer, while to himthey in the lonely cabins were indeed voices crying out in thewilderness. Nor did flood nor storm, his own discomfort and hardshipdeter him. Winter and summer, through storm and wind, he rode bearingthe good tidings to the people of the West Virginia ruggeds. 

And now here he sat this autumn day in 1937, alert and happy for all hisninety-six years. Bless you, he even talked of fighting!

"If anyone jumped on these United States without a good cause, " hedeclared vehemently, "I'd fight for my country--" Uncle Dyke didn'tquibble his words. "That is to say if Uncle Sam would take me. Me and mysword!" Again he faltered, adding reflectively, "But after all the Bibleis the better weapon. With it I can conquer all things. "

Slowly he arose from his chair and Aunt Sallie and I did likewise. 

"Come, " he invited, "I want you to see for yourself where I've baptizedmany a one that has come to me. " He pointed to a pool in the creekbeyond the house where he had made a small dam. As we stood together itwas on the tip of my tongue to ask how many couples he had baptized, howmany he had married. Abruptly with the uncanny sense of the mountaineerhe lifted the questions out of my mind, though it could have beenbecause so many others had asked the same things. "I've never kept countof the wedding ceremonies I have performed, nor of the baptisms, " hesaid thoughtfully. "I have always felt that if it was the Lord's work Iwas doing, He would keep the count. "

You didn't have to ask Uncle Dyke Garrett either which were the happiestdays of his long life. You'd know from the look he bestowed upon hisfrail mate that his supreme happy hour was when he married Miss SallieSmith. "My wedding day, " he was saying as if the question had beenasked, "that was the happiest day of my whole life. And next to thatcomes the day when the Lord chose me to administer baptism to CaptainAnderson and his six boys. Such hours as these are a taste of heavenupon earth. " His voice was hushed with solemnity. His brimming eyes werelifted to the hills. "Though it was a day of sorrow I am grateful thatit also fell to my lot to preach the funeral of my lifelong friendCaptain Anderson. Most of all though, my heart rejoiced because CaptainAnderson had become like a little child, meek and penitent, worthy toenter the fold. "

Uncle Dyke sat silent a long time. His wrinkled hands cupped bony knees. "It brought peace to Levicy's troubled heart. " His eyes grew misty withunshed tears. "I see her now as she lay so peaceful in her shroud and onher bosom the gold breast pin she prized so much that Captain Andersonbrought her the time he was stormbound, when he met that scalawagbrother of Jesse James. She loved posies did Levicy and every springtimewe take some to her grave, me and Miss Sallie. "

At this, Miss Sallie, slipping her small hand through the bend of hisarm, led the way down the flower-bordered path. "Posies are thebrightness of a body's days, " she said softly. "You can't just set themout and they'll bloom big. You have to work with them. Posies and humancreatures are a heap alike. Sometimes they have to be pampered. LikeDyke here, " she smiled up at her aged mate. "I had to understand hisways, else I'd never have tamed him, " she persisted. "He's the lastsurviving one of his company--the Logan Wildcats. " Aunt Sallie's blueeyes lighted with pride. "I like to think of him outlasting me too. "

I'd remember them always as they stood there in the sunset with thegolden glow and scarlet sage and the snow-white pretty-by-night allabout them, the two smiling contentedly as I waved them good-by far downat the bend of the road. 

It was the last time I ever saw Uncle Dyke alive. The next May--1938--hedied. I was gratified that it fell to my lot to attend his funeral. Andwhat a worthy eulogy the Reverend John McNeely, whom Uncle Dyke alwaysreferred to as "my son in the Gospel, " preached, taking for his text "Myservant, Moses, is dead, " a text that the two had agreed upon longbefore the Good Shepherd of the Hills passed away. 

That day when the sermon was ended the great throng that filled thevalley and the hillsides, gathering about the baptismal pool he himselfhad fashioned, sang Uncle Dyke's favorite hymn. Their voices blendinglike the notes of a giant organ swelled and filled the deep valley:

 Like a star in the morning in its beauty, Like the sun is the Bible to my soul, Shining clear on the way of life and beauty, As I hasten on my journey to the goal. 

 'Tis a lamp in the wilderness of sorrow, 'Tis a light on the weary pilgrim's way, It will guide to the bright eternal morrow, Shining more and more unto the Perfect Day. 

 'Tis the voice of a friend forever near me, In the toil and the battle here below, In the gloom of the valley, it shall cheer me, Till the glory of the kingdom I shall know. 

 I shall stand in its glory and its beauty, Till the earth and the heavens pass away, Ever telling the wondrous, blessed story Of the loving Lamb, the only living way. 

Uncle Dyke chose also his own grave site in the family burying groundoverlooking the house where he'd lived seventy-one years. Often he hadvisited the spot and picked out the place beside him where Miss Sallieshould be laid to rest. His life had ended almost where it began. Thehouse in which he was born stands only a few miles from that in which hedied. 

"He built this house his own self, " Aunt Sallie quietly reiterated thatevening as some of us lingered to comfort her. "We came here to BigCreek soon as we married. We've lived here seventy-one year. " Throughbrimming eyes she gazed toward the new-made grave. "We traveled a longway together, me and Dyke--" a sob shook the frail little body--"andnow, I'm goin' to be mighty lonesome. "

Big Meeting is still carried on just as Uncle Dyke wished it. 

In September, 1940, I went again to mingle with the hundreds who showtheir reverence for the Good Shepherd of the Hills by keeping fresh inmemory his teaching through their prayers and hymns at the Big Meetingeach autumn. And here again a worthy follower of Uncle Dyke Garretteulogized his deeds and mourned his loss. And close by, for all herninety-two years, his beloved Miss Sallie, with a trembling hand on thearm of a kinsman, listened intently while those who knew and loved himextolled her lost mate. 

And now Miss Sallie is gone too. She died on July 28, 1941, at the ageof ninety-three and loving hands place mountain flowers on her grave andthat of Levicy Hatfield far across the mountain. 

 TAKING SIDES

Some took sides in the feuds that have been carried on throughout theBlue Ridge Country and thereby got themselves enthralled, while others, more tactful, managed to keep aloof and remain friends with thebelligerents. 

There's Uncle Chunk Craft on Millstone Creek in Letcher County. Enoch ishis real name. There's nothing he likes better than to tell of the dayswhen he was one of Morgan's raiders. Then, when he was only twenty-two, that was in 1864, Uncle Chunk slept in a cornfield near Greenville, Tennessee, the very night General John Hunt Morgan, who had takenshelter in a house a couple of miles away, was betrayed by the woman ofthe house and shot to death by Unionists. 

"We were tuckered out, " he said, "had tramped through rain and mud andfinally rolled in our blankets, if we were lucky enough to have one, andfell asleep wherever it was. I burrowed in with a comrade. But we didn'tget much rest. For, first thing you know, seemed I'd just dozed off, someone come shoutin' through the cornfield that the General had beenkilled. We shouldered our muskets and stumbled off through the field, grumbling and growling that we'd 'tend to the ones that had betrayedhim. But even if the woman had been found I reckon we'd a-shunnedkillin' her. There's a heap that goes on in war that a man don't like tothink on. "

Uncle Chunk was proud to own, however, that he saw hard fighting throughVirginia, Tennessee, and Kentucky and was glad enough when the war wasended. He came back, married Polly Ann Caudill, and settled down inLetcher. It wasn't long until another war started. This time between hisneighbors. But with all the carryings-on between John Wright and ClabeJones in the adjoining counties of Floyd and Knott, Enoch Craft managedto stay friends with both sides. Whichever side happened to round in athis home, hungry and footsore from scouting in the woods for the otherfaction, found a welcome at Uncle Chunk's and plenty to eat. "Fill upthe kittle, Polly Ann, " he'd call to his wife, as he went on diggingpotatoes. "Here comes some of John Wright's crew. " Or, "Put on thebeans, I see Clabe Jones's men comin'!"

And fill up the kettle Polly Ann did. 

After the belligerents had eaten their fill, Uncle Chunk would try toreason with them to let the troubles drop. "A man thinks better on afull gut than a empty one, " he argued. And at last, through his help, the Clabe Jones-John Wright feud ended. 

 * * * * *

In Bloody Breathitt in 1886, Willie Sewell was shot from ambush whilemaking molasses on Frozen Creek. That started feeling, for Willie hadlots of kinfolks. He himself was not without sin, for he had killedJerry South. The Souths were related to the Cockrells. But when WillieSewell, who was a half-brother of Jim and Elbert Hargis, was shot thetrouble, which became the Hargis-Cockrell feud, really began. 

A quarter of a century after one of the most famous of Kentucky mountaintrials--when Curt Jett was tried for the assassination of James B. Marcum and James Cockrell--the trouble was revived with the killing ofClay Watkins by Chester Fugate. This uprising, it was said, started whenSewell Fugate was defeated by Clay Watkins for the office of chairman ofthe county Board of Education. Chester quarreled with Clay over a pettydebt. Three years before that time Amos, cousin of Chester, had shot andkilled Deputy Sheriff Green Watkins, brother of Clay. When an enragedposse found Amos they filled him with bullets. Sixty years before, HenKilburn, grandfather of Chester Fugate, was taken from the county jailin Jackson and lynched for killing a man. It was the first time such alynching had occurred at the county seat. 

On Christmas morning in 1929, Chester Fugate was taken from the samejail and shot to death, but not in the courthouse yard. The posse tookhim out to a farm some miles away. That was the second lynching inBloody Breathitt. There was a heavy snow on the ground, making a softcarpet for the swiftly moving feet of the mob numbering more than ascore, as they hurried their victim away. Before entering Fugate's cell, they had bound the jailer, S. L. Combs, to make sure of no interferencefrom that source. 

Some miles from the county seat they stopped in a thicket on a farm. 

That morning farmer Jones got up before daylight and with lantern on armwent out to milk the cows and feed the stock. He halted suddenly in theunbeaten snow for from a nearby thicket came a strange sound. At firstthe farmer thought it the moaning of a trapped animal. Holding thelantern overhead he stumbled on a few yards to find Chester Fugate in apool of blood that stained the snow all about the crumpled figure. Bleeding profusely from thirteen gunshot wounds, Chester survived longenough to give the names of at least six of his assailants. 

It was another outbreak in the Hargis-Cockrell feud. 

Five of the men in the mob surrendered. They were bound over andreleased on bail. All were kin of Clay Watkins: Samuel J. Was hisbrother, L. K. Rice his son-in-law, Allie Watkins his son, and Earl andBent Howard were his nephews. The men signed their own bonds togetherwith Jack Howard, uncle of Bent and Earl. The name of Elbert Hargis wasalso affixed to the bonds. The sixth man named by Chester Fugate beforehe died was Lee Watkins, a cousin of Clay, who said he would surrender. 

The trouble went back more than a quarter of a century when CurtisJett--his friends called him Curt--and others assassinated James B. Marcum and James Cockrell. Curt was a nephew of county Judge JamesHargis, who was said by some to be the master mind behind the murders. 

The state militia was called out to preserve order during the trial. 

Things had been turbulent in Breathitt before. Back in 1878 JudgeWilliam Randall fled the bench after the slaying of county Judge JohnBurnett and his wife. However, the commencement of the Hargis-Cockrellfeud in 1899 was over a contested election of county officers. TheFusionists or Republicans declared their men the winners, while theDemocrats were equally certain of triumph. James Hargis was theDemocrats' candidate for county judge, Ed Callahan for sheriff. 

The leading law firm in all of eastern Kentucky at the time was that ofJames B. Marcum and O. H. Pollard, but when the election contest arose, the men dissolved partnership. Marcum represented the Republicancontestants, his former partner looked to the affairs of the Democrats. Until this time Marcum had been a close personal friend as well as legaladviser to James Hargis. 

Depositions for the contestants were being taken in Marcum's office whenthe two lawyers almost came to blows over Pollard's cross-examination ofa witness, with Hargis and Callahan sitting close by. Harsh words wereuttered and pistols drawn, and Hargis, Callahan, and Pollard wereordered from Marcum's office. When warrants were issued for them andMarcum also by police Judge T. P. Cardwell, Marcum appeared in court andpaid a fine of twenty dollars. But Jim Hargis refused to be tried byCardwell--the two men had been bad friends for some time. Then, insteadof attempting alone the arrest of Hargis, the town marshal of Jackson, Tom Cockrell, called on his brother Jim to lend a hand. 

It is said that when Tom went to arrest Hargis the latter refused tosurrender, drawing his gun. But Tom covered Jim Hargis first. WhereuponHargis's friend, Ed Callahan, who was close, covered Tom Cockrell and inthe bat of an eye Jim Cockrell, his brother, covered Callahan. Seeingthat the Cockrells had the best of them, both Jim Hargis and Ed Callahansurrendered. That incident passed without bloodshed and Marcum himselfsent word to police Judge Cardwell that he didn't want to prosecuteHargis and asked that the case be dismissed, as it was. 

That same year there was a school election. 

"Marcum flew in a rage, " said Hargis, "when I accused him of trying tovote a minor and he pulled his pistol on me but did not shoot. "

Though that difference was also patched up, the families began takingsides in the many quarrels that followed. Accusations were made first byone side, then the other. Marcum accused Callahan of killing his uncle, and Callahan in turn charged that his father had been slain by Marcum'suncle. 

In July, 1902, the flames of the feud were fanned to white heat. 

Tom Cockrell, a minor, fought a pistol duel with Ben Hargis, Jim'sbrother, in a blind tiger, leaving Ben dead upon the floor. Tom wasdefended by his kinsman, J. B. Marcum, without fee. Tom's guardian, Dr. B. D. Cox, one of the leading physicians in Jackson, was married to aCardwell whose family belonged to the Cockrell clan. 

It was not long after Ben Hargis's death that his brother John, "Tige, "was slain by Jerry Cardwell. Jerry claimed that it was in the exerciseof his duty as train detective. 

"Tige was disorderly, " Jerry said, "when I tried to arrest him. "

Anyway pistols were fired; Jerry was only wounded but Tige was killed. His death was followed shortly by that of Jim Hargis's half-brother. Theshot came from ambush one night while he was making sorghum at his home, and no one knew who fired it. 

On another night not long thereafter, Dr. Cox, who was guardian of theminor Tom Cockrell and the other Cockrell children, was hurrying alongthe streets of Jackson to the bedside of a patient. 

When the doctor reached the corner across from the courthouse and inalmost direct line with Judge Hargis's stable, he dropped with a bulletthrough the heart. Another shot was fired at close range and lodged inthe doctor's body. 

The evidence disclosed that at the time of the shooting Judge Hargis andEd Callahan were standing together in the rear of Hargis's stable fromwhich direction the shots came. The Cockrells stated that Dr. Cox hadbeen slain because of his family relationship with them and because ofhis participation in the defense of young Tom Cockrell, his ward. 

The story of Dr. Cox's death was still on many lips when Curt Jett, whowas Sheriff Ed Callahan's deputy, met Jim Cockrell in the dining room ofthe Arlington Hotel where they engaged in a quarrel and exchange ofbullets. Neither was injured, but bad feeling continued between them. 

Sometime during the morning of July 28, 1902, Curt and a couple offriends concealed themselves in the courthouse. At noon that day, inbroad daylight, Jim Cockrell was shot dead on the street from asecond-story window of the building. Across the way, from a second-storywindow of Hargis's store, Judge Jim Hargis and Sheriff Ed Callahan sawthe shooting. 

Jim Cockrell had assisted his brother, the town marshal, in arrestingJim Hargis and was the recognized leader of the Cockrell faction. He hadspared no effort in obtaining evidence in his brother's behalf whenyoung Tom was tried for killing Ben Hargis in the blind tiger. 

Under cover of darkness Curt Jett and his companions were spirited awayfrom the courthouse on horseback and no arrests were made. 

In the meantime the trial of young Tom Cockrell for killing Ben Hargiswas moved to Campton, but Judge Jim Hargis and his brother, Senator AlexHargis, declared that they'd never reach Campton alive if they should gothere to prosecute young Tom. So the case was dismissed. "Our enemieswould kill us somewhere along the mountain road, " the Hargises declared. 

Jim Hargis loved his wife and children. He idolized his son Beach, whospent his days hanging around his father's store and squandering moneythat the doting parent supplied. 

Up to November 9, 1902, according to information supplied by J. B. Marcum, there had been thirty persons killed in Breathitt County as aresult of the feeling between the factions and to quote Marcum's ownwords, "the Lord only knows how many wounded. "

After Marcum's assassination on May 4, 1903, his widow wrote the_Lexington Herald_ that there had been thirty-eight homicides inBreathitt County during the time James Hargis presided as county judge. J. B. Marcum and his wife both had known for a long time that he was amarked man. Indeed, ever since he had represented the Fusionists incontesting the election of Jim Hargis as county judge, it was an opensecret that Marcum would meet his doom sooner or later. Added to thiswas the animosity aroused on the Hargis side by Marcum's defense ofyoung Tom Cockrell for killing Jim Hargis's brother Ben. 

Marcum made an affidavit which he filed in the Breathitt Circuit Courtdeclaring that he was marked for death. Others substantiated hisstatement by swearing to various plots that had been concocted toassassinate him. As a matter of fact while the feeling was raging highin the contest case he was a prisoner in his own home for seventy-twodays, afraid to step out on his own porch. To protect himself againstbullets he had a barricade built joining the rear of his house with asmall yard. Whenever he left his home, which was seldom, he wasaccompanied by his wife and he carried one of his small children. 

Once he went to Washington and stayed a month. It was during that timethat his friend Dr. Cox was assassinated. A client of Marcum's by thename of Mose Feltner came to his home to acquaint the lawyer with a plotagainst his life. Mose told how he had been given thirty-five dollars tocommit the deed and a shotgun for the purpose. He also took Marcum to awoods and showed where four Winchester rifles had been concealed by himand his three companions. The guns, Mose said, were kept there duringthe day but were carried at night so that if he or his companions metMarcum they were prepared to kill him. The plot, so Mose declared, wasto entice Marcum to his office on some pretext or other. Mose was towaylay him and pull the trigger. Mose went further. He told Marcum thatthe county officials had promised him immunity from punishment if hewould carry out the plot and kill Marcum. When at last the electioncontest furore had quieted down Marcum concluded it was safe to ventureforth to his law office and resume his practice. 

On the morning of May 4th he had gone to the courthouse to file somepapers in the case. He lingered for a while in the corridor to greetthis one and that, then walked slowly through the corridor toward thefront door. From where he stood talking with a friend, Benjamin Ewen, Marcum could see across the street Judge James Hargis and Sheriff EdCallahan sitting in rocking chairs in front of Hargis's store. When theshots were fired that killed Marcum neither Hargis nor Callahan stirred. Their view was uninterrupted when the lifeless body plunged forward. They remained seated in their rocking chairs, looking neither to rightnor to left. They made no effort to find out who did the shooting. 

"My God! they have killed me!" cried Marcum as bullets struck throughthe spine and skull and he lunged forward dead. 

Curt Jett, tall and angular with red hair and deep-set blue eyes, a manof many escapades, was convicted of the murder and sent to thepenitentiary for life. The evidence of Captain B. J. Ewen, with whomMarcum was talking when shot, disclosed that Tom White, one of theconspirators, walked past Marcum glaring at him to attract hisattention. As he did so Curt in the rear of the hallway of thecourthouse fired the shots. Curt Jett's mother was a sister to JudgeHargis, and Curt, though only twenty-four at the time, was a deputyunder Ed Callahan. 

Nine years later on the morning of May 4, 1912, Ed Callahan, whilesitting in his store at Crockettsville, a village some twenty-five milesfrom Jackson, the county seat, was killed. Callahan too was a marked manand knew it. Connecting his house and the store he had built a stockadeto insure his safety as he passed from one to the other. There was atelephone on the wall near the back window of the store and he had justhung up the receiver after talking to a neighbor when two bullets inquick succession whizzed through the window from somewhere across thecreek. One entered Callahan's breast, the other his thigh. Members ofhis family rushed to his side and carried him, sheltered by thestockade, to his home where he died. 

The old law of Moses, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" stillprevailed. 

It is estimated that from 1902, when the Hargis-Cockrell feud startedover an election contest, to 1912, more than one hundred men had losttheir lives. 

Like the feuds of Scotland, those of the southern mountains usuallyfound kin standing by kin, but sometimes they quarreled and killed eachother. In the Hargis-Cockrell feud, Marcum's sister was the wife of AlexHargis. Curt Jett's mother was a half-sister to Alex and Jim Hargis. Hisfather was a brother of the mother of the Cockrells, Tom and Jim. YetCurt was openly accused of killing Jim Cockrell. Dr. Cox, who was slainearly in the fray, was the guardian of young Tom Cockrell and Mrs. Coxwas a sister of the police judge of Jackson, T. P. Cardwell, Jr. , whowas in office when he issued warrants for Marcum, Jim Hargis, and EdCallahan when they had quarreled in Pollard's law office at the timedepositions were being taken in the election contest. 

Though Curt Jett, Mose Feltner, John Abner, and John Smith confessed tothe assassination of J. B. Marcum, saying Jim Hargis and Ed Callahanplanned the crime, Hargis and Callahan protested innocence. Even soMarcum's widow got a judgment for $8000 against the two for killing herhusband. After John Smith confessed and was dismissed he turned bitterlyagainst Hargis and Callahan and their faction and was suspected ofattempting to assassinate Callahan a year before the deed wasaccomplished. 

Around the store of Judge James Hargis conversation turned often to thetroubles. If a woman came in to buy a can of baking powder she lookedstealthily about before gossiping with another. If a man entered to buya plug of tobacco or a poke of nails to mend a barn or fence, his swifteye swept the faces of customers and loiterers and presently he'd sidleoff to one side and talk with some of his friends. 

Young Beach Hargis, upon whom his father doted, heard this talk. He knewof the feeling of the different ones connected with the trouble. It wastalked not only around the store but in the Hargis home. When the fatherwasn't about Beach and his mother mulled it over. Beach never was a ladto work. "Why should I?" he argued. "Pa's got plenty. And I aim to getwhat's coming to me while the old man's living. "

If the father protested that Beach was squandering too much money, themother shielded her son and wheedled Jim Hargis into giving him more. 

"He's been pampered too much, Louellen, " Judge Hargis often remonstratedwith his wife. "Should we spare the rod and spoil the child?" Andsometimes Evylee, Beach's sister, would plead with her father to forgiveBeach once again for drunkenness and waywardness. Evylee had been awayto school at Oxford University in Ohio near Cincinnati. She loved thenice things of life, particularly learning. Judge Hargis was anindulgent father. He wanted his children to have the best, both ineducation and dress. He wanted his boy Beach to go through college. ButBeach had no fondness for book-learning or fine clothes. 

"I've give up trying to do anything with him, Louellen, " said Jim Hargisto his wife one day when they were together in the sitting room of theirhome. "Look yonder there he goes. " He pointed a condemning finger atBeach reeling drunk along the sidewalk. 

"Don't fret, Pa, " Mrs. Hargis pleaded with her husband. "He's young. He'll mend his ways. Don't forsake him. "

That was the day before the homicide. 

Next day Beach was still drunk. He swaggered into the store, leeredabout for his father, and not seeing him stumbled on past the rackswhere the guns lay, past the shelves laden with cartridges and shells, on into the rear room where coffins were lined in a somber row. JudgeHargis kept a general store that carried in stock most anything youcould call for from baking soda and beeswax to plows, guns and coffins. Beach didn't notice the black-covered coffins or the guns. He stumbledalong to a corner of the wareroom where he slumped on a keg of nails. There he sat a while mumbling to himself. His eyes were bloodshot, hisface swollen from a fall or a fight. "The old man punched me in thejaw, " he kept repeating, "and I'll--I'll--"

Frightened clerks hurried past him in waiting upon customers. No onetried to listen or understand. Beach kept on mumbling. After awhile hestaggered out again. Later that same day he went to a barber shop for ashave and haircut. Suddenly he raised up from the chair and leeringtoward the street muttered at a man passing, "I thought that was the oldman going yonder. " It was not Judge Hargis, the barber assured Beach, sothe drunken fellow settled back in the chair and the barber proceeded tolather his face. 

Beach's sister, who was married to Dr. Hogg, often took her drunkenbrother in. 

"Evylee's got no right to harbor Beach, " Judge Hargis complained to hiswife. "He's tore up our home and he will do the same for Evylee and herhusband and for Dr. Hogg's business too. He's a plum vagabond andspoiled. And put on top of that whiskey, and a gun in his hand, the Lordonly knows what that boy will do. "

Out of one scrape into another, in jail and out, Beach Hargis went hisway. The mother pleading with the father to forgive him and let him haveanother chance. The sister pleaded with Beach to quit drinking andcarousing. 

On the 17th day of February, 1908, Beach, still maudlin drunk, wentagain into his father's store. He didn't look at the guns in the racksthis time. He glanced toward the wareroom where the black coffins stoodin a row on wooden horses. "I'm looking for the old man, " he muttered toa clerk. Then he reeled toward the counter and asked the clerk to givehim a pistol. The clerk refused, saying he could not take a pistol outof stock, but added, "Your Pa's pistol is yonder in his desk drawer. Youcan take that. "

Beach helped himself. 

In the meantime Judge Hargis had come into the store just as Beach, withthe pistol concealed in his shirt, went out. 

In the drugstore of his brother-in-law, Dr. Hogg, Beach terrorizedcustomers and the proprietor by pointing his pistol aroundpromiscuously. He reeled out of the place without firing, however, andwent back to his father's store. Someone later said all he had beendrinking was a bottle of Brown's Bitters. 

From where Judge Hargis stood in one part of the double storeroom hecould see Beach sitting cross-legged in a chair near the front door. Beach spat on his shoe and slowly whetted his pocket knife, scowlingsullenly now and then in his father's direction. He clicked the blade ofhis knife shut and slipped it into his pocket and sat with his armsdangling at his sides, head slumped on his breast. 

A customer came in and asked Judge Hargis, "Where's Beach?"

The father pointed to the son. "There he is. I have done all I can forhim and I cannot go about him or have anything to do with him. " ThenJudge Hargis repeated that Beach was destroying his business and woulddo the same with Dr. Hogg's business if Evylee kept on harboring him. 

Not a word was spoken between father and son. But as Jim Hargis walkedin his direction, Beach pulled himself up out of his chair, steppedaround behind the spool case that stood on the end of the counter, leered at his father and moved toward him. Beach came within three feetof his father. The next thing they were grappling. 

Terrified bystanders and clerks heard the report of five pistol shots. All five of the shots lodged in Jim Hargis's body. By this time the twomen were on the floor. The father holding the son down with one arm, lifted in his right the smoking pistol. "He has shot me all to pieces, "gasped Judge Hargis as he handed the pistol to a bystander. He died in afew minutes. 

Loyal to her unfortunate son, Louellen, the widow of Judge Hargis, setabout to get the ablest lawyers in the state to defend him. Will Young, matchless orator of Rowan County, was not able to clear Beach on thefirst trial. On the second, however, aided by the legal skill ofGovernor William O. Bradley, D. B. Redwine, J. J. C. Bach, Sam H. Kash, and Thomas L. Cope, Beach was sentenced to the penitentiary for lifeinstead of the gallows. 

As the years went by the mother continued to plead for her son'sfreedom. Time and again she made the journey to Frankfort to beg mercyof the governor. Weary and sad she lingered outside the door of themansion. She hovered close to the entrance of the chief executive'ssuite in the capitol, pleading by look, if word was denied her. Finallythe governor pardoned Beach Hargis, because, it was said, His Excellencycould no longer bear the sight of the heartbroken mother. Beach waspardoned on promise of good behavior. 

But scarcely was he back in Breathitt County when pistol shots wereheard again. He rode out to the farm of relatives a few miles fromJackson and when the womenfolk spied him galloping up the lane they tookto the attic in terror. Beach, reeling drunk, staggered into the diningroom where the table was set for dinner. There was a platter of friedchicken, another of hot biscuits. He shot all the biscuits off theplate, threw the chicken out the door and didn't stop till he hadriddled every dish on the table. 

The womenfolk up in the attic, with fingers to ears, stared white andtrembling at each other. Finally one of the girls reached out of thesmall window up under the eaves and, with the aid of a branch from thecherry tree close by, caught hold of the rope on the farm bell. Once therope was in her hand she pulled it quickly again and again. The clangingof the bell brought the men from the fields but as they approached onthe run through the cornfield and potato patch, Beach threw a leg overhis horse and galloped away, shooting into the air. 

He continued on the rampage. Out of one scrape into another. 

His mother died of a broken heart. She had done all she could for herson but Beach Hargis went his reckless way. 

He was sent to prison a second time, for the safety of all concerned, but he escaped about the time of the World War. No one has seen hide orhair of him since then. There have been many conjectures as to hiswhereabouts but no one really knows what has come of Judge Jim Hargis'sslayer. 

There is a fine State College in Morehead, Rowan County, Kentucky, whereJudge Will Young, whose eloquence saved Beach from the gallows, livedand died. On the college campus there is a Hargis Hall, named for ThomasF. Hargis, a Democrat and captain in the Confederate Army, and arelative of the reckless Beach. 

As for Beach's cousin, Curt Jett, accused of murder, rape, and even thebetrayal of a pretty mountain girl, convicted of the slaying of J. B. Marcum, he was pardoned from the penitentiary, got religion, and was, the last heard from, preaching the gospel through the mountains ofKentucky. 

For all the shedding of blood of kith and kin in the Hargis-Cockrellfeud, when our country was plunged into the World War, Bloody Breathitthad no draft quota because so many of her valiant sons hastened tovolunteer. 

 * * * * *

Although many of the feuds in the Blue Ridge grew out of elections, theywere not prompted by ambition, for the offices contested were not highones like that of senator or congressman. Frequently they were lesserposts such as that of sheriff or jailer or school-board trustee. Whenthe strife finally led to assassination the motive usually was thedesire for safety. The one feared had to be removed by death. 

One famous feud, however, was started over the possession of a wife'skitchen apron. 

Tom Dillam's wife left him and one day passing his farm she spied awoman working in the field wearing one of her aprons. Mrs. Dillam flewinto a rage, climbed the rail fence, and deliberately snatched the apronoff the other woman. Tom went after her to the home of hisfather-in-law, John Bohn, to recover the apron. He quarreled with hiswife and instantly killed Bohn who tried to interfere. 

As the quarrels continued and the years went by, Dillam incited hisrelatives and friends and armed them as well. He finally had behind hima band of outlaws. In 1885, about the time the Martin-Tolliver feud inRowan County was at its height, Mrs. Dillam's brother William had adispute over timber with her estranged husband's brother George. Bohnkilled Dillam but as he ran for shelter he himself was slain by twoother brothers of Dillam, Sam and Curt. 

As the feeling grew others were drawn into the fray. Brothers opposedbrothers. The Dillams' sister was married to Lem Buffum, and because ofBuffum's friendship with the Bohns he was hated by the Dillams. 

There was a dance one Christmas night at which two of the Dillam bandwere slain by Buffum. From then on Sam Dillam dogged the steps of LemBuffum who finally killed his tormentor. This so enraged the Dillam bandthey started a reign of terror. They were openly out to get any Buffumsympathizer. They riddled their homes with bullets, burned barns, waylaid the sympathizers and shot them to death without warning. Once afriend of the Buffums', Jack Smith, when the Buffum home was besieged, rushed in and carried out the aged mother of Lem. He bore her down tothe river and leaping into a skiff rowed the old woman safely to theother side. On his return the Dillams shot him to death from ambush. 

In such a high-handed fashion did they carry on their warfare that theymade bold to seize Jake Kimbrell, a Buffum friend, at a dance. Whilesome of the Dillam band held their prisoner fast other members of thecrew shot him to death. 

Their utter cruelty finally caused even some of their own faction towithdraw from the feud. Tom Dillam's brother Ab said outright that ifthey wanted to go on hunting Lem Buffum and terrorizing the countrythey'd have to do it without him. Lem's sister was married to Ab's sonJesse. One day in his absence they set upon Ab's house and shot it asfull of holes as a sieve. 

Women and children were no longer safe and the citizens decidedsomething had to be done for protection. They asked the governor fortroops. His refusal was bolstered by the alibi that first it was theduty of the sheriff of the county to attempt to capture the murderers. Then the judge of the county called for fifty militiamen. Instead ofthat number only fifteen came to restore law and order. But even beforethey arrived on the scene a lad on horseback saw them coming andgalloped off to inform the outlaws who took to the woods. 

With seven of the sheriff's men left to guard the home and family ofJesse Dillam, Jesse and several others sought safety in a log house somedistance away. However, before they could reach the log house one oftheir number was killed, one fled and the rest managed to escape into anearby thicket. 

When circuit court convened soon afterward the Dillam brothers, Tom andCurt, were arrested. Tom, having been released on a $5000 bail, wasgoing toward the courthouse one day with his lawyer. Following closebehind was Tom's lieutenant and another friend. On the way they passedthe house where their wounded victims were staying and when within rangeof the place the outlaws drew their pistols. They did not know that LemBuffum and his friends had been warned and were waiting for this moment. Suddenly a volley of bullets was poured upon the outlaws. Sixteen of thewell-aimed shots had pierced Tom Dillam's body. 

Hatred and lust for murder had by this time gone deep into the heart ofTom's son who became the leader of the band. If anyone opposed him inanything, he knew but one way to take care of the opposition and that bythe gun. He gave one of the Dillam band twenty dollars and a gun to slaya rival. Tom's brother Curt was finally released on bail but it was notlong until his bullet-torn body was found in the woods. 

Fear on the part of those who had testified against the outlaw in histrial impelled the removal for all time of the cause of fear. Theuniverse breathed easier after Tom's brother Curt was under the sod. 

 MARTIN-TOLLIVER TROUBLES

Troubles brewed around elections and courts. 

Some years previously when the Talliaferro families changed their abodefrom Old Virginia to settle in Morgan County, Kentucky, it wasn't longuntil their name also was changed. Their neighbors found the nameTalliaferro difficult to speak and they began to shorten the syllablesto something that sounded like Tolliver. So Tolliver it was from thenon. 

Craig Tolliver's father became a prosperous farmer but with hisprosperity came quarrels with a neighbor and finally a lawsuit. Tolliverwas successful in the litigation, which incensed his neighbors. Onenight as he lay asleep in his bed the irate neighbors stealthily enteredthe house and shot him dead before the eyes of his fourteen-year-oldson, Craig. 

This early sight of high-handed murder embittered the boy who at oncebegan to carry a gun and drink and lead a life of lawlessness. 

In about 1880 he moved to Rowan County which became the scene of one ofthe bloodiest of Kentucky feuds, that of the Martins and Tollivers. Craig was the leader of his side. Gaunt and wiry, he stood six feet inhis boots. His long drooping mustache was a sandy color like his goatee. His eyes, a light blue, were shifty and piercing, eyes that had the lookof a snake charming a bird. In appearance Craig was a typical desperado. He swaggered about with gun at belt, a whiskey bottle on his hip. 

At this time the secret ballot had not yet been instituted. Not only wasthe name of the voter called out but his choice as well. With the openballot a man who bought votes knew how they were cast. Bribery andwhiskey, both of which were plentiful and freely dispensed at votingtime, went hand-in-hand with fights and corruption. 

The stage was set for bloody feud in Rowan County by the time CookHumphrey in 1884 ran for sheriff of the county on the Republican ticketagainst S. B. Gooden, Democrat. 

That election day in August a group of men gathered in the courthouseyard at Morehead, the county seat, discussing the returns in heatedtones. 

Gooden lived in the town while his opponent lived about seven miles awayon his father's farm. 

"Cook Humphrey won by twelve votes, " someone called out. At that aquarrel started. Fists were flying in the air. William Trumbo, kin ofJohn Martin's wife who was Lucy Trumbo, made a remark to a man by thename of Price. And the next thing they were in a wrangle. There wereTollivers and Martins present as well as friends of both families andsoon all of them were engaged in the controversy. Someone struck JohnMartin, supposedly with the butt of a gun, knocking out a front toothand badly cutting his head. His blood stained the courthouse steps. Ashe scrambled to his feet cursing vengeance against John Day and FloydTolliver for wounding him, he drew his pistol and others did likewise. 

The next moment Sol Bradley, the father of seven children, lay dead witha bullet through his brain. Young Ad Sizemore caught a bullet in theneck. 

There was a dispute as to whether John Martin or Floyd Tolliver hadkilled Sol Bradley, who was a friend and partisan of Cook Humphrey. Itwas never decided who did the killing. But it started theMartin-Tolliver troubles. 

The wounding of Ad Sizemore was generally laid to Sheriff John Day. 

Forthwith the factions organized and armed themselves. There wereMartins, Sizemores, and Humphrey on one side, Days and Tollivers on theother side. 

John Martin, the son of Ben, lived not far from his father on ChristyCreek, a few miles from Morehead. His brothers, Will and Dave, residednearby. They had a sister, Sue, who was as fearless as the menfolks ofher family. She resented bitterly the treatment of the Martins by theother side. Sue lived at home with her father and mother. 

The Tollivers were more widely scattered. Floyd lived in Rowan, Marionand Craig in Morgan County, their cousins Bud, Jay, and Wiley lived inElliott County. 

Their clansmen, all Democrats, including Tom Allen Day and his brothersMitch, Boone, and John, also Mace Keeton, Jeff and Alvin Bowling, JamesOxley, and Bob Messer lived in Rowan County. 

The Martins, Logans, and Matt Carey, the county clerk, all Republicansand friends of Cook Humphrey, newly elected sheriff, resented thekilling of Sol Bradley, an innocent bystander. 

There had been whisperings of threats laid to both sides. "As soon asthe leaves put out good, I aim to get Floyd, " Martin is reported to havesaid. Similar mutterings were reported to have been uttered by Tolliver. "I'll bide my time till the brush gets green; then I aim to have areckoning. That Logan outfit, well-wishers of the Martins, are gettingtoo uppity. "

It was Fentley Muse who told a tale-bearer that no good could come ofsuch things and urged that all keep peace. But peace bonds were violatedas fast as they were made. Pledges by Craig Tolliver to leave the countyfor good and all were broken. 

There was more tale-bearing. There were those who, according to JohnMartin's son Ben, later a World War hero, made the bullets for others toshoot, including one, a doctor, whom I knew well in later years. BenMartin said of him angrily, "He filled more graves than any other man inRowan County and yet he himself never fired a shot. " Ben's aged mother, Mrs. Lucy Trumbo Martin, reiterated this often to me when I sat besideher on the porch of the old Cottage Hotel on Railroad Street in Moreheadwhere much of the shooting took place. Indeed the old hostelry had beenthe scene of one of the fiercest gun battles between the Martins andTollivers. It faced the Central Hotel across the tracks. The Galt House, the name by which the Carey combined boarding house and grocery-saloonwas known during the Rowan County troubles, stood some distance awayacross the road from the courthouse. 

It was a bleak day in December, 1884, following the August election inRowan County when John Martin was struck on the head, that he and hiswife Lucy and two of their small children climbed into their jolt wagonout on Christy Creek and rode into town. While his wife and the childrenwent to do some trading at a general store down the road, John met SamGooden, John Day, and Floyd Tolliver. Words passed between Martin andTolliver after which John went into Carey's saloon. As he stood at thebar Floyd Tolliver came up and repeated what he had said to Martinoutside--something to the effect that Martin had been wanting tobulldoze him. Martin denied the charge but Tolliver repeated, "Yes, byGod, you have, and I am not going to permit it. " To which Martinanswered, "If you must have a fight, I am ready for you. " At this Floydput his hand in his pocket. Martin, thinking, so his wife and son toldme, that Floyd Tolliver was about to draw his gun, drew his own inself-defense. Though Martin was quicker on the trigger than Tolliver, who now had his gun out of the holster, Martin did not have time to gethis weapon completely out of his pocket. He shot through it, killingFloyd Tolliver almost instantly. "Boys, " Floyd managed to gasp, turninghis eyes toward friends who rushed into the bar, "remember what youswore to do. You said you would kill him and you must keep your word. "

Martin gave himself up to the law. By this time a mob, friends of bothsides, had gathered around and Martin was hurried, half dragged, acrossthe road to the jail behind the courthouse. 

In order to protect the prisoner from violence he was taken to theWinchester, Kentucky, jail next day. But he had been there only six dayswhen a band of five men presented themselves to the jailer with anorder, apparently signed by the proper authorities, commanding Martin'sreturn to Rowan County. He pleaded with the jailer not to surrender him. "It is only a plot to kill me, " he cried. 

That day Martin's wife had been to see him in his cell. She took himsome cornbread and a clean shirt and socks. Little did she dream whenshe got on the train to return to Morehead that night that her husbandsat handcuffed in the baggage coach ahead. Around the prisoner stood hisfive captors: Alvin Bowling, Edward and Milt Evans, a man named Hall, and another by the name of Eastman. 

When the train was within five miles of the county seat of Rowan, at avillage called Farmers, it was boarded by several masked men who rushedinto the baggage car and shot John Martin, helpless and handcuffed, todeath. 

"They've killed him!" Lucy Trumbo Martin screamed at the sound of thefirst shot, though until that moment she had not known her husband wason the train. "I knew they had killed John, " she told her friends at thetime and often afterward. 

When the train bearing John Martin's bullet-torn body reached Moreheadhe was carried, still breathing, into the old Central Hotel where hedied that night. In the meantime his distracted wife had sent for theirchildren and her mother who was staying with the family on the farm onChristy Creek. An old darky who had long lived at the county seatmounted his half-blind mule and rode out along the lonely creek thatcold winter night to carry the sad tidings to the Martin household. Healso rode ahead of them on the journey back with the corpse of JohnMartin later that same night. 

"Hesh!" Granny Trumbo warned the children huddled in the bed of thewagon as it rumbled along the creek bed road, "Hesh! no telling who'shid in the bresh to kill us. " The children sobbed fearfully. Ben, theolder of the two small boys, sat dry-eyed. His small hands sought thoseof his father cold in death and still in irons. "Pa, they didn't giveyou no chance, " he murmured bitterly. "You were helpless as a trappeddeer. They didn't give you no chance. "

It wasn't a cry of revenge but of heartbreak, one that the mother andthe other children would remember always. And Granny Trumbo, sittingbravely erect on the board seat of the wagon beside her widoweddaughter, gripped the reins and urged the weary team onward along thefrozen road, keeping close behind the silent horseman ahead. 

In March of the following year another of the Martin side, StewartBumgartner, a deputy sheriff of Cook Humphrey, was shot from ambush ashe rode along the road some six miles from Morehead. 

A month later Taylor Young, county attorney of Rowan, was shot in theshoulder as he rode along another lonely road in the county. ThoughYoung heartily disclaimed any connection with either side, he wasaccused by the Martins of being a well-wisher of the Tollivers. Again, as in the Bumgartner case, no arrests were made. However, when Ed Piercewas convicted some time later of highway robbery and jailed inMontgomery County, he confessed to waylaying Taylor Young but put theblame of the actual shooting on Ben Rayburn. Pierce said it was plottedby Sheriff Humphrey who assured him and Rayburn of all the whiskey theycould drink and two dollars a day while they were watching for Young;when they had killed him they were to receive two hundred and fiftydollars. 

After that, one Sunday morning, Craig Tolliver, who was town marshal ofMorehead, accompanied by a half dozen men, went to the home of old BenMartin, father of John. Craig told Mrs. Martin that he had warrants forthe arrest of Cook Humphrey and Ben Rayburn. At first she said the twowere not there, that only her daughters, Sue, Annie, little Rena, and amarried daughter, Mrs. Richmond Tussey, were in the house. It was afact; her husband and her two sons, Will and Dave, whose lives had beenthreatened, had gone to Kansas. 

The Tollivers, however, were not to be deceived. They had seen CookHumphrey, carrying his gun, enter the Martin house the evening before. The house, a two-story frame with the old part of logs stood at the footof a hill about thirty feet from the road. Tolliver's band, includingMark Keeton, Jeff Bowling, Tom Allen Day, John and Boone Day, Mitch andJim Oxley, and Bob Messer, were well armed. They demanded that Humphreyand Rayburn surrender, saying they had warrants for their arrest for theattempted assassination of Taylor Young. The two men asked to see thewarrants and when the documents of arrest were not forthcoming theyflatly refused to surrender. Then Craig Tolliver stationed his crew inthe bushes all around the Martin house. Watching his chance he finallyslipped inside and up the narrow stairway. Humphrey spied him, rushedforward and striking his gun discharged it in Craig's face. Craig fellbackward. Wiping the blood from forehead and cheeks he hurried out intothe yard. 

Sue Martin dashed past him headed toward town for help. But no soonerdid she reach the county seat than she was arrested and put in jail. Craig and his crew were still surrounding the Martin house, and finallyone of them called out that if Rayburn and Humphrey did not surrenderthey would burn the place down. It was known that Tom Allen Day was oneof the best marksmen in the county, so Mrs. Martin, in an effort to helpRayburn and Humphrey escape, ran toward the barn where Day was ambushed. He had his gun uplifted and leveled at the fleeing men. Mrs. Martinstruck the gun upward and the shots went wild. But the rest of theTolliver crew poured lead toward the two men. Rayburn was slain butHumphrey escaped. Knowing he still held on to his Winchester theTollivers feared to go into the brush after him. 

The body of Rayburn lay all night where it fell. Friends feared toapproach it. The next day, however, they piled fence rails about thecorpse to keep hogs from destroying it. 

At dusk that day the Tolliver crew set fire to the Martin house andburned it to the ground. The women escaped, seeking shelter under atree. Mrs. Martin's married daughter, Mrs. Tussey, was carried out withher young babe. Another of the Martin girls went to Morehead to see Sue, and she too was arrested and put in jail. 

The militia was called out, arriving on the following day. The Martingirls were promptly released. Sue had revenge in her heart for theinsult and humiliation of false arrest. 

Later while the Tollivers were barricaded in a hotel down near therailroad tracks in Morehead a plump roast turkey was sent in for theirdinner. They wondered whose generosity had prompted the act. But onsniffing the well-roasted fowl they began to suspect a trick. Uponexamination it was found that the turkey contained enough arsenic tokill a dozen men. Sue Martin was suspected but nothing was done aboutit. There was not sufficient evidence to warrant arrest. 

No sooner had the militia been removed from Morehead than the Tolliversset upon the Galt House where Cook Humphrey, Howard Logan, Mat Carey, and others were staying. There wasn't a windowpane left in the placewhen they finished. The doors were splintered to smithereens. In themidst of the fusillade of bullets Cook Humphrey grabbed up a hymn bookfrom the organ in the musty parlor, held it over his heart, and therebysaved his life. A bullet lodged in the thick leather cover of the book. 

Things quieted down for some months and Craig Tolliver vowed he wasthrough with the trouble. "I'm a quiet, peaceable man, " he went aboutsaying, "and the citizens ought to encourage my good behavior byelecting me police judge. " But when he set out canvassing for votes hecarried a Winchester. The other candidates forthwith dropped out of therace, leaving Craig the only one on the ticket. 

When Boone Logan stepped up to the voting booth Craig was close enoughto hear what was said. The election officer told Boone who was runningand the latter expressed himself in no uncertain terms. He said he'drather vote for the worst man in the county than for Craig Tolliver. 

Boone Logan was a well-educated, peaceable citizen and practiced law inMorehead. 

Not long after Craig Tolliver was elected police judge he contrived tohave two younger brothers of Boone Logan arrested on a charge ofkukluxing. Marshal Manning and twelve men repaired to the Logan home twomiles from Morehead. The father, Dr. Logan, prevailed upon his youngsons to surrender and Tolliver agreed that the boys would be taken totown and given a fair trial. But they had walked scarcely ten feet fromthe house when the Tolliver posse shot the boys to death and trampledthe bullet-torn faces into the earth and rode on to town. 

The motive behind the murder of the innocent Logan boys was that CraigTolliver knew they would be chief witnesses for their father, who wascharged by Tolliver with having conspired to kill Judge Cole. Craigdecided that the best way out was to end the lives of Dr. Logan's sons. No sooner had this been accomplished than Tolliver sent word to BooneLogan to get out of the county. 

Boone got out of the county. He went to Frankfort to seek aid andcounsel of the governor. But Governor Knott said that the state had doneall it could for the relief of the citizens of Rowan County. Logan thenturned to Hiram Pigman, who had had trouble with Craig Tolliver, andtogether they solicited the support of Sheriff Hogg in securing the aidof one hundred and fifty of the county's best citizens in bringing theTollivers to justice. As a means to that end Boone Logan went toCincinnati where he purchased a supply of Winchester rifles. 

Those who didn't have a Winchester shouldered muskets, shotguns, andother firearms. Warrants of arrest against the Tollivers on charges ofmurder, arson, and various other crimes and misdemeanors were issued andthe date set for the arrest of the men was June 22, 1887. 

Early that morning before daybreak more than one hundred armed men inthe posse were stationed in groups at seven different points outside ofMorehead. 

Craig Tolliver was apprehensive so he walked out of his saloon--heoperated two at the time--and called his clan together at the AmericanHotel. There they lay in wait and presently one of the crew saw a mannamed Byron going down the street. They knew Byron to be a member of theposse. They fired on him and he took to his heels with the Tollivers inpursuit. One of their number, Bud Tolliver, fell with a bullet in hisknee. He crept off in the weeds for safety. 

The Logan posse, in order to identify themselves and avoid their ownbullets, were fighting bareheaded. The Tollivers seeing this threw awaytheir hats which helped a couple of their number to escape. "The twoMannings never did stop running until they got entirely out of thestate, " so the story went. So quickly did the posse increase they seemedfairly to spring out of the ground. 

The Tollivers now retreated to the Central Hotel but they soon fled theplace when the posse pelted the old hostelry with bullets. 

Jay Tolliver was killed a short distance away, on the hill beyondTriplett Creek, and Craig was dropped by a bullet in the leg when he wascrossing the railroad. The tracks separated the Cottage Hotel and theCentral Hotel both of which were in sight of the Galt House, also knownas the Carey House, where Floyd Tolliver had been killed by John Martinduring the preceding December. 

As marksmen the posse surpassed the Tollivers in this street battle foronly one of their number was wounded and that was Bud Madden. He wasshot by "Kate" Tolliver, a boy scarcely fourteen years old. Young"Kate, " or Cal, as he was sometimes called, was as fearless as amountain lion. Never once did he run for shelter during the shooting. And when his uncle Craig lay dying of seventeen bullet wounds the boywent to him, removed his watch and pocketbook, then crawled away underthe Central Hotel where he remained until darkness when he made his wayto the woods. 

The battle was waged for more than two hours. The posse was determinedto clear the scene of Tollivers. 

They found Bud unable to crawl out from his hiding place in the weeds. He asked no mercy, nor was mercy granted. A gun was placed close toBud's head. His brains were blown out. Another of the Tolliver clan, Hiram Cooper, thought to conceal himself in a wardrobe in Allie Young'sroom in the Central Hotel. (Allie was the son of Taylor Young whose lifehad been attempted. ) But Cooper, like Bud, was shown no mercy. He wasdragged out into the middle of the floor to meet Bud's fate. 

The bodies of the Tollivers were gathered up, Jay's from the hillsidebeyond Triplett Creek, Bud's from the weeds where he had crawled tohide, Craig's from where it lay near the railroad tracks, and that oftheir confederate, Hiram Cooper, from beside the wardrobe wherein he hadtried to hide. The bullet-riddled bodies were washed and laid out in arow in the musty sitting room of the old American House. This lastoffice for the dead was performed by members of the posse. 

While the corpses still lay cold in the quiet sitting room, a shortdistance away in the courthouse there was a spirited gathering of sternand earnest men. Their leader, Boone Logan, whose young brothers hadbeen brutally slain by the Tollivers, arose and addressed the crowd. 

When the last word of his grave speech had been uttered the men silentlydrew up a resolution which read in part as follows:

"If anyone is arrested for this day's work we will reassemble and punishto the death any man who offers the molestation. "

Coffins for the four bodies that lay in shrouds in the old hotel werebrought from Lexington. The remains of the Tollivers, Craig, Jay, andBud, were hauled to Elliott County for burial, while that of HiramCooper was removed by his friends to the family burying ground in theoutskirts of Rowan County. 

The death of these four men brought the total number slain in theMartin-Tolliver feud to twenty-one. 

Tragedy stalked two of the crew who had been connected with the killingof John Martin while he sat handcuffed in the baggage coach: JeffBowling killed his father-in-law in Ohio and was hanged for the crime;Alvin killed the town marshal of Mt. Sterling, not many miles fromMorehead, and was sent to the penitentiary for twenty-one years. 

Although Craig Tolliver lived by the sword and died by it, there was norecord to be found that he ever actually killed a man. Rather he wascredited with plotting the deeds, molding the bullets for others tofire. 

The life of Allie Young, the son of the prosecuting attorney, TaylorYoung, whose life had been attempted, was saved because on the day ofthe street battle he was in Mt. Sterling in an adjoining county. 

One old woman who witnessed the open battle that day on Railroad Streetbecame raving insane. And Liza, Jay Tolliver's wife, fled in dismayacross the mountain never to return. 

Marion, brother of Craig, had no hand whatever in the trouble. He livedhis days in peace within sight of the county seat of Rowan tending hisfarm and looking after his household. If his kinfolk had heeded himthere never would have been a Rowan County war which put a blot upon thecommunity that took years to erase. 

 FAMILY HONOR

Looking down on a clear day from a bald on Dug Down Mountain you can seethe valley far below. The bald is sometimes called the sods--where thetrees can't grow because of high winds. This particular spot is calledFoley Sods after the Foleys who have lived here in the Dug DownMountains for generations. Looking closer from the high, green bald youcan see far below in the edge of a dilapidated orchard a lorn grave. Overrun with ivy and thorns it is enclosed with a wire fence, saggingand rusty and held together here and there with crooked sticks andbroken staves. 

Ben Foley's grave it is, anyone whom you happen to meet along the waywill tell you, but your informant will say no more. If you have the timeand inclination to follow the footpath on around toward a cliff to theright you may come upon old Jorde Foley sitting near on a log as ifkeeping watch over the place. The old fellow will appraise you from headto foot and either he will be glum, like the person you have passed onthe way, or he will invite you to rest a while. Then presently he fallsinto easy conversation and before you are aware you have learned muchabout Ben and Jorde Foley too. 

It wasn't that Jorde had any objection to what Ben, his son, was doing, but it was the things that happened when Ben brought home his bride fromCartersville that caused Jorde to speak his mind. This day he went backto the beginning of things. 

"I've been makin' all my life right here in these Dug Down Mountainsalongside this clift, " he said. "It's my land, my crop. And I've a rightto do with my corn whatever I'm a mind to. And Cynthie, my wife, many'sthe time she taken turns with me breakin' up the mash, packin' the woodto keep the fire under the still. We've set by waitin' for the run off. And Ben, our boy, he learnt from watchin' us how to make good whiskey, from the time he was a little codger. Sometimes Cynthie would keep aneye out for the law. But we hated that part of it worser'n pizen. Wewere in our rights and had no call to be treated like thieves in thenight. Pa made whiskey right here in these Dug Down Mountains same ashis'n before him, out of corn he raised on his own place and in themdays there wasn't ever the spyin' eyes of the law snoopin' around. "Jorde rolled his walking staff between his rough hands and looked away. "Sometimes I'd change places with Cynthie whilst she tended the fire. Wemade good whiskey, " he said neither boastfully nor modestly. "We sold itfor an honest price. That's the way we learnt Ben to do. But, hicrackies, what takes my hide and taller is when a son o' mine turns outyaller. I never raised my boy for no chicanery. " Old Jorde's voiceraised in indignation. However, when he spoke again there was a note oftolerance even pity in his tone. 

"Ben would never 'a' done it only for that Jezebel he married down toCartersville and brought home here to the mountains. Effie, like Delilahthat made mock of her man Samson, was the cause of it all. Ben justnat'erly couldn't make whiskey fast enough to give that woman all hercravin's and now you see where it got my poor boy. A man's a right, "said the old fellow in deadly earnest, "to marry a girl he's growed upwith--stead of tryin' to get above his raisin'. See where it got my poorboy, " he repeated. The troubled eyes sought the neglected grave in thescrubby orchard far below. 

There was no marker, not even a rough stone from the mountain side athead or foot like on the other Foley graves in the Foley burying groundon the brow of the hill. Only the sagging fence enclosed Ben's restingplace. "It was hard to do, " old Jorde said grimly, "but it had to beso's no other Foley will follow Ben's course. "

With that he slowly arose and led the way to a pile of soot-coveredstones. 

"Now close here was where the thumpin' keg stood, " he began to indicatepositions, "and yonder the still. "

There was nothing but charred remnants of staves and rusty hoops left ofthe barrel through which the copper worm had run, while the copper stillitself was reduced to a battered heap. The worm and the thumping keg andall the essentials for making whiskey leaped into a living scene, however, when Jorde Foley got to telling of the days when he and Cynthieand young Ben, peaceable and contented, earned a meager living at thecraft. 

"Set your still right about here, " Jorde hovered over the remnants ofthe stone furnace, "and you break your mash once in so often. A man'sgot to know when it is working right. The weather has a heap to do withit fermenting. Sometimes it takes longer than other times. No, you don'tstir it with a stick but a long wooden fork. I've whittled many a one. "He retrieved from the pile of stone what was left of the stirring fork. "Have it long so you can retch far all around the barrel, " he said, measuring the fork against his own height. With unconcealed pride heexplained the various steps of making corn whiskey in his own primitiveway. He told how the thumping keg in which it was aged was firstcarefully charred inside to add a tempting flavor, and how the barrel inwhich the cornmeal and malt were placed was made of clean staves of oakor chestnut, or whatever wood was at hand. The wood was cut green andwhen the mash began to work the liquid caused the staves to swell andthus make the barrel leak-proof. 

Never once in his explanation did Jorde Foley say moonshine, or shine, or mountain dew. 

"Whiskey, pure corn whiskey, " he repeated, "when it is treated rightwon't harm no one. And when a body sees the first singlin' cometreaklin' out the worm, cooled by the cold water that this worm isquiled in, " he indicated the location of the barrel, "somehow there's aheap of satisfaction in it. Seeing that clear whiskey, clear as amountain stream come treaklin' into the tin bucket or jug that issettin' there to ketch it, it makes a man plum proud over his labors. "

Jorde looked inward upon his thoughts. "Many a time me and Cynthie wouldtake a full bucket to a neighbor's when there was a frolic, set it inthe middle of the table with a gourd dipper in it, and let everyone helphisself to a drink. Why, there was no harm in whiskey in my young day. And us people up here didn't know or need no other medicine. "

In the bat of an eye Jorde Foley explained how pure corn whiskey hadcured cases of croup, saved mothers in childbirth, cured children ofspasms and worms, and saved the life of many a man bitten by acopperhead or suffering from sunstroke. "Once I saw Brock Penningtonstob Bill Tanner in the calf of the leg with a pitchfork. Bill he bledlike a stuck hog and we grabbed up a jug of whiskey and poured it on hisleg. Stopped the blood! No how, " Jorde was off on another defense, "landup here and in lots of places in these mountains is not fitten to farmso we have allus made whiskey of it after exceptin' out enough for ourbread. Good, pure whiskey that never harmed no man that treated itright, that's what we made. In Pa's day he sold it for fifty cents agallon. Us Foleys in my day sold it for a dollar a gallon and let theother fellow pack it off and sell it for what he could get. Why, I hadknowin' of a man on Chester Creek in Fentress County over in Tennesseethat sold it for three dollars a gallon. But that is a plum outrage!"Jorde spat vehemently halfway to the cliff. 

"After Pa died, me and Mose Keeton got to makin' together. We halved thecorn and halved the work and halved the cash money and never no wordsever passed betwixt us. By the time Mose died my boy Ben taken hisplace. "

Only once did a smile light the grim face. "One day Cynthie and me wasbusy here and Ben's pet pig followed him up here when he brought us asnack to eat. The pig snooted around and found the place where we haddumped the leavin's of the mash after we had took off the brine. Well, sir, that pig just nat'erly gorged itself and directly it was tipsy asfiddlesticks. I never saw such antic was out of a critter in my life. Itreeled to and fro and squealed and grunted and went round and roundtryin' to ketch its own tail. Finally it rolled down the hill. Benpacked it back up again and it reeled around, its feet tangled and itrolled down again. Kept that up till it got sober. Its eyes rolled backin its head, it sunk down in a grassy spot over yonder and slept tilldark. It follered at Ben's heels meek as a lamb when we went down thehill that night. That pig was too sick to eat or even sniff a nubbin ofcorn for two whole days, just laid and groaned. 'Now, Ben, ' says Cynthieto our boy, 'you see what comes of gettin' tipsy. ' And Ben Foley learnta lesson off the pig and never did take a dram too much. "

Again Jorde's eyes sought the neglected grave far off. He looped back tothe story of his son. "Everything was peaceable here, though we did missCynthie powerful after she died. But me and Ben made on the best wecould. We had a living from our whiskey. Then come Effie! That womannat'erly tore up the whole place. She kept gougin' Ben for more cashmoney. " Jorde pointed a condemning finger toward a ravine. "There's ahalf dozen washtubs rustin' away under there. "

A part of a zinc tub protruded from the brush heap. "One day, " Jordecontinued, "unbeknown to Ben's wife, Effie, I snuck off up here awayfrom that Jezebel though she had talked no end about me being too old toclimb the mountain. 'You'll get a stroke, Jorde, ' she'd warn me. 'Youbest sit here in the cool, or feed the chickens or the hogs. ' Effie wasever finding something for me to do if I offered a word about comin' uphere to see how Ben was getting on. That made me curious. So I snuck offfrom the house and come up here one day. " Jorde's eyes turned toward theground. "When I come up on Ben I couldn't believe my own eyes. My boyhad a fire goin' not under just one but a half dozen tubs! What's leftof them are over yonder. " He jerked a thumb toward the brush coveredravine. "My boy Ben was stirring around not with the wood fork like hehad been learnt, but with a shovel!" Jorde lifted scandalized eyes. "Arusty shovel, at that! He was talking in a big way to his helper--astrange man to me. I come to find out he was a friend of Effie's fromCartersville. "

Jorde pondered a while. "Come to find out, to make a long story short, Ben was cheatin' them that bought his whiskey, tellin' them it was ayear old when he knew in reason he'd just run it off maybe the nightbefore. Ben Foley was sellin' pizen!" Old Jorde Foley's voice trembled. "That's all it was that he was makin'. Pizen that he forced to fermentwith stuff that Effie's friend, who used to work in the coal mines, brought here. And Ben sellin' that pizen that burnt the stummick and thebrains out of men that drunk it. Hi gad!"--old Foley spat vehemently--"Inever raised my son to be no such thief! It was that Jezebel Effie thatled my boy to the sin of thievin'. She wanted more cash money than hecould earn honest with makin' good whiskey. "

It was Ben's fear of prison, old Jorde explained bluntly, that causedhim to run from the law, and running he had stumbled and thereby stoppeda bullet. 

"What the law didn't bust to pieces of them tubs and shovels and such, Idid, " Jorde added with a note of satisfaction. For a moment he lapsedinto silence, then added gravely, "Ben just nat'erly disgraced usFoleys. " The father hung his head in shame. "Why, Cynthie would turnover in her grave if she knew of him thievin' and runnin'--runnin' fromthe law! It's such as that Jezebel with her carryin's on, temptin' mento thievin' that's put an end to makin'--makin' good whiskey in theseDug Down Mountains here in Georgia. Put an end to sellin' good purewhiskey for an honest price like me and mine used to make. "

 3. PRODUCTS OF THE SOIL

 TIMBER

The individualism of the mountaineer has not made of him a scientificinventor, but this marked trait of character has developed hisself-reliance and resourcefulness. He may not know, or care to know, infigures the degree of the angle at which the mountain slopes. Probablyhe has never heard of the clinometer by which geological surveyorsarrive at such information. Yet the untrained mountain man seeing astream gushing down a steep escarpment knows how to divert it to his ownbest use. 

Sometimes he set his tub mill, or the wheel, at the most advantageouspoint to grind his corn into meal. If, however, his house happened to benear no stream he had a simpler method for grinding his corn, a way hisforbears learned from the Indian, or heard about through his Scotchancestors. He rounded two stones, about the size of the average dishpan, with great patience. Bored a hole in the center of the top one, placedthe two in a hollowed log and patiently, laboriously poured corn, a fewgrains at a time, into the opening. With the other hand he turned thetop stone by means of a limber branch attached to a rafter overhead, theother end of which was thrust into a small hole near the rim of the topstone. In this way he kept the top stone moving, slowly, steadily. TheScotch called this simple handmill a quern. It was a laborious way ofgrinding meal. 

It has amazed men of the U. S. Geological Survey to find that the cornpatch of the mountaineer often slants at an angle of fifty degrees sothat it is impossible to plow. The mountaineer cultivates such a patchentirely with a hoe. When the mountain side, crop and all, slides downto the base he bears the ill luck with patience and fortitude and triesto find a remedy. He hauls rocks to brace the earth and plants anothercrop. He had no time to sit and bemoan his fate. Through such trials, and because neighbors were so far removed, his self-reliance andresourcefulness were of necessity developed. The mountain man learnedearly to face alone the hazards of life in the forest; first of all wasdefense of his home against wild beasts and the Indian. He knew thedanger to life and limb from fallen trees, treacherous quicksand, swollen creeks, the peril of slipping mountain sides after heavy rains. Of necessity he relied upon himself; he could not wait for a neighbor tohelp pull the ox out of the ditch. He learned early to make his owncrude farm implements at his own anvil. In short, he had to bejack-of-all-trades--blacksmith, tanner, barber, shoemaker, wagoner, andwoodsman. 

Men of the Blue Ridge did not clear their land after the manner of theGerman farmer in Pennsylvania, who uprooted his trees. Instead, it wasdone by belting the tree. He notched a six-inch band around the trunk, removed the bark which prevented the sap from going up and thus killedthe tree from lack of nourishment. A field of such trees he called adeadening. The roots were left to rot and enrich the soil but thehillsides were so steep that the fertility from wood soil soon washedaway and another deadening had to be made before another crop could beplanted. Though crops were scant, the forest itself was ample andsometimes brought him rich returns if he managed right. 

A timber cruiser would come into the community, prospecting for a lumbercompany, and examine the standing timber. After he reported back to thecompany, a lawyer was sent to sound out the landowners--to see if theywere willing to sell their surface rights. When the legal matters wereattended to, the lumber company sometimes bought as much as seventythousand acres of forest. Woodsmen were brought in to work along withthe mountain men. Portable sawmills were set up and busy hands--sawyers, choppers--set to work leveling the giant trees. 

The owners calculated it would take twenty-five years to cull out allthe large timber and by the time that job was finished there would be asecond growth ready to cut. With this in view, hardwood and rich walnutwere cut and used with utter extravagance and disregard for their greatworth; full-sized logs of the finest grade were used for building barns, planks of black walnut found their way into porch floors, walnut postswere used freely for fencing by the mountaineer himself. 

So profuse was the supply up until a quarter century ago that no thoughtwas given to its possible disappearance through wasteful methods oflumbering, frequent forest fires, and the woodsman's utter carelessnessand disregard for the future. 

A timber cruiser in Knott County, Kentucky, once came upon an old womanchopping firewood beside the door of her one-room cabin. Uponexamination he found it to be a fine species of walnut. After talkingwith her he learned that she owned hundreds of acres of timber, much ofwhich was covered with walnut such as she was ruthlessly burning in thefireplace. He spent days going over the acreage and offered the oldwoman a fabulous price for the larger timber, at the same time assuringher, through written agreement, protection of all her rights. But theold creature, who lived alone, dismissed the timber cruiser with a waveof her bony hand. "Begone!" she chirped, "I don't want to be scrouged byyour crew comin' in on my land choppin' down trees and settin' up themracket-makin' contrapshuns under my very nose. No how such as thatskeers off the birds in the forest. " Though the cruiser agreed that hiscompany would even be willing to keep a distance of three miles in alldirections from her little cabin, the old woman still refused, and whenhe tried again in honeyed tones to persuade her she up with the ax andchased him off the place. 

The mountain man, however, often seized the opportunity to dispose ofhis timber and set to work with a vim to get it to the nearest market, though such was a mighty task. Having cut down the larger trees, herolled the logs down the mountain side toward the watercourse. Usuallythe creeks were much too shallow to carry rafts of logs so heconstructed a splash dam at a suitable point between the high banks ofthe stream. A splash dam consisted of two square cribs of logs filledwith great stones. Against these two crude piers he built a dam in themiddle of which he placed an enormous gate. He remembered how he hadmade rabbit traps when he was a boy. So now, on a bigger scale, he madea figure-four trap-trigger for his splash dam. On one side, the gatewhich he built in the middle, pushed against two projecting logs in thedam. A long slender pole like a telegraph pole held the gate in place. This is the trigger pole. Thus dammed, the water soon formed a deep lakeinto which strong-armed men threw the logs. 

Gate and trigger are in readiness. The mountaineer has only to wait fora tide, which is often not long in coming. Even overnight, even in a fewshort hours, a stream has been known to swell from sudden rains or snow, bringing the water with a rush down steep mountain sides and carryingwith it the logs that were left strewn on the slopes or near the bank. Men work with feverish haste to roll the logs into the stream. The wholeis swept into the dam, the trigger is released at the right moment andthe rush of water with its freight of logs sweeps through the open gatewith a mighty roar, carrying its cargo for miles on down to the river. 

Zealous workers have been known to splash out in this fashion as many asthirteen thousand logs in one season. 

Timber so floated down the Big Sandy River made at its mouth the largestround timber market in the world and brought untold fortunes tocapitalists who ruthlessly cut down the virgin forests along its banks. 

Here at the waterfront taverns a motley crowd of loggers and raftsmen, woodsmen and timbermen, were wont to gather for nights of revelry. Theold taverns rang with as rollicking songs as ever enlivened a westernbar in gold-rush days. Here too woodsman and logger rubbed shouldersbetimes with Devil Anse Hatfield and Randall McCoy, for it was to themouth of Big Sandy, the village of Catlettsburg, the county seat ofBoyd, that the clansmen repaired to reinforce their ammunition forcarrying on their bloody feud. 

And here, in the spring of the year, the calliope could be heard fardown the Ohio as the showboat steamed into view. Shouts of glee went upfrom the throats of youngsters along the way as they rushed excitedlyfor the river-bank to watch the approach of the flag-decked boat. Andwhen the _Cotton Blossom_ had docked and deckhands had made her fast toher moorings with rope and chain, a gayly uniformed band--led by a drummajor in high-plumed hat and gold-braided coat--with sounding horns andquickened drumbeat walked the gangplank, leaped nimbly to shore, andparaded the narrow winding village street. 

Old and young wept over the death of Uncle Tom and hissed viciously theslave-whipping Legree. Woodsman or logger, who had imbibed too freely atthe waterfront taverns, sometimes arose and cursed angrily theblack-mustachioed villain. Whereupon the town marshal patted thedisturber on the shoulder (the officer always had passes to the showboatfor himself and family and friends), wheedled the giant mountaineer intosilence, and left him dozing in his seat. 

When the curtain fell on the last act, woodsmen and raftsmen and theirnewfound friends in the village returned to the riverfront tavern tomake a night of it. 

By sunup the crew would be on its way back up to the head of Big Sandyto make ready for another timber run. 

 WOMAN'S WORK

The woman of the mountains has always been as resourceful in her way asthe man. She made the sweetening for the family's use from a sugar treeand as often used sorghum from cane for the same purposes, even pouringthe thick molasses into coffee if they were fortunate enough to havecoffee. She made her own dyes from barks and herbs. And though she mayhave had a dozen children of her own she was ready and eager to help aneighbor in time of sickness. Doctors were scarce, so she of necessityturned midwife to help another through childbirth. She shared the tasksof her husband in the field and home. She was as busy at butchering timeas the menfolk. Once the hog was killed and cleaned, she helped chop themeat into sausage and helped to case it. She boiled the blood forpudding and looked to the seasoning, with sage and pepper, of the headcheese and liverwurst. Hers was the task of rendering the lard in thegreat iron kettle near the dooryard. And once the meat was cut intoslabs she helped salt it down in the meat log. But only the man feltcapable of properly preparing and smoking the ham for the family's use. She frugally set aside the cracklins, after rendering the lard, for usein soap-making at the hopper. 

At sorghum-making time mother and daughter worked as busily as fatherand son. The men cut the cane and fed it to the mill, while thewomenfolk took turns tending the pans in which the syrup boiled, skimming off the greenish foam and scum that gathered on the top. Theyurged the young boys, who hung around on such occasions, to bring onmore wood to keep the fire going under the pans. The owner of theportable sorghum mill sometimes took his pay for its use in sorghum, ifthere was no money to be had. He was paid too for the use of his team inhauling the mill to the cane patch of the neighbor who had engaged it, and he himself sometimes tarried to help set it up. A small boy wassometimes pressed into service to urge the patient mule on itsmonotonous course around and around pulling the beam that turned themill. 

Sorghum-making had its lighter side. The young folks especially foundfun in seeing a guileless fellow step into the skimming hole concealedby cane stalks. The sport was complete when the bewildered fellowstruggled to free himself from the sticky mess. But the woman was quickto help him out of his plight by providing a change of raiment and soapand water and clean towels, "yonder in the kitchen-house. " She knew whatto expect at sorghum-making time. 

Each season of the year brought its communal activity: corn shucking inthe fall, that was ever followed by a frolic. Bean stringing when thewomenfolk pitched in to help each other out stringing beans with a longdarning needle on long strands of thread. These were hung up to dry andsupplied a tasty dish on cold winter days. There was alsoapple-butter-making in the fall when long hours were spent in peelingand preparing choicest apples which were boiled in the great copperkettle and richly seasoned with sugar and spice. Apple-butter-making wasan all-day job in the boiling alone but the rich and tasty product isconsidered well worth the effort and any mountain woman who cannotdisplay shelves laden with jars of apple-butter would be considered alaggard indeed. 

But the mountain woman's greatest pride and joy washandiwork--quiltmaking, crocheting. Perhaps it is because these craftshave always gone hand-in-hand with courtship and marriage. 

At the first call of the robin in the spring, Aunt Emmie on Honey CampRun, in clean starched apron and calico frock, dragged her rocker to thefront stoop of her little house and there she sat for hours rockingcontentedly while her nimble fingers moved swiftly with crochet needleand thread. "Aunt Emmie's crocheting lace for Lulie Bell's weddinggarments. " Folks knew the signs. Hadn't Lulie Bell ridden muleback fromOld Nell Knob just as soon as winter broke to take the day with the oldwoman. "Make mine prettier than Dessie's and Flossie's, " she had said. Or, "I want the seashell pattern for my pillowcases. " Or, "I want you tocrochet me a pretty chair back. " "I want a lamberkin all scallopeddeep"--another bride-to-be measured a half arm's length. "I want myedging for the gown and petticoat to match. " Passersby overheard thetalk of the young folk. "Wouldn't you favor the fan pattern?" Aunt Emmieoffered a suggestion now and then while the shiny needle darted in andout of scallop and loop. Sometimes she dropped a word of advice to theyoung, how to live a long and happy married life, how and when to plant, what to take for this ailment and that. There were things that broughtbad luck, she warned, and some that brought good. 

"If a bride plants cucumber seed the first day of May when the dew isstill on the ground, the vines will grow hardy and bear lots ofcucumbers and she will bring forth many babes, too, " her words fell onwilling ears of the young bride-to-be. "If you sleep under a new quiltthat no one has ever slept under, what you dream that night will cometrue. " Many a young miss declared she had experienced the proof of thesaying. There was something else. "Mind, don't ever sew a ripped seam orpatch a garment that's on your back. There will be lies told on you sureas you do. " That could be proved in most any community in the BlueRidge. 

Yards upon yards of lace Aunt Emmie crocheted, the Clover Leaf pattern, the Sea Shell, Acorn, the Rose, and if a bride-to-be had no silver, thelacemaker was content to take in exchange a pat of butter, eggs, orwell-cured ham. Her delight was in the work itself. 

The thrifty woman of the mountains takes great pride in her quilts; notonly does she strive to excel her neighbor in the variety of patternsbut in the number as well. On a bright summer day she brings them out ofcupboard and presses, and hangs them on the picket fence to sun. She ispleased when a passerby stops to admire, and especially so if it be ayoung miss. The older woman recognizes the motive behind the question, "What is this pattern?" "Is this easy to piece?" The older woman knowsthe young miss has marrying in her head and goes to great lengths toexplain. "Now this is Compass and Nine Patch and it's easiest of any toput together. This is Grandmother's Flower Garden--it's a lot of littlebitsy pieces, you see, and a heap of different colors and it's mostpowerful tejous to put together. This is Double Wedding Ring, this IrishChain"--she names one after another--"this is Neck Tie, and this in thefair blue and white is Dove in the Window. "

The quiltmaker is even more pleased when the young miss comes to takethe day and she has the proud privilege of starting John's or Tom'sfuture wife on her very first quilt. It is an occasion of merriment whenthe quilt is finally finished and taken out of the frames after many apleasant quilting bee. Then, at the urging of one of the older women, two girls shake a cat on the new quilt. The one toward whom the catjumps will be married first, they believe. Some brides believe too thatby going to the oldest woman in the community to set up the quilt fortheir marriage bed they will be insured long life and joy. There arelovelorn maidens so eager to peer into the future they will even help aneighbor on wash day. Two girls will wring a dripping quilt by twistingit in rope fashion. The one toward whom the end curls up will be firstto rock the cradle. 

 4. TRADITION

 PHILOMEL WHIFFET'S SINGING SCHOOL

Philomel Whiffet was dim of eye and sparse of beard. A little whitefringe framed his wrinkled face and numbered indeed were the hairs ofhis foretop. Trudging up the snow-covered mountain, he caught sight ofthe glowing stove through the window of Bethel church house whither hewas bound this winter night to conduct singing school. He chuckled tohimself, drawing the knitted muffler closer about his thin throat andmaking fast the earflaps of his coonskin cap. "Yes, they're getting theplace het up before the womenfolk come. Mathias or Jonathan, one or theother. " The singing master had come to know the signs by the behavior ofthe old heating stove--who rivaled, who courted, who might be on theouts. "It's Jonathan that's making the fire tonight. I caught the shadowof him against the wall when he threw in the stove wood. Jonathan's allof a head taller than Mathias. Trying to get in favor with DrusillaOsborn. It's a plum shame the way that girl taynts him and Mathias. Atmeeting first with one, then the other. She's got the two young fellowsas mad as hornets at each other nigh half the time. No telling, Dru'sliable to shun them both when it comes to choosing a mate. Women arestrange creatures. " The singing master talked to himself as he ploddedon. 

Many the year Philomel Whiffet traveled that selfsame road with theselfsame aim, for the church house was the only place on Pigeon Creekwhere folks could gather. The seat of learning too it was there in theTennessee mountains, so that old Whiffet, having journeyed hither andyon to take up a subscription for singing school, must need get theconsent of school trustees and elders in order to hold forth in Bethelchurch house. Honor-bound too, was he, to divide his fee of a dollar perscholar with his benefactors. 

"We're giving you the chance, brother Whiffet, to earn a living, " one ofthe elders murmured when the singing master that year shared with themhis meager earnings. But when Philomel ventured to suggest it mightliven the gathering somewhat if he brought along his dulcimer andstrummed the tune while scholars sang, both elders and trustees stoodaghast. Couldn't believe their ears. "Brother Whiffet!" gasped one ofthe elders, "so long as we're in our right mind no music box of anynature shall be brought into Bethel church house. We don't intend tocontrary the good Lord in any such way. "

That settled it. 

The memory of that session brought a smile to the old man's face. "Elders and women have strange ways, " he told himself as he walked onthrough the snow, eyes fixed on the beacon light of the old heatingstove in the church house. 

"Now I used to think that Mathias had got the best of Jonathan, " histhoughts returned to the present, "but there's no knowing if Drusilla isaiming to set down her name Mistress Oneby or Mistress Witchcott. Womenare powerful tetcheous. Keep a man uncertain and troubled in his mindwith their everlasting whims. "

No one knew that any better than did Philomel Whiffet. It made himpatient with the young fellows in their trials, for he had had a mightyhard row to hoe in his own courting days. Hadn't Ambrose Creech and HerbMasters aggravated him within an inch of his life before he finallypersuaded Clarissa that neither of the two was worth his salt, that onlyhe, Philomel Whiffet, the singing master, could bring her happiness inwedded life. That had been long years ago. 

Philomel had been a widower for ten years past and never once had hecast eyes on another woman; that is to say, with the idea of marriage. "There's no need for a man to put his mind on such as that without hecan better himself, and I never calculate to see Clarissa's equal, letalone her betters. Nohow, singing school is good a-plenty to keep a bodycompany. " That was Philomel Whiffet's notion and he stuck to it. It wasas though she, Clarissa, still bustled about the Whiffet cabin, forPhilomel, though he lived alone, kept the place as she had--spic andspan just as Clarissa had left it. There on the shelf were the cedarpiggins, scoured clean with white sand from the creek, one for spice, one for rendering, one for sweeting. And there on the wall hung the saltgourd. "It's convenient to the woman for cooking, " he had said whenfirst they started housekeeping. How happy he had been in those days, looking after Clarissa and the little Whiffets as they came along. Notuntil they were all grown and married off and gone, and he and Clarissawere alone once more, did he really come to realize how very happy theirhousehold had been. He liked to look back on those times. "It'ssinging-school night, Pa"--Clarissa had taken to calling him Pa; got itfrom the children. "You best strike the tuning fork and sing a tune ortwo before you start. Gets your throat limbered up and going smooth. "Philomel had come to wait for her urging. Then he would fumble in hiswaistcoat pocket for the tuning fork and tapping it to chair rim orbootheel, he'd hold it to his ear, pitch the tune, and sing a verse ortwo of this ballad and of that. Then when he started forth on a winter'snight, "Mind your wristban's!" his wife would say, "and your spectacles!Don't forget your spectacles! Your sight's not sharp as it once was. Andyour tuning fork, Pa. Don't forget to put it in your pocket. " It pleasedthe old singing master in those days to have Clarissa feel that he wasdependent upon her. And now that she was gone, for ten long years, thosefamiliar words running through old Philomel Whiffet's thoughts were allhe had left to remind him of his needs when he started out to singingschool. 

Slowly he plodded on through the snow, his eyes raised now and again tothe light of the heating stove in the church house. 

Arrived at the door he stomped the snow from his well-greased boots andwent in. Untying the flaps of the coonskin cap he moved across thefloor. "Good evening, boys, " he greeted cheerily, unwinding now themuffler from his throat. 

"Good evening, sir!" the early birds, Jonathan and Ephraim Scaggs, answered together. It wasn't Mathias Oneby, after all, whose shadow hehad seen against the wall. At once the singing master knew why EphraimScaggs was there. His sister, Tizzie Scaggs, was head-over-heels in lovewith Jonathan Witchcott. She was trying every scheme to get him awayfrom Drusilla Osborn. Yes, Tizzie had sent her brother Ephraim alongwith Jonathan to make the fire so he could drop in a few words abouther; how apt she, Tizzie, was at many tasks, what a fine wife she'd makefor some worthy fellow. Philomel Whiffet knew the way of young folks. And Drusilla knew the ways of Tizzie. She was really wary of her andwatchful, though Dru would never own it to Jonathan Witchcott. 

Even though the snow was nearly knee-deep it didn't keep folks fromsinging school. Already they were crowding in. So by the time oldWhiffet was ready to begin every bench was filled. Young men and old inhomespun and high boots, mothers and young girls in shawls andfascinators, talking and laughing at a lively clip as they took theirplaces: sopranos in the front benches opposite the bass singers; behindthem, altos and tenors. 

"I'm sorry to see that some of our high singers are not here thisevening. " The old singing master from his place behind the standsurveyed the gathering, squinting uncertainly by the light of the oillamp. High on the wall it hung without chimney, its battered tinreflector dimmed by soot of many nights' accumulation. He picked up thenotebook from the little stand which served as pulpit for the preacherson Sundays, and casually remarked, "We kinda look to the high singers tohelp us through, to pitch the tune and carry it. Too bad"--he squintedagain toward the gathering--"that Drusilla Osborn is not here. Dru is aextra fine singer. A fine note-singer is Dru. Takes after the Osborns. Any of you heard if Osborns' folks have got sickness?"

A titter passed over the singing school and just then Tizzie Scaggs, leering at Dru, piped out, "Why, yonder's Dru Osborn in the back seat!"

The tittering raised to a snicker and Philomel Whiffet, tooflabbergasted to call out Drusilla's name and send her to her own seatwith the sopranos where she belonged, turned quickly his back to theschool and fumbled in his pocket. He brought forth a piece of charredwood, for chalk was a rarity on Pigeon Creek, and began to set down onthe rough log wall a measure of music. In shaped notes, for round noteshad not yet made their way into Philomel Whiffet's singing school. Painstakingly he set down the symbols, some like little triangles, others square, until he had completed a staff. Nor did he face theschool again until all the tittering had subsided. Then with the samecharred stick he drew a mark on the floor and called for sopranos, alto, bass, and tenor to toe the mark. 

Drusilla Osborn was first, then Lettie Burley, an alto, came next. TomJameson, the tenor, and Felix Rideout, who couldn't be beat singingbass, stood in a row careful-as-you-please to see that they kept astraight line, toes to the mark, shoulders back, chests expanded. Theysang the scale through twice--forward and backward, bowed to the singingmaster, then went back to their seats. It was a never-changing form towhich Philomel Whiffet clung as an example for the whole school tofollow should they be called to toe the mark. A fine way to show all howa singer should rightly stand and rightly sing. 

"Now, scholars, " Whiffet brushed the black from his fingers, havingreplaced the charred stick in his pocket, "lend attention!" Taking thetuning fork from his waistcoat pocket, he looked thoughtfully at theschool. "Being as this singing school is drawing to a close, seems to mewe should review all we can this evening. " He paused. "Now all that feelthe urge can take occasion to clear their throats before we start in. "

Not one spurned the invitation, and when the raucous noise subsidedPhilomel Whiffet tapped the tuning fork briskly on the edge of thestand, put it to his ear, and listened as he gazed thoughtfullydownward. 

"Do! Me! Sol! Do!" he sang in staccato notes, nodding the sparse grayforetop jerkily with each note as bass, alto, tenor, soprano took uptheir pitch. Thereupon he seized the pointer, a long switch keptconveniently near in the corner, and indicated the first note of thestaff. 

Scarcely had the pointer tapped a full measure before the schoolrealized they were singing by note an old familiar tune and with thatthey burst forth with the words:

 Oh! have you heard Geography sung? For if you've not it's on my tongue; First the capitals one by one, United States, Washington. 

They changed the meter only slightly as they boomed forth:

 Augusta, Maine, on the Kennebec River, Concord, New Hampshire, on the Merrimac. 

Of course they knew it was the Geography Song from their McGuffey Readerwhich the singing master had set to tune. To make sure they had notforgotten the McGuffey piece he halted the singing and directed thatthey speak over the piece together, which they did with a verve:

 Oh! have you heard Geography sung? For if you've not, it's on my tongue; About the earth in air that's hung. All covered with green, little islands. Oceans, gulfs, and bays, and seas; Channels and straits, sounds, if you please; Great archipelagoes, too, and all these Are covered with green, little islands. 

Philomel Whiffet sometimes had his school do unexpected things that way. And now once again they went on with the geography singing lesson, putting in the names of places and rivers to the tune. 

Far and wide traveled Philomel Whiffet's singing school, wafted by notefrom freedom's shore to African wilds. They knew it all by heart. On andon they sang, and Drusilla Osborn's voice led all the rest:

 Bolivia capital Suc-re Largest city in South America

 Mexico is Mexico Government Republican

Around the world and back again, nor did they stop until they again wentthrough all the States, finishing with a lusty:

 New Hampshire's capital is for a fact Concord on the Merrimac. 

Silence came at last. 

Taking from the stand the songbook, Philomel placed a hand behind himand announced with quiet decorum, "Those who have brought theirnotebooks will please open them up to page--" he faltered, fumbling theleaves of his book. "Open to page--" still groping was Philomel Whiffetand squinting at the faded pages. "Those who have not brought theirnotebooks can look on with someone else. " Trying to act unconcerned wasthe singing master. "Turn to one--of our--old favorites, " poor oldWhiffet murmured, still fumbling the pages of the book. "My eyes--aredim"--he mumbled in confusion--"I--cannot see. " Vainly he searched hisvest pockets, the pockets of his coat. "--I've left my specs at home, "he blurted in desperation. 

With that the tantalizing Drusilla Osborn, from her bench at the back ofthe room, nudged the girl beside her and, pointing to the staff of musicleft on the wall where Philomel had placed it, --Dru began to hum. "You've pitched it too shaller, " whispered the other girl, and quicklyDru hummed a lower register until her companion caught the pitch; thenthe two sang loud and shrill:

 My eyes are dim, I cannot see, My specs I left at home. 

And before Philomel Whiffet knew what had happened, sopranos, altos, andbass had taken up the tune. Even Jonathan Witchcott, for all he sat onthe very front bench where anybody could see with half an eye that thesinging master was plagued and shamefaced, let out his booming bass withall his might and main. Hadn't Drusilla pitched the tune? What else wasthe doting Jonathan to do? The two had been courting full six months, just to spite Mathias Oneby if for no other reason. And Mathias, thepatient and meek fellow, sitting in the far corner of the very lastbench straight across from the adored Drusilla, sitting where anyonecould see that Dru was playing a prank, when he heard the mighty boom ofhis rival, joined in with his high tenor:

 My eyes are dim, I cannot see, My specs I left at home. 

Louder and stronger roared Jonathan's bass. And Mathias, not to beexcelled, raised his shrill notes higher still, sweeping the sopranosalong with him. 

Bethel church house fairly trembled on its foundation. Poor old PhilomelWhiffet raised his hands in dismay: "I did not mean for you to sing!" hecried, and again Drusilla took up his words:

 I did not mean for you to sing

and louder swelled the chorus. All the while the singing master stoodtrembling, shaking his white head hopelessly. "I did not mean for you tosing, " he pleaded, "I only meant my eyes were dim!"

His words merely spurred them on. On surged the voices, bass, soprano, alto, tenor, in loud and mighty

 I did not mean for you to sing, I only meant my eyes were dim. 

The singing master fumbled his woolly wristbands, thrust his hands deepinto pockets of coat and breeches, and peered searchingly about thelittle stand where, it was plain to see, was nothing but the songbookwhich he had dropped in his confusion. At last his trembling hand soughtthe sparse foretop. There, bless you, rested the lost spectacles. Heyanked them to the bridge of his nose, and then, just as though hedidn't know all the time it was Drusilla Osborn behind the prank, heturned his attention toward that pretty young miss. 

"Drusilla"--you'd never suspect what he was up to--"we all favor yourvoice in the ditty of My Son John. And you, Jonathan Witchcott, I don'tknow of any other fellow that can better sing the part of the courtingman than you yourself. And I'm satisfied that no fairer maid was everwooed than Dru yonder. So lead off, lest the other fellow get the bestof you. "

Almost before Jonathan was aware of it he was singing, with his eyesturned yearningly upon Dru:

 My man John, what can the matter be, That I should love the lady fair and she should not love me? She will not be my bride, my joy nor my dear, And neither will she walk with me anywhere. 

Then, lest a moment be lost, the singing master himself egged on theswain by singing the part of the man John:

 Court her, dearest Master, you court her without fear, And you will win the lady in the space of half a year; And she will be your bride, your joy and your dear, And she will take a walk with you anywhere. 

Encouraged by the smiling school, Jonathan Witchcott took up the song, turning yearningly to Dru who now smiled coyly, head to one side, whilehe entreated:

 Oh, Madam, I will give to you a little greyhound, And every hair upon its back shall cost a thousand pound, If you will be my bride, my joy and my dear, And you will take a walk with me anywhere. 

Scarcely had the last note left his lips when Drusilla, now that alleyes were turned upon her, sang coquettishly:

 Oh, Sir, I won't accept of you a little greyhound, Though every hair upon its back did cost a thousand pound, I will not be your bride, your joy nor your dear, And neither will I walk with you anywhere. 

With added fervor Jonathan offered more:

 Oh, Madam, I will give you a fine ivory comb, To fasten up your silver locks when I am not at home. 

That too Dru spurned, but all the same she was watchingnervously--indeed Dru was watching anxiously--Tizzie Scaggs, lest shetake up Jonathan's offer, which is another girl's right in the play-gamesong. 

Quickly Jonathan Witchcott, knowing all this, sang pleadingly:

 Oh, Madam, I will give to you the keys of my heart, To lock it up forever that we never more may part, If you will be my bride, my joy and my dear. 

Whereupon Drusilla, her eyes sparkling, her rosy lips parted temptingly, sang:

 Oh, Sir, I will accept of you the keys of your heart; I'll lock it up forever and we never more will part, And I will be your bride, your joy and your dear, And I will take a walk with you anywhere. 

When her last note ended Dru turned demurely toward Jonathan, whereuponthat happy swain leaped to his feet and, extending a hand toward thesinging master, sang:

 My man, Philomel Whiffet, here's fifty pounds, for thee, I'd never have won this lady fair if it hadn't been for thee. 

With that the whole singing school cheered and laughed. 

Drusilla Osborn was so excited she almost twisted her kerchief intoshreds, for she and all the rest knew that by consenting to sing theplay-game song through she and Jonathan had thereby plighted theirtroth. Either could have dropped out on the very second verse if theyhad been so inclined. But there, they had sung it through to the end. Ifshe hadn't Tizzie Scaggs would have leaped at the chance. So now, thesinging master arose and was first to wish them well. 

"A life of joy to the Witchcotts!" He bowed profoundly. 

Even Mathias Oneby wished his rival happiness. The girls tittered. Olderfolks nodded approval. 

Then away they all went into the starlit night, trooping homewardthrough the snow, Jonathan and Drusilla leading the way. 

Philomel Whiffet lingered a moment in the doorway of Bethel church housechuckling to himself, "Dru's got her just deserts. She had no right totaynt the two young fellows. I'm pleased I caught her in the snare andmade her choose betwixt them. " He wrapped the muffler about his throatand, drawing on his mittens, the singing master stepped out into thesnow, the coonskin cap drawn lower over his bespectacled eyes. "I'mproud I caught Dru for Jonathan, " he repeated. "She's too peert nowhowfor that shy Mathias Oneby. Women are strange critters when it comes tocourting. And her prankin' like she did over me misplacing my specs. "

He went steadily on his way, mittened hands thrust deep into coatpockets, spectacles firmly on the bridge of his nose. "She had no callto make mock of me and my specs like she did, " Philomel mumbled tohimself as he trudged along. 

As for the courting play-game song and the way it turned out for Dru andJonathan, that story too traveled far and wide, so that Philomel Whiffetnever lacked for a singing school as long as he lived. That is thereason, old folks will tell you, you'll come upon so many good singersto this day along Pigeon Creek. 

 RIDDLES AND FORTUNES

Telling riddles is no lost art in the Blue Ridge Country and their textand answers are much the same whether you turn to the Carolinas, Tennessee, or Virginia. There is little difference among those who tellthem. It is usually the older women who cling to the tradition whichgoes hand-in-hand with trying fortunes. 

Aunt Lindie Reffitt in Laurel Cove would rather have a bevy of youngfolks around her anytime than to sit with women of her own age. "It'smore satisfaction to let a body's knowing fall on fresh ears. " That washer talk. 

Aunt Lindie knew no end of riddles and ways to try fortunes. And as soonas girl or boy either turned their thoughts to love they took occasionto drop in at Aunt Lindie's. 

What would be the color of their true love's eyes, the hair? Or, "Tellme, Aunt Lindie"--a lovelorn one begged--"will I have a mate at all ordie unwed?" And the old woman, sipping a cup of sassafras tea made tastywith spice-wood sticks, had an answer ready:

"On the first day of May, just as soon as the sun comes up, go to an oldwell that's not been used for many a year. With a piece of looking glasscast a shadow into the well. The face that appears reflected there willbe that of your true love. The one you are to wed. "

One of the Spivey girls had tried her fortune so. And no one could makeher believe other than that the handsome black-mustached man fromCollins Gap was the one whom she had seen reflected in the well. Theymarried. But poor Minnie Tinsley. That same May she tried her fortune atthe well. But never a face appeared. Instead there seemed to float tothe surface of the water a piece of wood in the shape of a coffin. Minnie died before the summer was over. For a while others were afraidto go near the well. But, as Aunt Lindie reminded, "There are otherways. In the springtime the first dove you hear cooing to its mate, sitdown, slip off your shoe, and there you will find in the heel a hair. Itwill be the color of your husband's locks. "

There were other ways too, even for the very, very young. To try thisfortune it had to be a very mild winter when flowers came early, forthis was a fortune for St. Valentine's Day. "The lad sets out early onhis quest, " Aunt Lindie explained. "He knows to look in a place wherethere is rabbit bread on the ground--where the frost spews up and swellsthe ground. Close by there will be a clump of stones, and if he lookscarefully there he will find snuggled under the stones a littleJack-in-the-pulpit. He plucks the flower and leaves it at the door ofhis sweetheart. Though all the time she has listened inside for hiscoming, she pretends not to have heard until he scampers away andhides--but not too far away lest he fail to hear her singing softly asshe gathers up his token of love:

 A little wee man in the wood he stood, His cap was so green and also his hood. 

 By my step rock he left me a love token sweet, From my own dear true love, far, far down the creek. 

 Some call his name Valentine, St. Valentine good, This little wee man in the wood where he stood. 

When Aunt Lindie finished singing the ballad she never failed to add, "That is the best way I know to try a body's fortune. My own ChristopherReffitt was scarce six when he left such a love token on my step rockand I a little tyke of five. "

Many a night they told riddles at Aunt Lindie's until she herself couldnot think of another one. Some of the young folks came from Rough Creekaway off on Little River and some from Bullhead Mountain and the Binnergirls from Collins Gap. If several of the girls took a notion to stayall night, Aunt Lindie Reffitt made a pallet on the floor of extraquilts and many a time she brought out the ironing board, placed itbetween two chairs for a bed for the youngsters, Josie Binner, her hairso curly you couldn't tell which end was growing in her head, alwayswanted to outdo everyone else. Some said Josie was briggaty because shehad been off to settlements like Lufty and Monaville. 

No sooner had they gathered around the fireplace and Aunt Lindie hadpointed out the first one to tell a riddle, than Josie popped right upto give the answer. It didn't take Aunt Lindie a second to put her inher place. "Josie, the way we always told riddles in my day was not forone to blab out the answer, but to let the one who gives it out to acertain one, wait until that one answers, or tries to. Your turn willcome. Be patient. "

Josie Binner slumped back in her chair. 

"Now tell your riddle over again, Nellie. " Aunt Lindie pointed to theMorley girl who piped in a thin voice:

 As I went over heaple steeple There I met a heap o' people; Some was nick and some was nack, Some was speckled on the back. 

"Pooh!" scoffed Tobe Blanton to whom Nellie had turned, "that's easy asfalling off a log. A man went over a bridge and saw a hornet's nest. Some were speckled and they flew out and stung him. "

"Being as Tobe guessed right, " Aunt Lindie was careful that the game wascarried on properly, "he's a right to give out the next riddle. "

Tobe was ready. 

 A man without eyes saw plums on a tree. He neither took plums nor left plums. Pray tell me how that could be?

The cross-eyed lad to whom Tobe had turned shook his head. "Well, then, Josie Binner, I can see you're itchin' to speak out. What's the answer?"

Josie minded her words carefully. "A one-eyed man saw plums. He ate oneand left one. "

It was the right answer so Josie had her turn at giving out the nextriddle:

 Betty behind and Betty before. Betty all around and Betty no more. 

No one could guess the answer. Some declared it didn't make a bit ofsense and Josie, pleased as could be, challenged, "Give up?"

"Give up!" they all chorused. 

"Well, " Josie felt ever so important, "a man who was about to be hangedhad a dog named Betty. It scampered all around him as he walked to thegallows and then dashed off and no one saw where it went. The hangmantold him if he could make up a riddle that no one could riddle theywould set him free. That was the riddle!"

"Ah, shucks! Is that all?" Ben Harvey scoffed and mumbled under hisbreath, "I'll bet Josie made that up herself. "

"It's your turn. " Aunt Lindie had sharp ears and young folks had to bemannerly in her house. If not she had her own way of teaching them alesson. She took Ben unawares. He had to think quickly and blurted outthe first riddle that came to his mind:

 Black upon black, and brown upon brown, Four legs up and six legs down. 

Even half-witted Tom Cartmel to whom Ben happened to be looking gaveback the answer:

"A darky riding a horse and he had a kittle turned up-side-down on hishead. The kittle had four legs!"

Not even Aunt Lindie could keep a straight face, but to spare Ben'sfeelings she gave out a verse that she felt certain no one could sayafter her. And try as they would no one could, not even when she said itslowly:

 One a-tuory Dickie davy Ockie bonie Ten a-navy. Dickie manie Murkum tine Humble, bumble Twenty-nine. 

 One a-two A zorie, zinn Allie bow Crock a-bowl. Wheelbarrow Moccasin Jollaway Ten. 

No one could say it, try as they would. 

"Then answer me this, " Aunt Lindie said. "Does it spell Tennessee or isit just an old comical way of counting?"

Again no one could answer and Aunt Lindie said smilingly if she told allshe knew they would know as much as she. Though perhaps she wasn't awareof it, Aunt Lindie was keeping alive their interest in telling riddles. For young folks went about in their neighborhood trying to find answersto her riddles. 

She now pointed to Katie Ford, and that young miss started right off, saying:

"As I was going to St. Ives, " but everyone protested, so Katie had totry another that everyone didn't know. 

 As I was going over London bridge I heard a lad give a call; His tongue was flesh, his mouth was horn, And such a lad was never born. 

"A rooster!" shouted cross-eyed Steve Morley, who vowed Katie lookedstraight at him. And in the bat of an eye he said:

 As I went over London bridge I met my sister Ann; I pulled off her head and sucked her blood And let her body stand. 

"A bottle of wine, " two in the corner spoke at once, which was againstthe rules, but both thought Steve was looking in their direction. 

"Tell another, " Aunt Lindie settled the matter. 

"As I went over London bridge I met a man, " said Steve. "If I was totell his name I'd be to blame. I have told his name five times over. Whowas it?"

No one spoke up for they all knew the answers to Steve's simple, threadbare riddles. "The answer is I, " he said, running a hand over hisbristling pompadour. 

And lest he assert his rights by starting on another, Aunt Lindie, whichwas her right, gave a jingle and the answer to it too. 

 As I walked out in my garden of lilies There I saw endible, crindible, cronable kernt Ofttimes pestered my eatable, peatable, partable present, And I called for my man William, the second of quillan, To bring me a quill of anatilus feather That I might conquer the endible, crindible, cronable kernt. 

She looked about the puzzled faces. "I'll not plague your minds to findthe answer. I'll give it to you. As the woman walked out in her gardenshe saw a rabbit eating her cabbage and she called for her secondhusband to bring her a shotgun that she might kill the rabbit. "

The old teller of riddles pointed out that there was good in theirtelling. "People have been known to be scared out of doing meanness justby a riddle. Now what would you think this one would be?

 Riddle to my riddle to my right, You can't guess where I laid last Friday night; The wind did blow, my heart did ache To see what a hole that fox did make. 

Whoever knows can answer. " She looked at Josie Binner. "You have thebest remembrance of anyone I know. Don't tell me you can't give theanswer. "

"I never heard it before, " Josie had to admit, twisting her kerchief andlooking down at the floor. 

"Speak out!" urged Aunt Lindie. But no one did so she riddled theriddle. "A wicked man once planned to kill his sweetheart. He went firstto dig her grave and then meant to throw her into it. She got an inklingof his intent, watched from the branches of a tree, then accused himwith that riddle. He skipped the country and so that riddle saved ayoung girl's life. And while we're on trees, here's another:

 Horn eat a horn in a white oak tree. Guess this riddle and you may hang me. 

For the fun of it they all pretended not to know the answer so she gaveit. "You're just pranking, " she admonished playfully, "but nohow--a mannamed Horn eat a calf's horn as he sat up in a white oak tree. But I'llgive you one now to take along with you. It's a Bible riddle, now listenwell:

 God made Adam out of dust, But thought it best to make me first; So I was made before the man, To answer God's most holy plan. 

 My body he did make complete, But without legs or hands or feet; My ways and actions did control, And I was made without a soul. 

 A living being I became; 'Twas Adam that gave me my name; Then from his presence I withdrew; No more of Adam ever knew. 

 I did my Maker's laws obey; From them I never went astray; Thousands of miles I run, I fear, But seldom on the earth appear. 

 But God in me did something see, And put a living soul in me. A soul of me my God did claim, And took from me that soul again. 

 But when from me the soul was fled, I was the same as when first made. And without hands, or feet, or soul, I travel now from pole to pole. 

 I labor hard, both day and night, To fallen man I give great light; Thousands of people, both young and old, Will by my death great light behold. 

 No fear of death doth trouble me, For happiness I cannot see; To Heaven I shall never go, Nor to the grave, or hell below. 

 And now, my friends, these lines you read, And scan the Scriptures with all speed; And if my name you don't find there, I'll think it strange, I must declare. "

That was the way Aunt Lindie and other older mountain women had ofsending young folk to read the Word. 

There was rarely a gathering for telling riddles and trying simplefortunes, especially during the winter, that did not end with a taffypull. That too afforded the means for courting couples to pair off andpursue their romance. 

The iron pot filled with sorghum was swung over the hearth fire tobubble and boil. In due time the mother of the household dropped some ofit with a spoon into a dipper of cold water. If it hardened just rightshe knew the sorghum had boiled long enough. Then it was poured intobuttered plates to cool. Often to add an extra flavor the taffy wassprinkled with walnut kernels. The task of picking out the kernels withGranny's knitting needles usually fell to the younger folks. There onthe hearth was a round hole worn into the stone where countless walnutshad been cracked year after year. 

When the taffy had cooled so that it could be lifted up in the hands thefun of pulling it began. The girls buttered or greased their hands sothat it would not stick, and the boys, of their choice, did likewise. Pulling taffy to see who could get theirs the whitest was an occasionfor greatest merriment. "Mine's the whitest, " you'd hear a young, tittering miss call out. Then followed comparisons, friendly argument. And when at last the taffy was pulled into white ropes it was againcoiled on buttered plates in fancy designs of hearts and links and leftto harden until it could be broken into pieces with quick tap of knifeor spoon. 

Once more the courting couples paired off together and helped themselvespolitely when the plate was passed. 

Riddles and fortunes, taffy pulling and harmless kissing games, likeClap In and Clap Out, Post Office, and I Lost My Kerchief Yesterday, made for the young folk of the mountains a most happy and (to them ofyesterday) a most hilarious occasion. 

And when a neighbor like Aunt Binie Warwick gave out the word there'd bea frolic and dance at her house, nothing but sickness or death couldkeep the young people away. Such an occasion started off with aplay-game song in order to get everyone in a gay mood. The hostessherself led off in the singing:

 Come gather east, come gather west, Come round with Yankee thunder; Break down the power of Mexico And tread the tyrants under. 

Everyone knew how to play it. The boys stood on one side of the room, the girls on the other, and when the old woman piped out the very firstnotes the boys started for the girls, each with an eye on the one of hischoice. Sometimes two or more of the young fellows were of the samemind, which added to the fun and friendly rivalry. The one who firstcaught the right hand of the girl had her for his partner in the dancethat would follow. Immediately each couple stepped aside and waiteduntil the others had found a partner. If there was a question about it, the oldest woman present, who by her years was the recognized matchmakerof the community, decided the point. 

"Who'll do the calling?" asked the hostess, Aunt Binie. 

Everyone knew there was not a better caller anywhere than Uncle Mose, who was just as apt at fiddling. So Uncle Mose proudly took his place inthe corner, chair tilted back against the wall. Fiddle to chin, hecalled out: "Choose your partners!"

With a quick eye he singled out one couple. "Lizzie, you've got a boundto stand to the right of the gent!"

Quickly Lizzie, tittering and blushing, stepped to the other side ofDave. 

"And you, Prudie, " Uncle Mose waved a commanding hand, "get on the otherside of John. You fellows from Fryin' Pan best learn the proper wayshere and now. "

A wave of laughter swept over the gathering and Uncle Mose, sweeping thebow across the strings, called: "Salute your partner!"

There was bowing and shuffling of feet and, as the tempo of the fiddleincreased, heels clicked against the bare floor and the caller's voicerang out above music and laughter:

 Salute your corner lady, Salute your partners, all: Swing your corner lady And promenade the hall. 

They danced to the fiddle music of O Suzanna and Life on the Ocean Wave, and Uncle Mose had calls to suit any tune:

 Swing old Adam Swing Miss Eve, Then swing your partner As you leave. 

Now and then a breathless girl would drop out and rest a moment leaningagainst the wall. And just for fun an oldster like Old Buck Rawlins, whodidn't even have a partner, caught up one boot toe and hopped off to acorner moaning:

 Sudie, Sudie, my foot is sore, A-dancing on your puncheon floor. 

Sometimes a young miss limped off to a chair. "Making out like someonestepped on her toe, " Aunt Binie whispered behind her hand, for she knewall the signs of young folks, "but she's just not wanting to dance withBig Foot Jeff Pickett. " The next moment Dan Spotswood had pulled himselfloose from his cross-eyed partner and made his way to the side of histrue love who had limped to the corner. 

Nor was Uncle Mose unmindful of what was going on. The caller must havea quick eye, know who is courting, who is on the outs, who craves to beagain in the arms of so and so. Quick as a flash he shouted, "Whichshall it be Butterfly Swing or Captain Jinks?"

"Captain Jinks, " cried Dan Spotswood jovially. For Dan knew the ways ofthe mountains. He didn't want any hard feelings with anyone. This dancewould give all an opportunity to mingle and exchange partners. Eventhough Big Foot had tried his best to break up the match between him andNellie, Dan meant that that fellow shouldn't have the satisfaction ofknowing his jealousy. So he urged the couples into the circle. Dan, however, did see to it that he had Nellie's hand as they circled halfwayaround the crowded room before following the familiar calls of theplay-party game as they sang the words along with the lively notes ofthe fiddle. They were words that their grandparents had sung in the daysof the Civil War, with some latter-day changes:

 Captain Jinks came home last night. Pass your partner to the right; Swing your neighbor so polite, For that's the style in the army. 

 All join hands and circle left, Circle left, circle left, All join hands and circle left, For that's the style in the army. 

They saluted partners, they stepped and circled, and sashayed, theyfairly galloped around the room, much to the disapproval of old AuntBinie. "I don't favor no such antic ways. They're steppin' too lively. "Her protest was heeded. 

The fiddler stopped short. Folks were respectful in that day and time. 

"Mose, " the hostess called out to the fiddler when he had rested alittle while, "please to strike up the tune Pop Goes the Weasel. "

No sooner said than done. The notes of the fiddle rang out and UncleMose himself led off in the singing:

 A penny for a spool of thread, A penny for a needle, while old and young joined in the singing as each lad stepped gallantlyto the side of the girl of his choice and went through the steps of theVirginia Reel. 

Though all knew every step and danced with grace and ease, they perhapsdid not know that the dance was that of Sir Roger de Coverley; that itwas one of a large number of English country dances, so called, notbecause they were danced in the country, but because their Englishancestors corrupted the French word _contredanse_, which had to do withthe position the dancers assume. Of one thing they could be sure, however, they owed it to their elders that this charming dance hadsurvived. [A]

With what charming ease even old Aunt Binie with an aged neighbor wentthrough the lovely figures of the Virginia Reel, harking back to thedays of powdered wigs, buckled shoes, satin breeches and puffed skirts, as the head lady and foot gentleman skipped forward to meet each otherin the center of the set. How gracefully she bowed to him and he to herwith hand upon his chest, as they returned to their places!

Then the head lady and foot gentleman skipped forward, made onerevolution, holding right hands. 

With dignity and charm they went through the entire dance while those onthe side lines continued to sing with the fiddle:

 A penny for a spool of thread, A penny for a needle. That's the way the money goes. Pop! goes the weasel. 

Each time on the word "Pop!" the fiddler briskly plucked a string. 

There was an interlude of fiddle music without words, then followedanother verse while the dancers stepped the tune:

 All around the American flag, All around the eagle, The monkey kissed the parson's wife, Pop! goes the weasel. 

This was followed by a lively tune, Vauxhall Dance, with a lusty callfrom the fiddler: "Circle eight!"

Whereupon all joined hands, circled to the left and to place. 

 Head couple out to the right and circle four, With all your might Around that couple take a peek!

At this Dan Spotswood peeked at smiling Nellie, almost forgetting tofollow the next figure in his excitement. 

 Back to the center and swing when you meet, Around that couple peek once more. 

 Back to the center and swing all four, Circle four and cross right o'er. 

The dance was moving toward the end. 

"Balance all. Allemande left and promenade, " the fiddler's voice raisedlouder. 

There was repetition of calls and figures and a final booming from theindefatigable caller: "Meet your partners and promenade home. "

Then the fiddler struck up Cackling Hen and a Breakdown so that thenimblest of the dancers might show out alone and so the frolic and danceended. 

-----[Footnote A: DANCE DIRECTIONS:

 I. (a). Head lady and foot gentleman skip forward to meet each other in center of the set. They bow and return to places. (b). Head gentleman and foot lady repeat (a). 

 II. (a). The head lady and foot gentleman skip forward and make one revolution, holding right hands. (b). The head gentleman and foot lady repeat (a). (c). The head lady and foot gentleman skip forward and make one revolution, holding left hands. (d). Head gentleman and foot lady repeat (c). 

III. (a). Head lady and foot gentleman skip forward and around each other back to back. (b). Head lady and foot gentleman repeat (a). 

 IV. The head couple meet in center, lock right arms, and make one and one-half revolutions. They go down the set swinging each one once around with left arms locked, the gentleman swinging the ladies, the lady swinging the gentlemen. They meet each other swinging a round with right arms locked, between each turn down the line. They swing thus down the set. 

 V. Couples join hands, forming a bridge under which the head couple skips to head of set. They separate, skipping down the outside of the lines and take their new places at the foot of the set. The original second couple is now the head couple. The dance is repeated from the beginning until each couple has been the head couple. ]

 THE INFARE WEDDING

Even when the dulcimer, that primitive three-stringed instrument, couldnot be had, mountain folk in the raggeds of Old Virginia were not at aloss for music with which to make merry at the infare wedding. Theystepped the tune to the singing of a ballad, nor did they tire thoughthe infare wedding lasted all of three days and nights. It began rightafter the wedding ceremony itself had been spoken--at the bride's home, you may be sure. 

How happy the young couple were as they stood before the elder, thegroom with his waiter at his side, and the bride with her waiter besideher. Careful they were too that they stood the way the floor logs wererunning. Thoughtless couples who had stood contrary to the cracks in thefloor had been known to be followed by ill luck. 

When the elder had spoken the word which made them one, the bride withher waiter hurried out to another room, if there was such, if not sheclimbed the wall ladder to the loft and there in the low-roofed bedroomshe changed her wedding frock for her infare dress--the second daydress. In early times it was of linsey-woolsey, woven by her own hands, and dyed with homemade dyes, while her wedding frock had been of snowywhite linsey-woolsey. 

And what a feast _her_ folks had prepared for the occasion. Cakes andpies, stewed pumpkin that had been dried in rings before the fireplace, venison, and wild honey. 

While the bride was changing to her infare dress, older hands quicklytook down the bedsteads, tied up the flock ticks and shuck ticks incoverlids and quilts, shoved them back into the corners so as to makeroom for the frolic and dancing. 

If the bride's granny lived it was her privilege to lead off in thesinging, which she did in a high querulous voice while the young folks, the boys on one side, the girls on the other, faced each other and tosoft handclapping and lightly tapping toe sang:

 There lived an old Lord by the Northern sea, Bowee down, There lived an old Lord by the Northern sea, And he had daughters one, two three; I'll be true to my love, If my love will be true to me. 

All the while the bride and groom sat primly side-by-side near thehearth and looked on. 

The rest stepped the tune to the singing of the Twa Sisters, reenactingthe story of the old ballad as it moved along. 

It gave everyone an opportunity to swing and step. 

After that the bride's father stepped to the middle of the room andurged even the bride to join in. In the meantime the young folks hadtaken the opportunity to tease the bride, while the young men wentfurther by bussing her cheek. A kiss of the modest, proper sort was notout of order; every groom knew and expected that. Even a most jealousfellow knew to conceal his displeasure, for it would only add to furtherpranking on the part of the rest if he protested. 

Presently two of the young lads came in bearing a pole. They caught theeye of the groom who knew full well the meaning of the pole. Quickly hetapped his pocket till the silver jingled, nodded assent to the unspokenquery. They should have silver to buy a special treat for all themenfolks; forthwith the polebearers withdrew, knowing the groom wouldkeep his word. 

And now the father of the bride egged the groom and his wife to step outand join in singing and dancing the next song, which the father startedin a rollicking, husky voice:

 Charlie's neat, and Charlie's sweet, And Charlie he's a dandy. 

It was a dignified song and one of the few in which the woman advancedfirst toward the man in the dance. The lads already being formed in lineat one side, the girls one at a time advanced as all sang, took apartner by the hand, swung him once; then stepping, in time with thesong, to the next the lad repeated the simple step until she had gonedown the line. The second girl followed as soon as the first girl hadswung the first lad, and so each in turn participated, skipping finallyon the outside of the opposite line, making a complete circle of thedancers, and resuming her first position. 

It did not concern them that they were singing and stepping an oldJacobean song that had been written in jest of a Stuart King, CharlesII. 

At the invitation of the bride's mother the dancing ceased for a time sothat all might partake of the feast she had spent days preparing. Evenin this there was the spirit of friendly rivalry. The bride's mothersought to outdo the groom's parent in preparing a feast for thegathering; the next day, according to their age-old custom, thecelebration of the infare would continue at the home of his folks. 

When all had eaten their fill again the bride's granny carried out herpart of the tradition. She hobbled in with a rived oak broom. This sheplaced in the center of the floor with the brush toward the door. Everyone knew that was the sign for ending the frolic at the bride'shome. Also they knew it was the last chance for a shy young swain todeclare himself to his true love as they sang the ancient ballad, whichgranny would start, and did its bidding. Usually not one of the unwedwould evade this custom. For, if _she_ sang and stepped with _him_, itmeant betrothal. So they stepped and sang lustily:

 Here comes the poor old chimney sweeper, He has but one daughter and cannot keep her, Now she has resolved to marry, Go choose the one and do not tarry. 

 Now you have one of your own choosing, Be in a hurry, no time for losing; Join your right hands, this broom step over, And kiss the lips of your true lover. 

So ended the infare wedding at the bride's home. 

The next day all went to the home of the groom's parents and repeatedthe feasting and dancing, and on the third day the celebration continuedat the home of the young couple. 

In those days mountain people shared each other's work as well as theirplay. Willing hands had already helped the young groom raise his houseof logs on a house seat given by his parents, and along the same creek. 

It was the way civilization moved. The son settled on the creek wherehis father, like his before him, had settled, only moving farther uptoward its source as his father had done when he had wed. 

 5. RELIGIOUS CUSTOMS

 FUNERALIZING

To the outsider far removed, or even to people in the nearby lowlands, mountain people may seem stoic. A mountain woman whose husband is beingtried for his life may sit like a figure of stone not for lack offeeling, but because she'd rather die than let the other side know heranguish. A little boy who loses his father will steal off to cliff orwood and suffer in silence. No one shall see or know his grief. "He'sgot a-bound to act like a man, now. " The burden of the family is uponhis young shoulders. 

Mountain folk love oratory. Men, especially, will travel miles to aspeaking--which may be a political gathering or one for the purpose ofdiscussing road building. 

To all outward appearances they seem unmoved, yet they drink in withdeep emotion all that is said. Both men and women are eager to go tomeeting. Meeting to them means a religious gathering. Here they listenwith rapt attention to the lesser eloquence of the mountain preacher. But at meeting, unlike at speaking, they give vent to their emotions, especially if the occasion be that of funeralizing the dead. 

Much has been written upon this custom, but the question still prevails, "Why do mountain people hold a funeral so long after burial?"

The reason is this. Long ago, before good roads were even dreamed of inthe wilderness, when death came, burial of necessity followedimmediately. But often long weeks, even months, elapsed before the wordreached relatives and friends. There were few newspapers in those daysand often as not there were those who could neither read nor write. Forthe same reason there was little, if any, exchange of letters. 

So the custom of funeralizing the dead long after burial grew from anecessity. The funeralizing of a departed kinsman or friend waspublished from the pulpit. The bereaved family set a day, months or evena year in advance, for the purpose of having the preacher eulogize theirbeloved dead. "Come the third Sunday in May next summer, " a mountainpreacher could be heard in mid winter publishing the occasion. "BrotherTom's funeral will be held here at Christy Creek church house. "

The word passed. One told the other and when the appointed Sunday rolledaround the following May, friends and kin came from far and near, bringing their basket dinner, for no one family could have prepared forthe throng. Together, when they had eaten their fill, they gatheredabout the grave house to weep and mourn and sing over "Brother Tom, "dead and gone this long time. 

The grave house was a crude structure of rough planks supported by fourshort posts, erected at the time of the burial to shelter the dead fromrain and snow and scorching wind. 

Many a one, having warning of approaching death, named the preacher hewished to preach his funeral, even naming the text and selecting thehymns to be sung. 

As the service moved along after the singing of a doleful hymn, thesobbing and wailing increased. The preacher eulogized the departed, praising his many good deeds while on earth, and urged his hearers on toadded hysteria with, "Sing Brother Tom's favorite hymn, Oh, Brother, Will You Meet Me!"

Sobs changed to wailing as old and young joined in the doleful dirge:

 Oh, brother, will you meet me, Meet me, meet me? Oh, brother, will you meet me On Canaan's far-off shore. 

It was a family song; so not until each member had been exhorted to meeton Canaan's shore did the hymn end--each verse followed of course withthe answer:

 Oh, yes, we will meet you On Canaan's far-off shore. 

By this time the mourners were greatly stirred up, whereupon thepreacher in a trembling, tearful voice averred, "When I hear thispromising hymn it moves deep the spirit in me, it makes my heart glad. Why, my good friends, I could shout! I just nearly see Brother Tom overyonder a-beckoning to me and to you. He ain't on this here old troubledworld no more and he won't be. Will Brother Tom be here when the peachtree is in full blowth in the spring?"

"No!" wailed the flock. 

"Will Brother Tom be here when the leaves begin to drap in the fallingweather?" again he wailed. 

"No!"

"Will Brother Tom be up thar? Up thar?"--the swift arm of the preachershot upward--"when Gabriel blows his trump?"

"Eh, Lord, Brother Tom will be up thar!" shouted an old woman. 

"Amen!" boomed from the throat of everyone. 

As it often happened, Tom's widow had long since re-wed, but neither shenor her second mate were in the least dismayed. They wept and wailedwith fervor, "He'll be thar! He'll be thar!"

"Yes, " boomed the preacher once more, "Brother Tom will be thar whenGabriel blows his trump!"

Then abruptly in a very calm voice, not at all like that in which he hadshouted, the preacher lined the hymn:

 Arise, my soul, and spread thy wings, A better portion trace. 

Having intoned the two lines the flock took up the doleful dirge. 

So they went on until the hymns were finished. 

After a general handshaking and repeated farewells and the avowed hopeof meeting again come the second Sunday in May next year, thefuneralizing ended. 

 OLD CHRISTMAS

Though in some isolated sections of the Blue Ridge, say in parts of theUnakas, the Cumberlands, the Dug Down Mountains of Georgia, there arepeople who may never have heard of the Gregorian or Julian calendar, yetin keeping Old Christmas as they do on January 6th, they clingunwittingly to the Julian calendar of 46 B. C. , introduced in thiscountry in the earliest years. To them December 25th is New Christmas, according to the Gregorian calendar adopted in 1752. 

They celebrate the two occasions in a very different way. The old withprayer and carol-singing, the new with gaiety and feasting. 

To these people there are twelve days of Christmas beginning withDecember 25th and ending with January 6th. In some parts of thesesouthern mountain regions, if their forbears were of Pennsylvania Germanstock, they call Old Christmas Little Christmas as the Indians do. Butsuch instances are rare rather than commonplace. 

Throughout the twelve days of Christmas there are frolic and firesideplay-games and feasting, for which every family makes abundantpreparation. There is even an ancient English accumulative song calledTwelve Days of Christmas which is sung during the celebrations, in whichthe true love brings a different gift for each day of the twelve. Theyoung folks of the community go from home to home, bursting in with acheery "Christmas gift!" Those who have been taken unaware, though ithappens the same way each year, forgetting, in the pleasant excitementof the occasion, to cry the greeting first, must pay a forfeit ofsomething good to eat--cake, homemade taffy, popcorn, apples, nuts. 

After the feast the father of the household passes the wassail cup, which is sweet cider drunk from a gourd dipper. Each in turn drinks tothe health of the master of the house and his family. 

Throughout the glad season some of the young bloods are inclined to taketheir Christmas with rounds of shooting into the quiet night. Some getgloriously drunk on hard cider and climbing high on the mountain sideshout and shoot to their hearts' content. 

However, when Old Christmas arrives, even the most boisterous youngstriplings assume a quiet, prayerful calm. The children'splay-pretties--the poppet, a make-believe corn-shuck doll--the banjo, and fiddle are put aside. In the corner of the room is placed a pinetree. It stands unadorned with tinsel or toy. On the night of January6th, just before midnight, the family gathers about the hearth. Grannyleads in singing the ancient Cherry Tree Carol, sometimes called Josephand Mary, which celebrates January 6th as the day of our Lord's birth. With great solemnity Granny takes the handmade taper from thecandlestick on the mantel-shelf, places it in the hands of the oldestman child, to whom the father now passes a lighted pine stick. With itthe child lights the taper. The father lifts high his young son whoplaces the lighted taper on the highest branch of the pine tree where aholder has been placed to receive it. This is the only adornment uponthe tree and represents a light of life and hope--"like a star of hopethat guided the Wise Men to the manger long ago, " mountain folk say. 

In the waiting silence comes the low mooing of the cows and the whinnyof nags, and looking outside the cabin door the mountaineer sees his cowbrutes and nags kneeling in the snow under the starlit sky. "It is thesign that this is for truth our Lord's birth night, " Granny whisperssoftly. 

Then led by the father of the household, carrying his oldest man childupon his shoulder, the womenfolk following behind, they go down to thecreek side. Kneeling, the father brushes aside the snow among theelders, and there bursting through the icebound earth appears a greenshoot bearing a white blossom. 

"It is the sign that this is indeed our Lord's birth night, the signthat January 6th is the real Christmas, " old folk of the Blue Ridge bearwitness. 

 FOOT-WASHING

 He riseth from supper, and laid aside his garments; and took a towel, and girded himself. 

 After that he poureth water into a bason, and began to wash the disciples' feet, and to wipe them with the towel wherewith he was girded. 

"It is writ in the Good Book, " said Brother Jonathan solemnly, "in thethirteen chapter of St. John, the fourth and the fifth verses. "

With hands meekly clasped in front of him Brother Jonathan stood--notbehind a pulpit--but beside a small table. Nor did he hold the Book. That too lay on the table beside the water bucket, where he had placedit after taking his text. 

It could be in Pleasant Valley Church in Magoffin County, or in Old TarKiln Church in Carter County; it could be in Bethel Church high up inthe Unakas, or Antioch Church in Cowee, Nantahala, Dry Fork, or New HopeChapel in Tusquitee, in Bald or Great Smoky. Anywhere, everywhere thatan Association of Regular Primitive Baptists hold forth, and they arenumerous throughout the farflung scope of the mountains of the BlueRidge. 

"He laid aside his garments . . . And after that he poureth water into abason, and began to wash the feet of the disciples. . . . " Again BrotherJonathan repeated the words. 

Slowly, deliberately he went over much that had gone before. This beingthe third Sunday of August and the day for Foot-washing in Lacy ValleyChurch where other brethren of the Burning Spring Association hadalready been preaching since sunup. One after the other had spelled eachother, taking text after text. And now Brother Jonathan--this being hishome church--had taken the stand to give out the text and preach uponthat precept of the Regular Primitive Baptists of washing feet. It wasthe home preacher's sacred privilege. 

Old folks dozed, babies fretted, young folks twisted and squirmed in thestraight-backed benches. A parable he told, a story of salvation, conviction, damnation. But always he came back to the thirteenth chapterof St. John. He spoke again of that part of the communion service whichhad preceded: the partaking of the unleavened bread, which two eldershad passed to the worthy seated in two rows facing each other at thefront of the little church; the men in the two benches on the right, thewomenfolk in the two benches facing each other on the left. Among these, who had already examined their own conscience to make sure of theirworthiness, had passed an elder with a tumbler of blackberry juice. Hewalked close behind the elder who bore the plate of unleavened bread. The first said to each worthy member, "Remember this represents thebroken body of our Lord who died on this cross for our sins. " The secondintoned in a deep voice, "This represents the blood of our Lord who shedhis blood for our sins. " All the while old and young throughout thechurch house had sung that well-known hymn of the Regular PrimitiveBaptists. 

 When Jesus Christ was here below, He taught His people what to do;

 And if we would His precepts keep, We must descend to washing feet. 

That part of the service being ended, Brother Jonathan exhorted theflock to make ready for foot-washing. 

The men in their benches removed shoes and socks. The women on the otherside of the church, facing each other in their two benches, removedshoes and stockings. A sister arose, girthed herself with a towel, kneltat a sister's feet with a tin washpan filled with water from the creek, and meekly washed the other's feet. Having dried them with an end of thelong towel, she now handed it to the other who performed a like servicefor her. This act of humility was repeated by each of the worthy. Allthe while there was hymn-singing. 

The menfolk who participated removed their coats and hung them besidetheir hats on wall pegs. 

"It is all Bible, " the devout declare. "He laid aside His garments. Wetake off our coats. "

Brother Jonathan and the other elders are last to wash each other'sfeet. 

And when the service is ended and the participants have again put ontheir shoes, they raise their voices in a hymn they all know well:

 I love Thy Kingdom, Lord, The House of Thine abode, The church our blessed Redeemer saved With His own precious blood. 

The tin washpans were emptied frequently out the door and refilled fromthe bucket on the table, for many were they, both women and men, of theRegular Primitive Baptist faith who felt worthy to wash feet. 

At the invitation everyone arose and those who felt so minded wentforward to take the hand of preacher, elder, moderator, sister, andbrother, in fellowship. An aged sister here, another there, clapped bonyhands high over head, shouting, "Praise the Lord!" and "Bless Hisprecious name!"

Again all was quiet. Brother Jonathan announced that there would befoot-washing at another church in the Association on the fourth Sundayof the month and slowly, almost reluctantly, they went their way. 

 NEW LIGHT

 SNAKE BITE IS FATAL. RELIGIOUS ADHERENT DIES FROM BITE AFTER REFUSING MEDICAL AID

The death of 48-year-old Robert Cordle, who refused medical aid afterbeing bitten by a rattlesnake during church services, brought 1, 500curious persons today to a funeral home to see his body. 

While the throngs passed the bier of the Doran resident, the Richlandscouncil passed an ordinance outlawing the use of snakes in religiousservices and sent officers to the New Light church to destroy thereptiles there. 

Commonwealth's Attorney John B. Gillespie, who estimated the visitors atthe funeral home totaled 1, 500, said after an investigation that noarrests would be made. He explained that the state of Virginia has nolaw, similar to that in Kentucky, forbidding the use of snakes in churchservices. 

J. W. Grizzel of Bradshaw, itinerant pastor who preached at the servicesThursday night when Cordle was bitten, was questioned by Gillespie. 

The Commonwealth's attorney quoted Grizzel as saying:

"I was dancing with the snake held above my head. Brother Cordleapproached me and took the snake from my hands. I told him not to touchit unless he was ready. "

After a moment, the rattler struck Cordle in the arm, Gillespie saidGrizzle told him. Cordle threw the snake into the lap of George Hicks, 15, and then was taken to the home of a friend and later to his ownhome. 

 --The Ashland Daily Independent

 CHILD, SNAKEBITTEN AT RITES, MAY GET MEDICAL CARE

Kinsmen of snake-bitten Leitha Ann Rowan permitted her examination by aphysician today, but barred actual treatment and claimed she wasrecovering rapidly in justification of their sect's belief that faithcounteracts venom. 

The six-year-old child was brought to Sheriff W. I. Daughtrey's officetoday by relatives, after having been missing for three days while hermother, Mrs. Albert Rowan, sought to avoid treatment for the girl. 

Dr. H. W. Clements did not support relatives' claims that Leitha Ann wasalmost fully recovered but said she had made some progress in overcomingthe effects of a Copperhead Moccasin's bite sustained eight days ago inreligious rites at her farm home near here. 

He said her condition remained serious and directed that she be broughtto his office for another examination Monday. 

Meanwhile the child's father, a mild-mannered tenant farmer, andpreacher-farmer W. T. Lipahm, tall leader of the snake-handling folk, remained in jail on charges of assault with intent to murder. SheriffDaughtrey said they would be allowed freedom under $3, 000 bonds when thechild is pronounced out of danger. 

 --Atlanta Journal

 MAN SUFFERS SNAKE BITE DURING RELIGIOUS RITES

A man listed by chief of police Ralph Tuggle as Raymond Hayes of Harlancounty was in a serious condition today from the bite of a copperheadsnake suffered yesterday during religious exercises in a vacantstoreroom. 

Hayes and three other persons, including a woman, were under bond ChiefTuggle said, pending a hearing Friday on charges of violating a Kentuckystatute prohibiting the use of snakes in religious ceremonies. 

Tuggle said the four first appeared on the courthouse square and startedto hold services from the bandstand but that he dispersed them. Thechief said they then secured a vacant storeroom which was quicklycrowded and before police could break up the gathering Hayes had beenbitten by the copperhead. 

 --Barbourville, Ky. , Advocate

 MAN DIES OF SNAKE BITE. SECOND MEMBER OF RELIGIOUS SECT TO DIE IN FOUR DAYS; BITTEN DURING SERVICES

County Attorney Dennis Wooton listed Jim Cochran, 39, unemployedmechanic, today as the second member of an eastern Kentuckysnake-handling religious sect to die within four days as the result ofbites suffered during church services. 

Bitten on the right hand Sunday morning Cochran, married and father ofseveral children, died 18 hours later at his home at nearby Duane. 

Mrs. Clark Napier, 40, mother of seven children, died Thursday night atHyden, coal-mining community in adjacent Leslie county, and County-JudgePro-Tem Boone Begley said she had been bitten at services. 

Wooton said Jimmy Stidham, Lawsie Smith and Albert Collins were fined$50. Each after Cochran's death on charges of violating the 1940anti-snake-handling law. Unable to pay, they were jailed, he said. 

Elige Bowling, a Holiness church preacher, is under bond pending grandjury action on a murder charge in the death of Mrs. Napier. Wooton saidPerry county officials would be guided on further prosecution in theCochran case by disposition of the Leslie county case. 

 --Corbin, Ky. , Times

Finding themselves in the throes of the law, members of thesnake-handling sect at times turned to drinking poison in testing theirfaith. There was no legislation to prevent it, the leaders craftilyobserved. However, in some southern mountain states such a measure hasbeen advocated. 

At times, nevertheless, even in cases of death from snakebite duringreligious service, county officials refused to prosecute, saying thematter was up to the state itself to dispose of. 

 6. SUPERSTITION

 BIG SANDY RIVER

There once prevailed a superstition among timbermen in the Big Sandycountry which dated back to the Indian. 

The mountain men knew and loved their own Big Sandy River. They rodetheir rafts fearlessly, leaping daringly from log to log to make fast adog chain, even jumping from one slippery, water-soaked raft to anotherto capture with spike pole or grappling hook a log that had brokenloose. They had not the slightest fear when a raft buckled or broke awayfrom the rest and was swept by swift current to midstream. There werequick and ready hands to the task. Loggers of the Big Sandy kept a coolhead and worked with swift decisive movements. But, once their raftsreached the mouth of Big Sandy, there were some in the crew who couldneither be persuaded nor bullied to ride the raft on through to theOhio. Strong-muscled men have been known to quit their post, leap intothe turbulent water before the raft swept forward into the forbiddingOhio. They remembered the warning of witch women, "Don't ride the raftinto the Big Waters! Leap off!" So the superstitious often leaped, taking his life in his hands and often losing it. 

 WATER WITCH

If anyone wanted to dig a well in Pizen Gulch he wouldn't think of doingit without first sending for Noah Buckley, the water witch. He lived atthe head of Tumbling Creek. Noah wore a belt of rattlesnake skin to keepoff rheumatism. "That belt's got power, " Noah boasted. And young boys inthe neighborhood admitted it. More than one who had eaten too many greenapples and lay groveling under the tree, drawn in a knot with pain, screamed in his misery for Noah. If Noah was within hearing he went on arun, fast as his long legs could carry him. And the young suffererreaching out a hand touched the rattlesnake belt and quicker than youcould bat an eye his griping pains left and the next thing he was upplaying around. 

However, it was his power to find water that was Noah Buckley's pride. He took a twig from a peach tree, held a prong in each hand, and withhead bent low he stumbled about here and there mumbling:

 Water, water, if you be there, Bend this twig and show me where. 

If the twig bent low to the earth you could count on it that was thespot where the well should be dug. To mark the spot Noah stuck the twigat once into the earth. Mischievous boys sometimes slipped around, pulled up the peach branch and threw it away. Again there would be adoubting Thomas who sought to test the water witch's power by stealingaway the peach branch and dropping in its place a pebble. But Noah wasnot to be defeated. He forthwith cut another branch, repeated theceremony, and located the exact spot again. Whereupon neighbor menfolkpitched in and dug the well. Not all in one day, of course. It tookseveral days but their labors were always rewarded with clear, coldwater at last. 

A well once dug where Noah directed never went dry. That was his boastas long as he lived. 

However, it was not so much his power to find water that strengthenedthe faith of people in the water witch. It was what happened on DogSlaughter Creek. The Mosleys, a poor family, had squatted on a miserableplace there. One day the baby of the lot toddled off without beingmissed by the other nine children of the flock. When Jake Mosley and hiswife Norie came in from the tobacco patch they began to searchfrantically for the babe, screaming and crying as they dashed this wayand that. They looked under the house, in the well, in the barn. Theyeven went to neighbors' pig lots; the Mosleys had none of their own. "I've heard of a sow or a boar pig too eating up the carcass of achild, " a neighbor said. "Maybe the babe's roamed off into Burdick'spasture and the stallion has tromped her underfoot, " Jake opined. Withlighted pine sticks to guide their steps they searched the pasture. There was no trace even of a scrap of the child's dress anywhere to beseen on ground or fence. 

At last someone said, "Could be a water witch might have knowing to finda lost child!" And the frantic parents moaned, "Could be. Send for thewater witch. "

It was after midnight that neighbors came bringing the water diviner. 

"Give me a garmint of the lost child, " Noah spoke with authority, "agarmint that the little one has wore that's not been washed. "

The mother tearfully produced a bedraggled garment. 

The water witch took it in his hand, sniffed it, turned it wrongsideout, sniffed it again. "Now have you got a lock of the little one'shair?" He looked at Norie, moaning on the shuck tick bed, then at Jake. They stared at each other. At last Norie raised up on her elbow. Theydid have a lock of the babe's hair. "Mind the time she nigh strangled todeath with croup"--the mother fixed weary eyes on the father of her tenchildren--"and we cut off a lock of her hair and put it in the clock?"

In one bound Jake Mosley crossed the floor and reached the clock on themantel. Sure enough there was the little lock of hair wrapped aroundwith a thread. Without a word Jake handed it to the water witch. 

Noah eyed it in silence. "I'll see what can be done, " he promised atlast, "but, Jake, you and Norie and the children stay here. And you, neighbors, stay here too. I'll be bound to go alone. "

With a flaming pine stick in one hand and the child's dress and lock ofhair in the other, he set out. 

Before morning broke, the water witch came carrying the lost child. 

They hovered about him, the parents kissed and hugged their babe closeand everyone was asking questions at the same time. "How did it happen?""Where did you find the little one?"

"I come upon a rock ledge, " said Noah with a great air of mystery, "andthen I fell upon my knees. I'd cut me a peach branch down at the edge ofthe pasture. I gripped the lost child's garmint and the lock of her hairon one hand with a prong of the peach branch clutched tight in fiststhis way, " he extended clenched hands to show the awed friends andneighbors. "I'd already put out the pine torch for daylight was coming. It took quite a time before I could feel the little garmint twitching inmy hand. Then the peach branch begun to bear down to the ground. Firstthing I know something like a breath of wind pulled that little garminttoward the edge of the rock cliff. My friends, I knowed I was on theright track. I dropped flat on my belly and retched a hand under thecliff. I touched the little one's bare foot! Then with both hands Idragged her out. This child"--he lifted a pious countenance--"coulda-been devoured by wild varmints--a catamount or wolf. There's plenty ofsuch in these woods. But the water witch got there ahead of thevarmints!"

The mother began to sob and wail, "Bless the good old water witch!" andthe joyful father gave the diviner the only greenback he had and said hewas only sorry he didn't have a hundred to give him. 

After that more than one sought out the water witch. Even offered himsilver to teach them his powers. 

"It's not good to tell all you know, then others would know as much asyou do, " said Noah Buckley of Pizen Gulch, who knew that to keep hispowers a water witch has to keep secrets too. 

 MARRYING ON HORSEBACK

Millie Eckers, with her arms around his waist, rode behind Robert Burnstoward the county seat one spring morning to get married. But beforethey got there along came Joe Fultz, a justice of the peace, to whomthey told their intent. Joe said the middle of the road on horseback wasas good a place as any for a pair to be spliced, so then and there hehad them join right hands. When they were pronounced man and wife Roberthanded Joe a frayed greenback in exchange for the signed certificate ofmarriage. Joe Eckers always carried a supply of blank documents in hissaddlebags to meet any emergency that might arise within his bailiwick. The justice of the peace pocketed his fee, wished Mister and MistressBurns a long and happy married life, and rode away, and Robert turnedhis mare's nose back toward Little Goose Creek from whence they hadcome. 

Some said, soon as they heard about Millie and Robert being married onhorseback right in the middle of the road, that no good would come ofit. As for the preacher he said right out that while the justice of thepeace was within his rights, he had observed in his long ministry thatcouples so wed were sure to meet with misfortune--married on horsebackand without the blessing of an Apostle of the Book. 

Scarcely had Millie and Robert settled down to housekeeping than thingsbegan to go wrong. 

One morning when the dew was still on the grass Millie went out to milk. "Bossy had roamed away off ferninst the thicket, " she told Robert, "andginst I got there to where she was usin' I scratched the calf of my legon a briar. "

Robert eyed her swollen limb. "Seein' your meat black like it is and therisin' in your calf so angry, I'm certain you've got dew pizen. "

Sure enough she had. Millie lay for days and when the rising came to ahead in a place or two, Robert lanced it with the sharp blade of hispenknife. 

Some weeks later old Doc Robbins who chanced by wondered how Millie hadescaped death from blood poison from the knife blade, until the younghusband told casually how when he was a little set along child he hadseen an old doctor dip the blade of a penknife in a boiling kettle ofwater and lance a carbuncle on another's neck. He had done the same forMillie. 

No sooner was she up and about than something else happened. 

Millie and Robert had just the one cow but soon they had none. Even soMillie said things might have been worse. "It could have been Robertthat was taken. " And he said, bearing their loss stoically, "What is tobe will be, if it comes in the night. "

It was Millie who first noticed something was wrong with Bossy. It wasright after she had found her grazing in the chestnut grove. All theyoung growth had been cut out and the branches of the trees formed asolid shade so that coming out of the sunlight into the grove Millieblinked and groped in the darkness with hands out before her, feelingher way and calling, "Sook, Bossy! Sook! Sook!" Millie all but stumbledover the cow down on her all fours. She coaxed and patted for a longtime before Bossy finally got to her feet and waddled slowly out of theshaded grove into the sunlit meadow. 

That evening Robert did the milking. But before he began he strokedBossy's nose and bent close. "I've caught the stench of her breath!" hecried. "Sniff for yourself, Millie!"

Millie did. "Smells worser'n a dung pile, " she gasped, hand to stomach. 

Quick as a flash Robert put the tin pail under Bossy's bag and began tomilk with both hands. 

There was scarcely a pint in the bucket until Robert gaped at Millie. "Look! It don't foam!" His eyes widened with apprehension. He took asilver coin from his pocket, dropped it into the pail and waited. In afew moments he fished it out. "Black as coal!" gasped Robert. "Our cow'sgot milk sick!"

Bossy slumped to the ground. By sundown the cow was stark dead. 

Before dark Robert himself grew deathly ill. 

They remembered that at noon time he had spread a piece of cornbreadwith Bossy's butter. He had drunk a cup of her milk. 

Millie lost no moment. She mixed mustard in a cup of hot water andRobert downed it almost at a gulp. 

"He begun to puke and purge until I thought his gizzard would sure comeup next, " Millie told it afterward. "All that live-long night he pukedand strained till he got so weakened his head hung over the side of thebed and hot water poured out of his mouth same as if he had water brash. Along toward morning Doc Robbins come riding by. He had a bottle ofapple brandy and we mixed it with wild honey. It wasn't long till Robertgot ease. Doc set a while and about the middle of the morning he giveRobert two heaping spoonfuls of castor oil. "

From then on no one could coax Robert Burns to touch a mouthful ofbutter nor drink a cup of sweet milk. Though he drank his fill ofbuttermilk with never a pain. 

As for the shaded grove where the cow had grazed, every tree was clearedaway--at Doc Robbins's orders. The sunlight poured into the place andsoon there was a green meadow where once the shaded plot had beencovered with a poisoned vegetation. Cows grazed at their will over theplace with no ill effects. 

Still Robert had no hankering for butter or sweet milk. 

"You've no need to fear milk sick now, " Doc Robbins tried to reassureRobert. "It's never found where there's sunlight. " Though he could neverfigure out whether the deep shade produced a poisonous gas that settledon the vegetation, or whether it came from some mineral in the ground, he did know, and so did others, that whatever the cause it disappearedwhen sunlight took the place of dense shade. 

The incident was scarcely forgotten when ill luck again befell Millieand Robert. Their barn burned to the ground, reducing their harvest andtheir only mule to ashes. 

Tongues wagged. "Bad luck comes to the couple married on horseback. "

Everyone the countryside over was convinced of the truth of the oldsuperstition one fall when a tragedy unheard-of overtook Millie atsorghum-making. 

No one ever knew how it happened. But some said that Brock Cyrus'shalf-witted boy was the cause of it. He shouted, "Look out thar!" andMillie, looking up from her task of feeding cane stalks into the mill, saw, or thought she saw, her babe, Little Robert, toddling toward theboiling pans. She screamed and lunged forward, and as she did so themule started on a run. The beam to which it was hitched whirled aboutand struck Millie helpless. Before anyone could reach her side or stopthe frightened mule, her right hand was drawn into the mill, then herleft. With another revolution of the iron teeth of the cane mill both ofher arms were chopped into shreds. 

It was necessary for old Doc Robbins to amputate both at the shoulders. Everyone thought it would take Millie Burns out and they said as much. But she lived long, long years, even raised a family. All her days shesat in a strange chair that Robert made. A chair with a high shelf onwhich her babes, each in turn, lay to nurse at her breast. 

And always the armless woman was pointed out as a warning to youngcourting couples, "Don't get married on horseback! It brings ill luck, no end of ill luck. "

 DEATH CROWN

Once you evidence even the slightest respect of a superstition in theBlue Ridge Country there is ever a firm believer eager to show proof ofthe like beyond all doubt. It was so with Widow Plater as we sat by theflickering light of the little oil lamp in her timeworn cabin thatlooked down on the Shenandoah Valley. 

"I want to show you Josephus's crown, " she said in a hushed voice. Goingto the bureau she opened the top drawer, bringing out what appeared tobe a plate wrapped in muslin. She placed it on the stand table besidethe lamp and carefully laid back the covering, revealing a matted circleof feathers about the size of the human head. The circle was about twoinches thick and a finger length in width. Strangely enough the featherswere all running the same way and were so closely matted together theydid not pull apart even under pressure of the widow's firm hand, sheshowed with much satisfaction. "Can't no one pull asunder a body's deathcrown, " she said with firm conviction. 

Resuming her chair she went on with the story. "All of six months myhusband, Josephus, poor soul, lay sick with his poor head resting on thesame pillow day in and day out. I'd come to know he was on his deathbed, " she said resignedly, "for one day when I smoothed a hand over hispillow I felt there his crown a-forming inside the ticking. I'd felt thecrown with my own hands and I knew death was hovering over my man. Though I didn't tell him so. I wanted he should not be troubled, that heshould die a peaceable death and he did. When we laid him out we put thepillow under his head and when we laid him away I opened the pillow andtook out his crown that I knew to be there all of six months before hebreathed his last. " She sighed deeply. "It's not everyone that has acrown"--there was wistful pride in her voice--"and them that has, theydo say, is sure of another up yonder. " The Widow Plater liftedtear-dimmed eyes heavenward. "And what's more, it is the bounden duty ofthem that's left to keep the crown of their dead to their own dying day. Josephus's death crown I'll pass on to my oldest daughter when my timecomes. "

Carefully she folded the matted circle of feathers in its muslincovering and reverently replaced it in the bureau drawer. 

 A WHITE FEATHER

Rhodie Polhemus who lived on Bear Fork of Puncheon Creek was one whobelieved in signs. It had started long years ago when Alamander, herhusband, had met an untimely fate. That morning after he had gone outhunting Rhodie was sweeping the floor when she saw a white featherfluttering about the brush of her broom. It hovered strangely in midair, then sank slowly to the puncheon floor near the door. "The angel ofdeath is nigh. There'll be a corpse under this roof this day. " Rhodietrembled with fear. Sure enough Alamander was carried in stark deadbefore sundown. It came at a time when there wasn't a plank on theplace. They had disposed of their timber, which was little enough, asfast as it was sawed. So that there was not a piece left with which tomake Alamander's burying box. Nor was there a whipsaw in the wholecountry round with which to work, the itinerate sawyer having gone onwith his property to another creek. But folks were neighborly andwilling. They cut down a fine poplar tree, reduced a log of it to properlength and with ax and adze hewed out a coffin for Rhodie's husband, hollowing it out into a trough and shaping the ends to fit the corpse. The lid they made of clapboards. Placing a coverlid inside the troughthey laid the body of Alamander upon it, made fast the lid, and bore himoff to the burying ground. 

"I knowed his time had come, " Rhodie often repeated the story, "when Ifound the white feather--and when it hovered near the door whereAlamander went out that morning. "

There were other signs. 

All of a week after Alamander was buried Rhodie claimed she had seen themound above him rise and move in ripples the full length of the logcoffin in which he lay buried. "Could be he's not resting easy, " the oldwoman said to herself. "Could be the coverlid under his back iswrinkled. " In response to her question the departed Alamander is said tohave assured his widow that it was his sign of letting her know he wasaware of her presence. However, when curious neighbors accompaniedRhodie to the burying ground, the mound remained still as a rock. Rhodiesaid it was the sign that he had rather she come to his grave alone. 

Though there was never an eyewitness to the rippling earth on the gravesave that of Rhodie, whenever anyone found a white feather about thehouse he remembered what the old woman on Bear Fork of Puncheon Creekhad said, "It is a sign of death!"

 7. LEGEND

 CROCKETT'S HOLLOW

When Jasper Tipton married Talithie Burwell and settled on Tipton's Forkin Crockett's Hollow, folks said no one could ask for a better start. The Tiptons had given the couple their house seat, a bedstead, a table. Jasper had a team of mules he had swapped for a yoke of oxen, and he hada cookstove that he had bought with his own savings. A step stove itwas, two caps below and two higher up. The Burwells had seen to it thattheir daughter did not go empty-handed to her man. She had a flock tick, quilts, coverlids, and a cow. But, old Granny Withers, a midwife fromCaney Creek, sitting in the chimney corner sucking her pipe the night ofthe wedding, vowed that all would not be well with the pair. Hadn't abat flitted into the room right over Talithie's head when the elder wasspeaking the words that joined the two in wedlock? Everyone knew thesign. Everyone knew too that Talithie Burwell, with her golden hair andblue eyes, had broken up the match between Jasper and Widow Ashby'sSabrina. Yet Talithie and Jasper vowed that all was fair in love andwar. If a man's heart turned cold toward a maid, it was none of hisfault. There was nothing to be done about it. You can't change a man'sway with woman, they said. It's writ in the Book. 

And soon as Jasper had cast her off, Widow Ashby's Sabrina took to herbed and there she meant to stay, so she said, the rest of her life. Or--until she got a sign that would give her heart ease. Sabrina Ashbydidn't mince her words either. "I don't care what the sign may be, " shesaid it right out, before Granny Withers. That toothless creaturecackled and replied, "I'm satisfied you're knocking center. "

Indeed Sabrina was telling the truth. She meant every word of it. Thejilted girl did not go to the wedding. She didn't need to, as far asthat was concerned, for old Granny Withers came hobbling over themountain fast as her crooked old legs would carry her, and it in thedead of winter, mind you, to tell Widow Ashby's Sabrina all that hadhappened. How lovely fair the bride looked beside her handsomebridegroom! "Eh law, they were a doughty couple, Jasper and Talithie, "Granny Withers mouthed the words. She lifted a bony finger, "Yet, markmy words, ill luck awaits the two. When the bat flew into the house anddipped low over the fair bride's head, she trembled like she had theagger--and--"

"The bat flew over her head?" Sabrina interrupted, eyes glistening. "Abat--it's blind--stone blind!" the jilted girl echoed gleefully. "There's a sign for you, Mistress Jasper Tipton, to conjure with!" Shelet out a screech and then a weird laugh that echoed through Crockett'sHollow. She cast off the coverlid and in one bound was in the middle ofthe floor, though she had lain long weeks pining away. She clapped herhands high overhead like she was shouting at meeting. Sabrina laughedagain and again, holding her sides. 

Granny Withers thought the girl bewitched. So did Widow Ashby and whenthe two tried to put a clabber poultice on her head and sop her wristsin it, the jilted Sabrina thrust them aside with pure main strength. That was the night of the wedding. 

The days went by. Jasper and Talithie were happy and content everyoneknew. 

Old Granny Withers in her dilapidated hut up the cove watched andcarried tales to Sabrina. The forsaken girl listened as the old midwifetold how she had seen the two with arms about each other sitting in thedoorway in the evening many a time when their work was done. Or how shehad found them in loving embrace when by chance she happened to passalong the far end of their corn patch. "Under the big tree, mind you!"Granny Withers scandalized beyond further speech clapped hand to mouth, rolled her eyes in dismay. "Just so plum lustful over each other theycan't bide till night time. The marriage bed is the fitten place forsuch as that. "

When the forsaken Sabrina heard such things she burned with envy andjealousy. Secretly she tried to conjure the pair, to no avail. That hadbeen by wishing them ill. She meant to try again. One day she went farinto the woods and caught a toad. She put it in a bottle. "There youare, Mistress Talithie Tipton. I've named the toad for you!" she gloatedas she made fast the stopper. "You'll perish there. That's what you'lldo. Didn't old Granny Withers tell me how she worked such conjure on afalse true love in her young day? He died within twelve month. Slippedoff a high cliff!" Stealthily, in the dusk, Sabrina made her way throughthe brush to a lonely spot far up the hollow where the big rock hung. There she put the bottle far back under a slab of stone. 

She waited eagerly to hear some word of the wedded couple. 

One day, a few months later, old Granny Withers came hobbling again overthe mountain. "Jasper's woman is heavy with child, " the toothlessmidwife grinned, moistening her wrinkled lips with the tip of hertongue. "He's done axed me to tend her. "

Not even to Granny Withers did Sabrina tell of the toad in the bottle. "If you ever tell to a living soul what you've done, that breaks theconjure, " the old midwife had warned long ago. So Sabrina kept a stilltongue and bided her time. Nor did she have long to wait. 

News traveled swiftly by word-of-mouth. And bad news was fleetest ofall. 

At first Jasper and his wife were unaware of their babe's fate, thoughTalithie had noticed one day, when the midwife carried the little one tothe door where the sun was shining brightly, that it did not bat an eye. Granny Withers noticed too, but she said never a word. The young motherkept her fear within her heart. She did not speak of it to Jasper. 

Two weeks later, after Granny Withers had gone, Talithie was up doingher own work. Supper was over and the young parents sat by the log fire. There was chill in the air. The babe had whimpered in her bee-gum crib, a crib that the proud young father had fashioned from a hollowed log inwhich wild bees had once stored their honey. Cut the log in two, didJasper, scraped it clean, and with the rounded side turned down it madeas fine a cradle as anyone could wish. With eager hands Talithie placedin it, months before her babe was born, a clean feather tick, no biggerthan a pillow of their own bed. Pieced a little quilt too, did thehappy, expectant mother. 

How contentedly the little one snuggled there even the very first timeTalithie put her in the crib! Rarely did the child whimper, but thisnight small Margie was fretful. Talithie gathered her up and came backto the hearth crooning softly as she jolted to and fro in a straightchair. The Tipton household, like most in Crockett's Hollow, owned nosuch luxury as a rocker. But for all the crooning and jolting smallMargie fretted, rubbed her small fists into her eyes, and drew up herlegs. "Might be colic, " thought Talithie. "Babes have to fret and crysome, makes them grow, " offered the young father who continued towhittle a butter bowl long promised. However, for all his notions aboutit, Talithie was troubled. Never before had she known the babe to be sofretful. 

The log fire was burning low and in the dimness of the room she leaneddown to the hearth, picked up a pine stick and lighted it. She held itclose above the babe's face. The small eyes were open wide and strangelystaring. Talithie passed the bright light to and fro before the littleone's gaze. But never once did the babe bat a lash. 

"Lord God Almighty!" Talithie cried, dropping the lighted pine to thefloor. "Our babe is blind, Jasper! Blind, I tell you! Stone blind!"

Jasper leaped to his feet. The wooden bowl, the knife, clattered to thefloor. The pine stick still burning lay where it had fallen. 

"Our babe can't be blind, " he moaned, falling to his knees. "Ourhelpless babe that's done no harm to any living soul, our spotless purebabe can't be so afflicted!" he sobbed bitterly, putting his arms aboutthe two he loved best in all the world. 

The pine stick where Talithie dropped it burned deep into the puncheonfloor leaving a scar that never wore away. 

Again old Granny Withers hobbled over the mountain as fast as she hadthe night she bore the news to Sabrina about the bat that flew over thefair bride's head. "Talithie's babe is blind--stone blind, SabrinaAshby! Do you hear that?"

This time Widow Ashby's Sabrina did not cry out in glee. She did notclap her hands above her head and laugh wildly. The forsaken girl sankinto a chair. Her face turned deathly white, she stared ahead, unseeing. 

It was a long time before she spoke. Then there was no one there tohear. Granny Withers had scurried off in the dark and Widow Ashby--shewas long since dead and gone. 

"A toad in a bottle, " the frightened Sabrina whispered and her voiceechoed in the barren room, "a toad in a bottle works a conjure. Ma'sgone and now Talithie's babe and Jasper's is plum stone blind. " Sheswayed to and fro, crying hysterically. Then she buried her face in thevise of her hands, moaning, "Little Margie Tipton, your pretty blue eyeswon't never 'tice no false true love away from no fair maid. And you, Mistress Jasper Tipton, you'll have many a long year for to ruminatesuch things through your own troubled mind. "

 * * * * *

Some shake their heads sympathetically, finger to brow, when they speakof Widow Ashby's Sabrina living alone in her ramshackle house far up atthe head of Crockett's Hollow. "A forsaken girl that holds grudge andworks conjure comes to be a sorry, sorry woman, " they say. 

Should you pass along that lonely creek and venture to call a cheery"Hallo!" only a weird, cackling laugh, a harsh "Begone" will echo inanswer. 

 THE SILVER TOMAHAWK

In Carter County, Kentucky, there is a legend which had its beginninglong ago when Indian princesses roamed the Blue Ridge, and pioneers'hopes were high of finding a lost silver mine said to be in caves closeby. 

Morg Tompert loved to tell the story. As long as he lived the old fellowcould be found on a warm spring day sitting in the doorway of his littleshack nearly hidden by a clump of dogwoods. A shack of rough planks thatclung tenaciously to the mountain side facing Saltpeter, or as it wassometimes called--Swindle Cave. The former name came from the deposit ofthat mineral, the latter from the counterfeiters who carried on theirnefarious trade within the security of the dark cavern. 

As he talked, Morg plucked a dogwood blossom that peeped around thecorner of his shack like a gossipy old woman. "See that bloom?" He heldit toward the visitor. "Some say that a Indian princess who was slain bya jealous chieftain sopped up her heart's blood with it and that's howcome the stains on the tip of the white flower. There have been Indianprincesses right here on this very ground. " Morg nodded slowly. "There'sthe empty tomb of one--yes, and there's a silver mine way back yonder inthat cave. They were there long before them scalawags werecounterfeiting inside that cave. Did ever you hear of Huraken?" he askedwith childish eagerness. Morg needed no urging. He went on to tell howthis Indian warrior of the Cherokee tribe loved a beautiful Indianprincess named Manuita:

"Men are all alike no matter what their color may be. They want to showout before the maiden they love best. Huraken did. He roved far away tofind a pretty for her. That is to say a pretty he could give thechieftain, her father, in exchange for Manuita's hand. He must have beengone a right smart spell for the princess got plum out of heart, allowedhe was never coming back and, bless you, she leapt off a cliff. Killedherself! And all this time her own true love was unaware of what she haddone. He, himself, was give up to be dead. But what kept him away solong was he had come upon a silver mine. He dug the silver out of theearth, melted it, and made a beautiful tomahawk. He beat it out on theanvil and fashioned a peace pipe on its handle. He must have been proudas a peacock strutting in the sun preening its feathers. Huraken washurrying along, fleet as a deer through the forest, his shiny tomahawkglistening in his strong right hand. The gift for the chieftain inexchange for the princess bride. All of a sudden he halted right off yona little way. There where the stony cliff hangs over. Right there beforeHuraken's eyes at his feet lay the corpse of an Indian lass, facedownward. When he turned the face upwards, it was the princess. PrincessManuita, his own true love. His sorryful cry raised up as high as theheavens. Huraken was plum beside himself with grief. He gathered up theprincess in his arms and packed her off into the cave. Her tomb is rightin there yet--empty. "

Old Morg paused for breath. "Huraken kept it secret where he had buriedhis true love. He meant to watch over her tomb all the rest of his life. Then the chieftain, Manuita's father, got word of it somehow. He vowedto his tribe that Huraken had murdered his daughter in cold blood. Sothe chieftain and his tribe set out and captured Huraken. They bound himhand and foot with strips of buckskin out in the forest so that wildvarmints could come and devour his flesh and he couldn't help himself. He'd concealed his tomahawk next to his hide under his heavy deerskinhunting coat. But the spirit of the dead princess pitied her helplesslover. Come a big rain that night that pelted him and soaked him plum tothe skin. The princess had prayed of the Rain God to send that downpour. It soaked the buckskin through and through that bound Huraken's handsand feet and he wriggled loose. Many a long day and night he wanderedaway off in strange forests, but all the time the spirit of his truelove, the princess, haunted him. He got no peace till he came back andgive himself up to the chieftain. Only one thing the prisoner asked. Would they let him go to the cave before they put him to death? Now theCherokees are fearful of evil spirits. When they took Huraken to themouth of the cave they would go no farther. 'Evil spirits are inside!'the chieftain said, and the rest of his tribe nodded and frowned. SoHuraken went into the dark cave alone. From that to this he's never beenseen. And the corpse of the Princess Manuita, it's gone too. Her emptytomb is in yonder's cave. Not even a crumb of her bones can be found. "

Old Morg Tompert reflected a long moment. "I reckon when Huraken packedthe princess off somewhere else her corpse come to be a heavy load. Hedropped his silver tomahawk that he had aimed to give the chieftain forhis daughter's hand. It lay for a hundred year or more--I reckon it'sbeen that long--right where it was dropped. Off yonder in Smoky Valleyunder a high cliff some of Pa's kinfolks found it. A silver tomahawkwith a peace pipe carved on its handle. Pa's own blood kin, by name, BenHenderson, found that silver tomahawk but no living soul has ever foundthe lost silver mine. There's bound to have been a mine, else Hurakencould never have made that silver tomahawk. Only one lorn white man knewwhere it was. His name was Swift. But when he died, he taken the secretof the silver mine to the grave with him. Swift ought to a-told some ofthe womenfolks, " declared old Morg, still vexed at the man Swift'slaxity though his demise had occurred ages ago. "Swift ought to a-toldsome of the womenfolks, " old Morg repeated with finality. 

 BLACK CAT

From where old Pol Gentry lived on Rocky Fork of Webb's Creek she couldsee far down into the valley of Pigeon River and across the ridge on allsides. Her house stood at the very top of Hawks Nest, the highest peakin all the country around. Pol didn't have a tight house like severaldown near the sawmill. She said it wasn't healthy. Even when the ownerof the portable mill offered her leftover planks to cover her log housewhere the daubin had fallen out, Pol refused. "The holes let the wind inand the cat out, " she'd say, "and a body can't do without either. "

There was a long sleek cat, with green eyes and fur as black as a crow, to be seen skulking in and out of Pol Gentry's place. If it met a personas it prowled through the woods, the cat darted off swift as a weaselinto the bush to hide away. Young folks on Rocky Fork of Webb's Creeklearned early to snatch off hat or bonnet if the cat crossed their path, spit into it, and put it quickly on again--to break the witch of old PolGentry's black cat. But never were the two, Pol and the cat, seentogether. 

Truth to tell there were some among the old folks on Rocky Fork who longhad vowed that Pol and the cat were one and the same. They declared Polwas a witch in league with the Devil and that she could change herselffrom woman to cat when the spell was strong enough within her, when theevil spirits took a good strong hold upon her. Moreover, Pol Gentry hadbut one tooth. One sharp fang in the very front of her upper jaw. "Awoman is bound to be a witch if she has just one tooth, " folks said andbelieved. 

Pol Gentry was a frightful creature to look upon. She had a heavy growthof hair, coal black hair all around her mouth and particularly upon herupper lip. Her beard was plain to be seen even when she turned in at aneighbor's lane, long before she reached the door. Little children atfirst sight of her ran screaming to hide their faces in their mother'sskirts. 

There wasn't a child old enough to give ear to a tale who hadn't heardof Pol Gentry's powers. How she had bewitched Dan Eskew's little girlFlossie. It wouldn't have happened, some said, if Flossie had spit inher bonnet when the black cat crossed her path as she trooped throughthe woods one day gathering wild flowers. That very evening when she gotback home Flossie sank on the doorstep, the bonnet filled with wildflowers dropped from her arm. She moaned pitifully, holding her headbetween her hands and swaying to and fro. Right away her head began toswell and by the time they got word to Seth Eeling, the wizard doctorwho lived in Mossy Bottom, Flossie's head was twice its size. Indeed, Flossie Eskew's head was as big as a full-grown pumpkin. The minute thewizard clapped eyes on the child he spoke out. 

"Beat up eggshells as fine as you can and give them to this child in acup of water. If she is bewitched this mixture will pass through herclear. "

Orders were promptly obeyed. Flossie drained the cup but no sooner hadFlossie passed the powdered egg shells than the witch left her. Her headwent back to its natural size. Nevertheless Flossie Eskew died thatnight. 

"Didn't send for the wizard soon enough, " Seth Eeling said. 

Some believed in the powers of both, though neither witch nor wizardwould give the other a friendly look, much less a word. 

Pol Gentry was never downright friendly with any, though she would hoefor a neighbor in return for something to eat. "My place is too rocky toraise anything, " she excused herself. And whatever was given her, Polwould carry home then and there. "Them's fine turnips you've got, Mistress Darby, " she said one day, and Sallie Darby up and handed her adouble handful of turnips. Pol opened the front of her dirty calicomother-hubbard, put the turnips inside against her dirty hide andtripped off with them. Nor was Pol Gentry one to sit home at tasks suchas knitting or piecing a quilt. But everyone admitted there never was abetter hand the country over at raising pigs. So Pol swapped pigs forknitting. She had to have long yarn stockings, mittens, a warm hood, forher pigs had to be fed and tended winter and summer. Others needed meatas much as Pol needed things to keep her warm. Tillie Bocock was glad toknit stockings for the old witch in return for a plump shoat. Tillie hadseveral mouths to feed. Her man was a no-account, who spent his timefishing in summer and hunting in winter, so that all the work fell toTillie. Day by day she tended and fed the shoat. It wasblack-and-white-spotted and fat as a butterball, she and the littleBococks bragged. 

"Another month and you can butcher that shoat. " Old Pol would stop in atTillie's every time she went down the mountain, eyeing the fat pig. Sometimes she would put the palms of her dirty hands against her mouthand rub the black hair back to this side and to that, then she'd strokeher chin as though her black beard hung far down. Pol would make aclucking sound with her tongue. "Wisht I was chawin' on a juicy spareribor gnawin' me a greasy pig's knuckle right now, " she'd say. Then Polwould begin on a long tale of witchery: how she had seen young husbandsunder the spell of her craft grow faithless to young, pretty wives; howchildren gained power over their parents through her and had their ownwill in all things, even to getting title to house and land from thembefore it should have been theirs. She told how Luther Trumbo's Johntook with barking fits like a dog and became a hunchback over night. "Why? Becaze he made mauck of Pol Gentry, that's why!" She rubbed adirty hand around her hairy mouth and cackled gleefully. 

At that Tillie Bocock turned to her frightened children huddled behindher chair. "Get you gone, the last one of you out to the barn. Suchwitchy talk is not for young ears. "

Then old Pol Gentry scowled at Tillie and her sharp eyes flashed and shepuffed her lips in and out. Pol didn't say anything but Tillie could seeshe was miffed and there was in her sharp eyes a look that said, "Nevermind, Tillie Bocock, you'll pay for this. "

Next morning Pol Gentry was up bright and early, rattling the pot on thestove and grumbling to herself. "I'll show Tillie Bocock a thing or two. So I will. Sending her young ones out of my hearing. "

Far down the ridge Tillie Bocock was up early too, for already the sunwas bright and there was corn to hoe. Tillie and the children had washedthe dishes, and she had carried out the soapy dishwater with cornbreadscraps mixed in it and poured it in the trough for the pig. "Spotty, "they called their pet. The Bococks had no planks with which to make aseparate pen for the spotted pig so they kept its trough in a corner ofthe chicken lot. 

"Mazie, you and Saphroney go fetch a bucket of cold water for Spotty, "Tillie called to her two eldest. "A pig likes a cold drink now and thensame as we do. " So off the children went with the cedar bucket to thespring. When they returned they poured some of the water into thedishpan and Spotty sucked it up greedily while they hurried to pour therest into the mudhole where the pig liked to wallow. 

The sun caked the mud on the pig's sides and legs as it lay gruntingcontentedly in the chicken yard. 

And when Tillie and the children came in from hoeing corn at dinner timeSpotty still lay snoozing in the sun. An hour later they returned totoss a handful of turnip greens into the pig. But Spotty didn't evengrunt or get up, for on its side was a sleek black cat. A cat with greeneyes stretched full length working its claws into the pig's muddy sides, now with the front paws, now with the hind ones. 

The children screamed and stomped a foot. "Scat! Scat!" they cried butthe black cat only turned its fierce eyes toward them. 

Hearing their screams Tillie came running out. She fluttered her apronat the cat to scare it away but it only snarled, showing its teeth, lifting its bristling whiskers. Then Tillie picked up a stone and threwit as hard as she could, striking the cat squarely between the eyes. Itscreamed like a human, Tillie told afterwards. Loud and wild itscreamed, and leaping off the pig it darted off quick as a flash. 

When the cat reached the cliff halfway up the mountain that led towardPol Gentry's it turned around and looked back. With one paw uplifted itwiped its face for there was blood pouring out of the cut between itsshining green eyes. It twitched its mouth till the black fur stood up. 

"Come, get up, Spotty!" Tillie and the children coaxed the pig. "Here'smore dishwater slop for you. Here's some cornbread!"

Slowly the pig got to its knees, then to its feet. It grunted once onlyand fell over dead. 

After that old Pol Gentry wasn't seen for days. But when Tillie Bocockdid catch sight of her, Pol turned off from the footpath and hurriedaway. Even so Tillie saw the deep gash in Pol's forehead oozing bloodright between her eyes. She saw Pol Gentry's mouth widen angrily and theblack hair about it twitch like that of a snarling cat, as she slunkaway. 

 THE DEER WOMAN AND THE FAWN

Amos Tingley, a bachelor, and a miser as well, lived in Laurel Hollow. Nearby was a salt lick for deer. Often he saw them come there a few at atime, lick the salt, and scamper away. There were two he noticed inparticular, a mother and its fawn. They had come nearer than the saltlick--into his garden--more than once and trampled what they did notlike, or nibbled to the very ground things that suited their taste, vegetables that Amos had toiled to plant and grow. He didn't want toharm the animals if it could be helped so Amos thought to make a pet ofthe fawn. When a boy he had had a pet fawn, carried it in his arms. Heeven brought it into the house and when it grew older the littlecreature followed at his heels like a dog. He reached a friendly handtoward this fawn in his garden but it kicked up its heels and fairlyflew down the garden path. However, the mother, watching her chance whenAmos had returned to the house, led her fawn into the garden again andtogether they ate their fill of the choicest green things. 

It annoyed Amos Tingley no little. He determined to put a stop to it. One evening he greased his old squirrel rifle. He took lead balls out ofthe leather pouch that hung on the wall, rolled them around in the palmof his hand, and wondered when his chance would come to use them. As hesat turning the thoughts over in his mind pretty Audrey Billberry andher little girl, Tinie, came along the road. Audrey was a widow. Hadbeen since Tinie was six months old. Some wondered how she got along. But Audrey Billberry was never one to complain and if neighbors wentthere she always urged them to stay and eat. If it was winter, there wasplenty of rabbit stew and turnips and potatoes, or squirrel and quail. Audrey loved wild meat. "It's cleaner, " she'd say, "and sweeter. Sweetmeats make pretty looks. " Audrey smiled and showed her dimples andlittle Tinie patted her mother's hand and looked up admiringly into herface. Then off the two would skip through the woods to gather greens orberries, chestnuts or wild turkey eggs, whatever the season might bring. 

Sometimes they went hand in hand, Audrey and the child, past AmosTingley's place. 

"Good day, to you, " pretty Audrey Billberry would call out and Tiniewould say the same. "How goes it with you today, good neighbor?"

"Well enough, " Amos answered, "and better still if I can get rid of thatpestering deer and her fawn. The two have laid waste my garden patch. See yonder!" he pointed with the squirrel rifle. "And it won't be goodfor the two the next time they come nibbling around here!"

Pretty Audrey Billberry gripped little Tinie's hand until the childsquealed and hopped on one foot. They looked at each other, then at thegun. Fright came into their eyes. Audrey tried to laugh lightly. "Whenyou kill that deer be sure to bring me a piece, neighbor Tingley, " shesaid, as unconcerned as you please, and away she went with the littlegirl at her side. When they reached home Audrey Billberry turned thewood button on the door and flung back her head. "Kill a deer and herfawn! There is no fear, Tinie. Why"--she scoffed--"Amos Tingley's gotonly lead to load his rifle. I saw. " She put her hands to her sides andlaughed and danced around the room. "Lead can't kill a deer and herfawn. It takes silver! Silver! Do you hear that, Tinie? Silver hammeredand molded round to load the gun. And when, I'd like to know, wouldskinflint Amos Tingley, the miser, ever destroy a silver coin bypounding it into a ball to load a gun? There's nothing to fear. Resteasy, Tinie. Besides all living creatures must eat. It is their right. Only silver, remember, not lead, can harm the deer. A miser will keephis silver and let his garden go!" She caught little Tinie by both handsand skipped to and fro across the floor, saying over and over, "Onlysilver can harm the deer. "

The wind caught up her words and carried them through the trees, acrossthe ridge into Laurel Hollow. 

While Audrey and Tinie skipped and frolicked and chanted, "Only silvercan harm the deer, " Amos Tingley, the miser, over in Laurel Hollow wasbusy at work. He took a silver coin from the leather poke in his pocketand hammered it flat on the anvil in his barn. Thin as paper he hammeredit until he could roll it easily between thumb and finger. Then aroundand around he rolled it between his palms until there was a ball asround and as firm as ever was made with a mold. Amos put it in hisrifle. 

The next morning when he went out to work in his garden there wasscarcely a head of cabbage left. The bunch beans he had been saving backand the cut-short beans had been plucked and the row of sweet corn whichhe had planted so carefully along the fence-row had been stripped to thelast roasting ear. He stooped down to look at the earth. "Footprints ofthe deer and the fawn, without a doubt. But she must have worn an apronor carried a basket to take away so much. " Amos shook his head inperplexity. Then he hurried back to the house to get his gun. 

"Right here do I wait. " He braced himself in the doorway, back to thejam, knees jackknifed, gun cocked. "Here do I wait until I catch sightof that doe and her fawn. "

It wasn't long till the two appeared on a nearby ridge, pranking to andfro. Into the forest they scampered, then out again, frisking up theirhind feet, then standing still as rocks and looking down at Amos Tingleyin his doorway. 

Then Amos lifted his gun, pulled the trigger. 

The fawn darted away but the deer fell bleeding with a bullet in theleg. 

"Let her bleed! Bleed till there's not a drop of blood left in her veinsand my silver coin is washed back to my own hands!" That was the wish ofAmos Tingley, the miser. He went back into the house and put his gun inthe corner. 

When darkness came little Tinie Billberry stood sobbing at AmosTingley's door. "Please to come, " she pleaded. "My mother says she'lldie if you don't. She wants to make amends!"

"Amends?" gasped Amos Tingley. "Amends for what?"

But Tinie had dashed away in the darkness. 

When Amos reached pretty Audrey Billberry's door, he found her pale inthe candlelight, her ankle shattered and bleeding. The foot rested in abasin. 

"See what you've done, Amos Tingley. " The pretty widow liftedtear-dimmed eyes, while Tinie huddled shyly behind her. "A pitcher ofwater, quick, Tinie, to wash away the blood!"

As the child poured the water over the bleeding foot, Amos heardsomething fall into the basin. He caught the flash of silver. Amos stoodspeechless. 

In the basin lay the silver ball the miser had made from a coin. 

"Never tell!" cried pretty Audrey Billberry, her dark eyes starting fromthe bloodless face. "Never tell and I promise, I promise and so doesTinie--see we promise together. "

The child had put down the pitcher and came shyly to rest her head uponher mother's shoulder, her small hand in Audrey's. 

"We promise, " they spoke together, "never, never again to bother yourgarden!"

They kept their word all three, Amos Tingley and pretty Audrey Billberryand little Tinie. But somebody told, for the tale still lives in LaurelHollow of the miser and the deer woman and the little fawn. 

 GHOST OF DEVIL ANSE

Near the village of Omar, Logan County, in the hills of West Virginiathere is a little burying ground that looks down on Main Island Creek. It is a family burying ground, you soon discover when you climb thenarrow path leading to the sagging gate in the rickety fence thatencloses it. There are a number of graves, some with head stones, somewithout. But one grave catches the eye, for above it towers a whitemarble statue. The statue of a mountain man, you know at once by theimposing height, the long beard, the sagging breeches stuffed intohigh-topped boots. Drawing nearer, you read the inscription upon thebroad stone base upon which the statue rests:

 CAPT. ANDERSON HATFIELD

and below the names of his thirteen children:

 JOHNSON WM. A. ROBERT L. NANCY ELLIOTT R. MARY ELIZABETH ELIAS TROY JOSEPH D. ROSE WILLIS E. TENNIS

You lift your eyes again to the marble statue. If you knew him in life, you'll say, "This is a fine likeness--and a fine piece of marble. "

"His children had it done in Italy, " someone offers the information. 

"So, " you say to yourself, "this is the grave of Devil Anse Hatfield. "

You've seen all there is to see. You're ready to go, if you are likehundreds of others who visit the last resting place of the leader of theHatfield-McCoy feud. But, if you chance to tarry--say, in the fall whenfogs are heavy there in the Guyan Valley, through which Main IslandCreek flows--you may see and hear things strangely unaccountable. 

Close beside the captain's grave is another. On the stone is carved thename--Levisa Chafin Hatfield. If you were among the many who attendedher funeral you will remember how peaceful she looked in her blackburying dress she'd kept so long for the occasion. Again you will seeher as she lay in her coffin, hands primly folded on the black frock, the frill of lace on the black bonnet framing the careworn face. Youlook up suddenly to see a mountain woman in a somber calico frock andslat bonnet. She is putting new paper flowers, to take the place of thefaded ones, in the glass-covered box between the grave of Devil Anse andthe mother of his children. 

"You best come home with me, " she invites with true hospitality, afteran exchange of greetings. You learn that Molly claims kin to both sides, being the widow of a Hatfield and married to a McCoy, and at once youare disarmed. 

That night as you sit with Molly in the moonlight in the dooryard of hershack, a weather-beaten plank house with a clapboard roof and a crookedstone chimney, she talks of life in the West Virginia hills. "There's aheap o' things happens around this country that are mighty skeery. "Suddenly in the gloaming a bat wings overhead, darts inside the shack. You can hear it blundering around among the rafters. An owl screechesoff in the hollow somewhere. "Do you believe in ghosts and haynts?"There are apprehension and fear in Molly's voice. 

Presently the owl screeches dolefully once more and the bat wheels lowoverhead. A soft breeze stirs the pawpaw bushes down by the fence row. "Did you hearn something mourn like, just then?" Molly, the widow of aHatfield and wife of a McCoy, leans forward. 

If you are prudent you make no answer to her questions. 

"Nothing to be a-feared of, I reckon. The ghosts of them that has beenbaptized they won't harm nobody. I've heard Uncle Dyke Garrett say asmuch many's the time. " The woman speaks with firm conviction. 

A moth brushes her cheek and she straightens suddenly. 

The moon is partly hidden behind a cloud; even so by its faint light youcan see the clump of pawpaw bushes, and beyond--the outline of therugged hills. Farther off in the burying ground atop the ridge themarble figure of the leader of the Hatfields rises against thehalf-darkened sky. 

At first you think it is the sound of the wind in the pines far off inthe hollow, then as it moves toward the burying ground it changes tothat of low moaning voices. 

You feel Molly's arm trembling against your own. 

"Listen!" she whispers fearfully, all her courage gone. "It's Devil Anseand his boys. Look yonder!"--she tugs at your sleeve--"See for yourselfthey're going down to the waters of baptism!"

Following the direction of the woman's quick trembling hand you strainforward. 

At first there seems to be a low mist rolling over the burying groundand then suddenly, to your amazement, the mist or cloud dissolves itselfinto shafts or pillars of the height of the white figure of Devil Anseabove the grave. They form in line and now one figure, the taller, movesahead of all the rest. Six there were following the leader. You seedistinctly as they move slowly through the crumbling tombstones, downthe mountain side toward the creek. 

"Devil Anse and his boys, " repeats the trembling Molly, "going down intothe waters of baptism. They ever do of a foggy night in the fallingweather. And look yonder! There's the ghost too of Uncle Dyke Garretta-waiting at the water's edge. He's got the Good Book opened wide in hishand. "

Whether it is the giant trunk of a tree with perhaps a leafless branchextended, who can say? Or is nature playing a prank with your vision?But, surely, in the eerie moonlight there seems to appear the figure ofa man with arm extended, book in hand, waiting to receive the sevenphantom penitents moving slowly toward the water's edge. 

After that you don't lose much time in being on your way. And if anyoneshould ask you what of interest is to be seen along Main Island Creek, if you are prudent you'll answer, "The marble statue of Capt. AndersonHatfield. " And if you knew him in life you'll add, "And a fine likenessit is too. "

 THE WINKING CORPSE

On the night of June 22, 1887, the bodies of four dead men lay wrappedin sheets on cooling boards in the musty sitting room of an old boardinghouse in Morehead, Rowan County, Kentucky. Only the bullet-shatteredfaces, besmeared with blood, were exposed. Their coffins had not yetarrived from the Blue Grass. No friend or kinsman watched beside thebier that sultry summer night; they had prudently kept to their homes, for excitement ran high over the battle that had been fought that day infront of the old hostelry which marked, with the death of the four, theend of the Martin-Tolliver feud. 

While the bodies lay side-by-side in the front part of the shamblinghouse, there sat in the kitchen, so the story goes, a slatternly oldcrone peeling potatoes for supper--should the few straggling boardersreturn with an appetite, now that all the shooting was over. 

It was the privilege of old women like Phronie in the mountains ofKentucky to go unmolested and help out as they felt impelled in times oftroubles such as these between the Martins and Tollivers. 

The place was strangely quiet. Indeed the old boarding house wasdeserted. For those who had taken the law in their own hands that day inRowan County had called a meeting at the courthouse farther up the road. The citizenry of the countryside, save kin and friend of the slainfeudists, had turned out to attend. 

"Nary soul to keep watch with the dead, " Phronie complained under herbreath. "It's dark in yonder. Dark and still as the grave. A body's gotto have light. How else can they see to make it to the other world?" Shepaused to sharpen her knife on the edge of the crock, glancingcautiously now and then toward the door of the narrow hallway that ledto the room where the dead men lay. 

The plaintive call of a whippoorwill far off beyond Triplett Creek, where one of the men had been killed that day, drifted into the quiethouse. 

"It's a sorry song for sorry times, " murmured old Phronie, "and it oughtto tender the heart of them that's mixed up in these troubles. No how, whosoever's to blame, the dead ort not to be forsaken. "

There was a sound behind her. Phronie turned to see the hall dooropening slowly. "Who's there?" she called. But no one answered. The dooropened wider. But no one entered. 

"It's a sign, " the old woman whispered. "Well, no one can ever sayPhronie forsaken the dead. " It was as though the old crone answered anunspoken command. She put down the crock of potatoes and the paringknife. Wiping her hands on her apron, Phronie took the oil lamp, withits battered tin reflector, from the wall. "Can't no one ever say Iforsaken the dead, " she repeated, "nor shunned a sign or token. Thedead's got to have light same as the living. "

Holding the lamp before her, she passed slowly along the narrow hall onto the room where the dead men lay wrapped in their sheets. She drew achair from a corner and climbed upon it and hung the lamp above themantel. It was the chair on which Craig Tolliver, alive and boastful andfearless, had sat that morning when she had brought him hot coffee andcornbread while he kept an eye out for the posse, the self-appointedcitizens who later killed the Tolliver leader and his three companions. 

The flickering light of the oil lamp fell upon the ghastly faces of thedead men. 

For a moment the old woman gazed at the still forms. Then suddenly herglance fixed itself upon the face of Craig Tolliver. 

Slowly the lashes of Craig's right eye moved ever so slightly. 

Phronie was sure of it. She gripped the back of the chair on which shestood to steady herself, for now the lid of the dead man's eye twitchedconvulsively. As the trembling old woman gaped, the eye of the slainfeudist opened and shut. Not once, but three times, quick as a wink. 

"God-a-mighty!" shrieked Phronie, "he ain't dead! Craig Tolliver ain'tdead!" She leaped from the chair and ran fast as her crooked old limbswould carry her, shrieking as she went, "Craig Tolliver ain't dead!"

Some say it was just the notion of an old woman gone suddenly ravingcrazy, though others, half believing, still tell the story of thewinking corpse. 

 THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN GABLES

About halfway between the thriving, up-to-date, electrically lightedCity of Ashland, Boyd County, Kentucky, with its million-dollar steelmills, and Grayson, the county seat of Carter County, Kentucky, therestands on the hillside a few rods from the modern highway U. S. 60, alittle white cottage with green gables. 

Within a mile or so of the place unusual road signs catch your eye. White posts, each surmounted by a white open scroll. There are ten ofthem, put there, no doubt, by some devoted pilgrim. There is one foreach of the Ten Commandments. You read carefully one after the other. The one nearest the point where you turn off on a dirt road that leadsto the white house with the green gables reads

 Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother. 

You leave your car at the side of the dirt road near U. S. 60, and go onfoot the rest of the way. 

You wonder, as you look at the beauty of the well-kept lawn, thecarefully planted hedge and cedars, the step stone walk that leads upthe sloping hill to the door, at the silence of the place. As you drawnearer, you wonder at the uncurtained windows, neat, small-panedcasements with neither shade nor frill. 

You learn that the place has stood untenanted for years. Truth to tellit has never been occupied. Some call it the haunted house with thegreen gables. 

Some will tell you there is a shattered romance behind the empty, green-gabled house. Others contend it _is_ tenanted. They have seen alovely woman, lamp in hand, move about from room to room through thequiet night and stand sometimes beside the window up under the greengable that looks toward the west. She seems to be watching and waiting, they say. But when the day dawns woman and lamp vanish into thin air. 

Others will tell you that an eccentric old man built the house for hisparents long since dead. He believes, so they say--this old eccentricman living somewhere in the Kentucky hills (they are not sure of theexact location)--that his parents will return. Not as an aged couple, feeble and bent as they died, but in youth, happy and healthful. This"eccentric" son himself now stooped with age, with silver hair andfaltering step, built the pretty white house that his parents might havebeauty in a dwelling such as they never knew in their former life onearth. The old fellow himself, so the story goes, makes many a nocturnalvisit to the dream house, hoping to find his parents returned andhappily living within its paneled walls. 

There are all sorts of stories, varying in their nature according to thedistance of their origin from the green-gabled house. 

Curious people have come all the way from the Pacific Coast to see it, from New England and Maine, from Canada and Utah. 

As the years go by the legend grows. 

"Oh, yes, I've seen the haunted house with the green gables, " some willsay, glowing with satisfaction. "And they do say the eccentric old manwho built it for his parents has silent, trusty Negro servants dressedin spotless white who stand behind the high-backed chair of the masterand mistress at the table laden with gleaming silver and a sumptuousfeast. The old man firmly believes his parents will return!"

What with the increasing stories you decide to take a look for yourself. I did, accompanied by a newsman and a photographer. 

Nothing like getting proof of the pudding. 

Out you go, under cover of darkness, equipped with flashlights and flashbulbs. A haunted house, you calculate, will be much more intriguing bynight. Stealthily you draw near. You peer into the windows, theuncurtained windows, in breathless awe prepared to see the lady with thelamp floating from room to room, hoping to glimpse the spectral coupleseated at table in the high-paneled dining hall of which you have heardso many tales. Tales of gleaming silver, white-clad Negro servantsbowing with deference before the master and mistress of the green-gabledhouse. 

Through the uncurtained windows you gape wide-eyed. Instead of the sceneyou expected, there looms before your eyes plunder of all sorts tossedabout helter-skelter: sections of broken bookcases, old tables, mustybooks, broken-down chairs. 

You are about to retreat in utter disgust when you hear the sound offootsteps on the cobblestone walk that leads around the house. The sounddraws nearer. 

The wary photographer pulls his flashlight. Its bright beam plays uponthe stone walk, catching first in its lighted circle the feet of a man. The light plays upward quickly. It holds now in its bright orb thesmiling face of a man. A middle-aged man with pleasant blue eyes. 

"--could--we see--the owner of this place?" stammers the reporter. 

"You're looking at him, sir!" the fellow replies courteously. "What canI do for you?" It is a pleasant voice with an accent that is almostHarvard. 

"Who--who--are you?" the reporter stammers. 

"Hedrick's my name. Ray Hedrick! What's yours?"

When the uninvited visitors have identified themselves the owner invitesyou most graciously to take a seat on the doorstep. 

You learn that this "eccentric old man, " of whom you have heard suchridiculously fantastic tales, is and has been for a number of yearstelegraph operator for the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad at their littlewayside station, Kilgore. It is within a few miles of the mill town ofthriving Ashland, Boyd County, Kentucky, and the county seat of CarterCounty. The little railroad station is within a stone's throw, as thecrow flies, of "the haunted house. "

"Pleasant weather we are having, " the owner observes casually. 

"Yes, " the reporter replies reluctantly, "but this house--here"--thereporter is obviously peeved for having been snipe-hunting--"what aboutthis house?"

"Well, " drawls the owner tolerantly, "a house can't help what's beentold about it, can it?"

"But how did the story get started--about it being haunted?" thereporter is persistent. 

The owner jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of U. S. 60. "Is that your car parked over there?"

There is in his tone that which impels you to stand not on the order ofyour going. You go at once--annoyed at being no nearer the answer thanwhen you came. 

And still the curious continue to motor miles and miles to see thehaunted house with the green gables. 

 8. SINGING ON THE MOUNTAIN SIDE

Though there were and are people in the Blue Ridge Country who, likeJilson Setters, the Singin' Fiddler of Lost Hope Hollow, can neitherread nor write, such obstacles have meant no bar to their poetic bent. They sing with joy and sorrow, with pride and pleasure, of the sceneabout them, matching their skill with that of old or young who boast ofbook learning. 

 OF LAND AND RIVER

 APPALACHIA

 Clothed in her many hues of green, Far Appalachia rises high And takes a robe of different hue To match the seasons passing by. 

 Her summits crowned by nature's hand, With grass-grown balds for all to see, Her towering rocks and naked cliffs Hid by some overhanging tree. 

 In early spring the Maple dons Her bright red mantle overnight; The Beech is clad in dainty tan, The Sarvis in a robe of white. 

 The Red Bud in profusion blooms And rules the hills a few short days, And Dogwoods with their snowy white Are mingled with its purple blaze. 

 High on the frowning mountain side Azaleas bloom like tongues of flame, The Laurel flaunts her waxy pink, And Rhododendrons prove their fame. 

 Then comes the sturdy Chestnut tree With plumes like waving yellow hair, And Wild Grapes blossom at their will To scent the glorious mountain air. 

 But when the frost of autumn falls, Like many other fickle maids, She lays aside her summer robes And dons her gay autumnal shades. 

 Oh, Appalachia, loved by all! Long may you reign, aloof, supreme, In royal robes of nature's hues, A monarch proud--a mountain Queen. 

 --Martha Creech

 BIG SANDY RIVER

 Big Sandy, child of noble birth, Majestically you roll along, True daughter of the Cumberlands, With heritage of wealth and song. 

 Free as the hills from whence you came, In folklore and tradition bound, You seek the valleys deep and wide, With frowning forests girded round. 

 Descendants of a stalwart breed And fed by nature's lavish hand, You carry on your bosom broad The riches of a virgin land. 

 When ringing ax of pioneers The silence of the forests broke, Upon your rising crest you bore The poplar and the mighty oak. 

 The push boat launched by brawny arms And filled with treasure from the earth Has drifted on your current strong From out the hills that gave you birth. 

 And steamboats loaded to the hold You swept upon your swelling tide, 'Til fruits of sturdy, mountain toil Were scattered out both far and wide. 

 The Dew Drop plowed your mighty waves. From Catlettsburg to old Pike Town, To bring her loads of manmade gifts And carry homespun products down. 

 And Market Boy, that far-famed craft, Churned through the foam, her holds to fill, And proudly reared her antlered head A trophy rare of mountain skill. 

 --D. Preston

 OLD TIME WATERFRONT

 Come all you old-time rivermen And go along with me, Let's sing a song and give a cheer For the days that used to be. 

 Let's wander down to Catlettsburg And look upon the tide. We'll mourn the changes time has made There by the river side. 

 Gone is the old-time waterfront That rang with joy and mirth, And known throughout a dozen states As "the wettest spot on earth. "

 And Damron's famed Black Diamond, The logger's paradise, Where whiskey flowed like water And timbermen swapped lies. 

 Here Big Wayne ruled in splendor; His right, none would deny. And Little Wayne was always there To serve the rock and rye. 

 And Big Wayne never failed a friend, Or stopped to chat or lie, And no one entering his doors Was known to leave there dry. 

 And many a time some timberman Would land himself in jail, But Big Wayne always lent a hand, And went the wretch's bail. 

 Some of the buildings still are there, Along the old-time ways. Silent and dark their windows stare Gray ghosts of bygone days. 

 No sound of merriment or song, No dancing footsteps fall; The days of fifty years ago, Are gone beyond recall. 

 So to Big Wayne and Little Wayne, Big Sandy's pride and boast, And to the old-time waterfront, Let's drink a farewell toast. 

 While to the old-time timbermen, This song we'll dedicate, Who fought their battles with their fists, And took their whiskey straight. 

 --Coby Preston

 WEST VIRGINIA

There is singing in the mountain where the sturdy hill folk meet, There is singing in the valleys where the days are warm and sweet, There is singing in the cities where the crowds of workers throng, Wherever we meet, no day is complete, for West Virginians without a song. 

West Virginia, land of beauty, West Virginia, land of song, West Virginia, hear the singing of the crystal mountain streams, Songs of joy and songs of power to fulfill man's mightiest dreams, West Virginia, hear the singing of thy shadowed forest trees, Holding the winds, holding the floods, so that thy sons may be at ease. 

West Virginia, land of beauty, West Virginia, land of song. 

 --Esther Eugenia Davis

 SKYLINE DRIVE

 The Skyline Drive is not a road To bring you near the skies Where you can sit and gather clouds That flit before your eyes, Or jump upon a golden fleece And sail to paradise-- But it is a super-mountain road Where you can feast your eyes Upon the beauties of the world The Lord God gave to man For his enjoyment and his use; Improve it if you can. The builders of this Skyline Drive Have filed no patent right That they improved upon God's plan, Nor have more power and might; But they have seen His handiwork, This panoramic view, Have paved this road to ease the load Of all the world and you. This is akin to hallowed ground, A sacred beauty shrine; Its fame has traveled all around; It now is yours and mine. There's little points of vantage--views, Where you can see afar-- Compare the beauty with that land That stands with "Gates Ajar. " The people who have given much To save this precious shrine Must surely all be friends of God And friends of yours and mine. 

 --George A. Barker

 FEUD

 THE LOVE OF ROSANNA McCOY

 Come and listen to my story Of fair Rosanna McCoy. She loved young Jonse Hatfield, Old Devil Anse's boy. 

 But the McCoys and Hatfields Had long engaged in strife, And never the son of a Hatfield Should take a McCoy to wife. 

 But when they met each other, On Blackberry Creek, they say, She was riding behind her brother, When Jonse came along that way. 

 "Who is that handsome fellow?" She asked young Tolbert McCoy. Said he, "Turn your head, sister. That's Devil Anse's boy. "

 But somehow they met each other, And it grieved the Hatfields sore; While Randall, the young girl's father, Turned his daughter from the door. 

 It was down at old Aunt Betty's They were courting one night, they say, When down came Rosanna's brothers And took young Jonse away. 

 Rosanna's heart was heavy, For she hoped to be his wife, And well she knew her brothers Would take his precious life. 

 She ran to a nearby pasture And catching a horse by the mane, She mounted and rode like a soldier, With neither saddle nor rein. 

 Her golden hair streamed behind her, Her eyes were wild and bright, As she urged her swift steed forward And galloped away in the night. 

 Straight to the Hatfields' stronghold, She rode so fearless and brave, To tell them that Jonse was in danger And beg them his life to save. 

 And the Hatfields rode in a body. They saved young Jonse's life; But never, they said, a Hatfield Should take a McCoy to wife. 

 But the feud is long forgotten And time has healed the sting, As little Bud and Melissy This song of their kinsmen sing. 

 No longer it is forbidden That a fair-haired young McCoy Shall love her dark-eyed neighbor Or marry a Hatfield boy. 

 And the people still remember, Though she never became his bride, The love of these young people And Rosanna's midnight ride. 

 --Coby Preston

 LEGEND

 THE ROBIN'S RED BREAST

Through the southern mountains the Robin is often called the "ChristBird" because of this legend. It is also called "Love Bird. "

 The Savior hung upon the cross, His body racked with mortal pain; The blood flowed from His precious wounds And sweat dropped from His brow like rain. 

 A crown of thorns was on His head, The bitter cup He meekly sips; His life is ebbing fast away, A prayer upon His blessed lips. 

 No mercy found He anywhere, He said, "My Father knoweth best. " A little bird came fluttering down And hovered near his bleeding breast. 

 It fanned His brow with gentle wings, Into the cup it dipped its beak; And gazed in pity while He hung And bore His pain so calm and meek. 

 At last the bird it flew away And sought the shelter of its nest; Its feathers dyed with crimson stain, The Savior's blood upon its breast. 

 The lowly robin, so 'tis said, That comes to us in early spring, Is that which hovered near the cross And wears for aye that crimson stain. 

 --Martha Creech

 JENNIE WYLIE

Thomas Wiley, husband of Jennie Sellards Wylie, was a native of Ireland. They lived on Walker's Creek in what is now Tazewell County, Virginia. She was captured by the Indians in 1790. Her son Adam was sometimescalled Adam Pre Vard Wiley. 

 Among the hills of old Kentucky, When homes were scarce and settlers few, There lived a man named Thomas Wylie, His wife and little children two. 

 They left their home in old Virginia, This youthful pair so brave and strong. And built a cabin in the valley Where fair Big Sandy flows along. 

 Poor Thomas left his home one morning, He kissed his wife and children dear; He little knew that prowling Indians Around his home were lurking near. 

 They waited in the silent woodland Till came the early shades of night; Poor Jennie and her young brother Were seated by the fireside bright. 

 They peeped inside the little cabin And saw the children sleeping there. These helpless ones were unprotected And Jennie looked so white and fair. 

 They came with tomahawks uplifted And gave the war whoop fierce and wild; Poor Jennie snatched her nursing baby; They killed her brother--her oldest child. 

 They took poor Jennie through the forest And while they laughed in fiendish glee, A redskin took the baby from her And dashed out its brains against a tree. 

 They traveled down the Sandy valley Until they reached Ohio's shore; They told poor Jennie she would never See home or husband any more. 

 For two long years they kept her captive, And one dark night she stole away, And many miles she put behind her Before the dawning of the day. 

 Straight for home the brave woman headed As on her trail the redskins came; The creek down which she fled before them To this day bears poor Jennie's name. 

 She reached the waters of Big Sandy And plunged within the swollen tide. The thriving little town of Auxier Now stands upon the other side. 

 Her husband welcomed her, though bearing A child sired by an Indian bold; He proudly claimed the stalwart Adam, Whose blood descendants are untold. 

 --Luke Burchett

 MOUNTAIN PREACHER

 When the Sabbath day is dawning in the mountains, And the air is filled with bird song sweet and clear, Once again I think of him who lives in spirit, Though his voice has silent been for many a year. 

 And the music of the simple prayer he uttered Seems to echo from the highest mountain peak, And the people still respect the holy teaching Of that mountain preacher, Zepheniah Meek. 

 I can see him there upon the wooded hillside, While between two giant Trees of Heaven he stood, And the blue skies formed a canopy above them, As befitting one so humble, wise and good. 

 And he reads of how the Tree of Life is blooming, From the thumbworn leaves of God's own book of love, While the wind sweeps gently through the Trees of Heaven And they seem to whisper softly up above. 

 Oh, your name still lives among Big Sandy's people, Though your earthly form is molding 'neath the sod; May your memory linger in their hearts forever, While your spirit rests in peace at home with God. 

 --D. Preston

 CHURCH IN THE MOUNTAINS

This was composed by a little girl in Rowan County, Kentucky, after shehad been to church in the mountains on Christy Creek in that county in1939. 

 Have you been to church in the mountains? 'Tis a wonderful place to go, Out beneath the spreading branches Where the grass and violets grow. 

 Hats hang around on the trunks, Coats lay across the limbs, No roof above but heaven, They sing the good old hymns. 

 So they pray and preach together And sing in one accord, My heart within rejoices To hear them praise the Lord. 

 Though seats are rough, uneven, And they lay upon the sod, There can be no fault in the building, For the Architect is God. 

 Through years--it's been a custom That prayer should first be made, And then the others follow, Their praises ring in wood and glade. 

 There in the temple of temples, They tell of the glory land, While they beg the many sinners To take a better stand. 

 They beg the sinners to listen As they explain God's love, Telling of home that's waiting In the mansions up above. 

 Still praising God, the Father, Who gave His only Son, The meeting service closes Just as it had begun. 

 --Jessie Stewart

 MOUNTAIN DOCTOR

This ballad was composed and set to tune by Jilson Setters, the Singin'Fiddler of Lost Hope Hollow, who can neither read nor write, yet who hascomposed and set to tune more than one hundred ballads, some of whichthe late Dr. Kittredge of Harvard declared "will live as classics. "

 A very kindly doctor, a friend, I quite well know, He owned a mighty scope of land, some eighty year ago. The doctor had an old-time house, built from logs and clay, A double crib of roughhewn logs, it was built to stay. 

 The doctor he would fish and hunt, He would bring in bear and deer; He was content and happy in his home with his loved ones always near. 

 The doctor owned a faithful horse, He rode him night and day; He had nothing but a bridle path To guide him on his way. 

 The panther was his dreadful foe, It often lingered near; The doctor always went well armed, He seemed to have no fear. 

 He made himself a nice warm coat From the pelt of a brown woolly bear; Often I loved to trace its length With eager hands through shaggy hair. 

 The forepaws fitted round his wrists, The hind parts reached to his thighs, And of the head he made a cap That sheltered both his ears and eyes. 

 The doctor dearly loved the woods, He was raised there from a child; He was very fond of old-time ways, If you scoffed them, he would chide. 

 He was good and sympathetic, He traveled night and day; He doctored many people, Regardless of the pay. 

 Nels Tatum Rice was his name, He was known for miles around; Far beyond the county seat, 'Long the Big Sandy up and down. 

 His mother wove his winter clothes, As a boy he'd case their furs; With them to the county seat, But once a year he'd go. 

 The merchant he would buy the fur, It gladdened the boy's heart. He had money in his jeans, When for home he did start. 

 Boys, them days was full of glee, Both husky, fat and strong. Nels very soon retraced his steps, It didn't take him long. 

 Safely, of home once more in sight, The boy quite glad did feel. For he could hear old Shep dog bark, Hear the hum of the spinning wheel. 

 --Jilson Setters

 MOUNTAIN WOMAN

 'Tain't no use a-sittin' here And peerin' at the sun, A-wishin' I had purty things, Afore my work is done. I best had bug the taters And fetch water from the run And save my time fer wishin' When all my work is done. 

 Paw heerd the squirrels a-barkin' This morning on the hill, And taken him his rifle-gun And tonic fer his chill. Menfolks ain't got no larnin' And have no time to fill; Paw spends his days in huntin' Or putterin' round his still. 

 "'Tain't no use complainin'" Is the song the wood thrush sings, And I don't know of nothin' That's as sweet as what he brings. But I best had comb my honey And churn that sour cream, And listen to the wood thrush When I ketch time to dream. 

 Sometimes I feel so happy As I hoe the sproutin' corn; To hear, far off upon the ridge, The call of Paw's cow horn. Then I know it's time for milkin' And my long day's work is through, And I kin sit upon the stoop And make my dreams come true. 

 I'll dream me a wish fer a shiney new hoe, And some dishes, an ax and a saw: And a calico shroud with a ribbon and bow And a new houn' dawg fer Paw. 

 --John W. Preble, Jr. 

 WOMAN'S WAY

 You like this Circle Star quilt, Miss, you say: I have a favorance for this Flower Bed bright and fair; I made it when my heart was light and gay. Like me, it's much the worse for time and wear. I used it first upon my marriage bed-- And last, when Thomas, my poor man, lay dead. 

 This Nine Patch that is spread across my bed, My Emmy made it in her thirteenth year; I meant for her to claim it when she wed-- Excuse me, Miss, I couldn't help that tear. She sewed her wedding dress so fine and proud-- Before the day, we used it for her shroud. 

 That Double Wedding Ring? poor Granny Day, Before I married Tom, made that for me. A thrifty wife, I used to hear her say, Has kiverlids that all who come may see. She rests there on the knoll f'nenst the rise-- The little grave is where my youngest lies. 

 Dove at the Window was my mother's make, Toad in a Puddle is the oldest one, Old Maid's Ramble and The Lady of the Lake I made for Ned, my oldest son. Hearts and Gizzards make me think of Grandpap Day. "Like Joseph's coat of many colors, Ma, " he'd say. 

 The Snow Ball and the Rose are sister's make, She lived in Lost Hope Hollow acrost yon hill, Poor Jane, she might have had her pick of beaux, She sits alone because it was her will. A wife she never would consent to be, For Jane, she loved the man that favored me. 

 --Martha Creech

 MOUNTAIN SINGERS

 What song is this across the mountain side, Where every leaf bears elements of Him Who is all music? Silences abide With rock and stone. A conscious seraphim Directs the measure, when the need of song Arrives to set the spirit free again. The Mountain Singers, traipsin' along To woody trail and a cabin in the rain, Bring native music fit to cut apart Old enemies with gunshot for the heart. With Singin' Gatherin' and Infare still intact, The Mountain Singers make of ghost, a fact. 

 --Rachel Mack Wilson

 TRAGEDY

 THE ASHLAND TRAGEDY

 One Christmas morn in eighty-one, Ashland, that quiet burg, Was startled--the day had not yet dawned-- When the cry of fire was heard. 

 For well they knew two fair ladies Had there retired to bed. The startled crowd broke in, alas, To find the girls both dead. 

 And from the hissing, seething flames Three bodies did rescue; Poor Emma's and poor Fannie's both, And likewise Bobby's too. 

 And then like Rachel cried of old The bravest hearts gave vent, And all that blessed holiday To Heaven their prayers were sent. 

 Autopsy by the doctors show'd The vilest of all sin, And proved to all beyond a doubt Their skulls had been drove in. 

 And other crimes too vile to name; I'll tell it if I must; A crime that shocks all common sense, A greed of hellish lust. 

 An ax and crowbar there was found Besmeared with blood and hair, Which proved conclusively to all What had transpired there. 

 Two virgin ladies of fourteen, The flower of that town, With all their beauty and fond hopes, By demons there cut down--

 Just blooming into womanhood, So lovely and so true; Bright hopes of long and happy days With morals just and pure. 

 Then Marshal Heflin sallied forth, Was scarcely known to fail, And in ten days had the assassins All safely placed in jail. 

 George Ellis, William Neal and Craft, Some were Kentucky's sons, Near neighbors to the Gibbons' house And were the guilty ones. 

 In this here dark and bloody ground They were true types indeed, Of many demons dead and dam'd Who fostered that same greed. 

 A hellish greed of lust to blast The virtuous and fair, To gratify that vain desire No human life would spare. 

 There Emma Thomas lay in gore, A frightful sight to view; Poor Fanny Gibbons in a crisp, And Bob, her brother, too. 

 Bob was a poor lame crippled boy, Beloved by everyone; His mother's hope, his sister's joy, A kind, obedient son. 

 At that dread sight the mother's grief No mortal tongue can tell. A broken heart, an addled brain, When all should have been well. 

 Both her dear children lying there, Who once so merry laughed. There stiff and stark in death they lay, Cut down by Ellis Craft. 

 That dreadful demon, imp of hell, Consider well his crime; Although he was a preacher's son, Has blackened the foot of time. 

 --Peyton Buckner Byrne

This ballad was composed by Peyton Buckner Byrne of Greenup, GreenupCounty, Kentucky. He is in error in writing the name of Emma Thomas; themurdered girl's name was Emma Carico. The tragedy occurred in the early'80's in the mill town of Ashland, Boyd County, Kentucky, which adjoinsGreenup County. The town of Greenup was formerly called Hangtown becauseof the many hangings which occurred there in the days of the Civil War. Peyton Buckner Byrne was a schoolteacher in that County and one of hisscholars, Miss Tennessee Smith, supplied this copy of the oldschoolteacher's ballad. Ellis Craft is buried on Bear Creek in BoydCounty, not far from Ashland where he committed the crime. 

 THE MORAL OF THE BALLAD

 There's a sad moral to this tale. Now pass the word around; Pull off your shoes now and walk light; Ashland is holy ground. 

 Bill Neal he came from Virginia, A grand and noble State, But his associates were bad And he has shared their fate. 

 Bill Neal he saw Miss Emma Thomas, So beautiful and fair That all his hellish greed of lust Seemed to be centered there. 

 Bill Neal he was a married man, Had children and a wife; And ofttimes bragged what he would do, If it should cost his life. 

 Bill Neal done what he said he would, And yet a greater sin; Then with a great big huge crowbar Broke Emma's skullbones in. 

 Yes, Bill Neal done just what he said, And yet that greater sin, For which the gates of Heaven closed And will not let him in. 

 Now while his victim is in Heaven, Where all things are done well, There with the angels glorified, Bill Neal will go to hell. 

 THE DEATH OF MARY PHAGAN

Leo M. Frank, manager of the pencil factory, was a Jew. Sentiment ranhigh against him at the time of the murder. This ballad was composed byyoung Bob Salyers of Cartersville, Georgia, who heard the story on allsides. He could neither read nor write. 

 Come listen all ye maidens, A story I'll relate Of pretty Mary Phagan And how she met her fate. 

 Her home was in Atlanta And so the people say, She worked in a pencil factory To earn her meager pay. 

 She went down to the office One April day, it's said; The next time that they saw her, Poor Mary, she was dead. 

 They found her outraged body-- Oh, hear the people cry-- "The fiend that murdered Mary Most surely he must die. "

 James Conley told the story, "'Twas Leo Frank, " he said, "He strangled little Mary And left her cold and dead. "

 Now Frank was tried for murder, His guilt he did deny. But the jury found him guilty And sentenced him to die. 

 His life he paid as forfeit; And then there came a time Another man lay dying, And said he did the crime. 

 We do not know for certain, But in the Judgment Day, We know that God will find him And surely make him pay. 

 --Bob Salyers

 THE FATE OF EFFIE AND RICHARD DUKE

 Oh, hearken to this sad warning, You husbands who love your wife, Don't never fly in a passion And take your companion's life. 

 Of Doctor Rich Duke I will tell you, Who lived up Beaver Creek way, He married fair Effie Allen And loved her well, so they say. 

 Both Effie and Rich had money, But he was much older than she, And she said, "All your lands and money Should be deeded over to me. "

 His wife he loved and trusted And he hastened to obey; But the fact he soon regretted That he deeded his riches away. 

 They quarreled and then they parted, The times were more than three, For both of them were stubborn And they never could agree. 

 Now Doctor John, his brother, Was a highly respected man, He brought Effie home one evening, Saying, "Make up your quarrel if you can. "

 And Rich seemed glad to see her, And followed her up the stair, But only God and the angels Know just what happened there. 

 Doctor John was down at the table When he heard the pistol roar; He ran up the stairs in a moment And looked in at the open door. 

 Poor Rich lay there by his pistol With a bullet through his brain, And Effie lay there dying Writhing in mortal pain. 

 They were past all human succor, No earthly power could save; And they took their secrets with them To the land beyond the grave. 

 Now all you wives and husbands, Take heed to this warning true. Never quarrel over lands and money Or some day the fact you will rue. 

 --Coby Preston

 THE FATE OF FLOYD COLLINS

This ballad was composed in 1925 by Jilson Setters, when Floyd Collinswas trapped in a salt mine near Mammoth Cave, Kentucky. 

 Come all you friends and neighbors And listen to what I say, I'll relate to you a story, Of a man who passed away. He struggled hard for freedom, His heart was true and brave, While his comrades they were toiling His precious life to save. 

 His name was Floyd Collins, Exploring he did crave. But he never dreamed that he'd be trapped In a lonely sandstone cave. His entrance it was easy, His heart was light and gay, But his mind was filled with trouble When he found he'd lost his way. 

 He wandered through the cavern, He knew not where to go, He knew he was imprisoned, His heart was full of woe. He started for the entrance That he had passed that day. A large and mighty boulder Had slipped down in his way. 

 The stone was slowly creeping But that he did not know, Underneath he found an opening He thought that he could go. He soon got tired and worried, He soon then had to rest, The boulder still was creeping, It was tightening on his chest. 

 He lost all hopes of freedom, No farther could he go; His agony was desperate, That you all well know. His weeping parents lingered near; A mother gray and old. Soon poor Floyd passed away And heaven claimed his soul. 

 A note was in his pocket, The neighbors chanced to find; These few lines were written While he had strength and mind: "Give this note to mother, Tell her not to cry; Tell her not to wait for me, I will meet her by and by. "

 --Jilson Setters

This ballad was written by fifty-year-old Adam Crisp who lived inFletcher, North Carolina, at the time of Collins' death. Crisp couldneither read nor write but composed many ballads. 

 FLOYD COLLINS' FATE

 Come all you young people And listen to what I tell: The fate of Floyd Collins, Alas, we all know well. His face was fair and handsome, His heart was true and brave, His body now lies sleeping In a lonely sandstone cave. 

 How sad, how sad the story, It fills our eyes with tears, His memory will linger For many, many a year. His broken-hearted father Who tried his boy to save Will now weep tears of sorrow At the door of Floyd's cave. 

 Oh, mother, don't you worry, Dear father, don't be sad; I'll tell you all my troubles In an awful dream I had; I dreamed that I was prisoner, My life could not be saved, I cried, "Oh! must I perish, Within the silent cave?"

 The rescue party gathered, They labored night and day To move the mighty boulder That stood within the way. "To rescue Floyd Collins!" This was the battlecry. "We will never, no, we will never Let Floyd Collins die. "

 But on that fatal morning The sun rose in the sky, The workers still were busy, "We will save him by and by. " But, oh, how sad the evening, His life they could not save, His body then was sleeping Within the lonely cave. 

 Young people all take warning With this, for you and I, We may not be like Collins, But you and I must die. It may not be in a sand cave In which we find our tomb, But at that mighty judgment We soon will find our doom. 

 --Adam Crisp

 PATRIOT

 IT'S GREAT TO BE AN AMERICAN

For long years the members of the Hamm family in Rowan County, Kentucky, both old and young, have gathered on a Sunday in the month of August fortheir mountain Eisteddfod. Upon this occasion there is friendly rivalryas to whose ballad or poem is best, who speaks his composition best. Andthe prize, you may be sure, is not silver but a book of poems. Thiscomposition of Nannie Hamm Carter was read at their mountain Eisteddfodin August, 1940. 

 It's great to be an American, And live on peaceful shores, Where we hear not the sound of marching feet, And the war-clouds come no more. Where the Statue of Liberty ever stands, A beacon of hope for all, Heralding forth to every land That by it we stand or fall. 

 It's great to be an American, For wherever we may go, It is an emblem of truth and right, A challenge to every foe. It's great to be free and unfettered, And know not wars or strife, Where man to man united, Can live a carefree life, While men are falling hour by hour Upon some foreign shore Amidst the roar of battle there, Ne'er to return no more. They're offered as a sacrifice, Upon the altar there, With no one there to sympathize, Or shed for them a tear. 

 Where men are marching 'mid the strife, Where there, day after day, There's danger and there's loss of life Where conquerors hold sway. They bow to rulers' stern commands, They face the deadly foe, While far away in other lands, There's sorrow, pain and woe. 

 But not so in America, The birthplace of the free. For 'midst the conflict Over There, With loss of life and liberty, It's a privilege to know, That in a world, so fraught with pain, We feel secure from every foe Where naught but fellowship remains. 

 For in our free country, We hear not the battlecry, We hear not the bugle's solemn call, When men go forth to die. For over all this land of ours The Stars and Stripes still wave, Waving forth in triumph O'er this homeland of the brave. 

 Hats off! to our own America, With pride we now can say, We bow not down to rulers, For justice still holds sway. God keep us free from scenes like those That are in other lands, Where the shell-shocked and the wounded Are there on every hand. 

 So, it's great to be an American, We'll stand by our flag always, For right shall not perish from the earth As long as truth holds sway; As long as her sons are united In a cause that's just and true, The bells of freedom still will ring, Ring out for me and you. 

 --Nannie Hamm Carter

 SAD LONDON TOWN

Jilson Setters composed and set to tune this ballad and sang it at theAmerican Folk Song Festival in June, 1941, to the delight of a vastaudience. To the surprise of some he pronounces the word bomb, _bum_, like his early English ancestors. 

 Eight years ago I took a trip, I decided to cross the sea; I spent some weeks in London, Everything was strange to me. 

 The city then was perfect peace, They had no thought of fear, Soon then the bombs began to fall, The airplanes hovered near. 

 The people cannot rest at night, Danger lingers nigh, Bombs have dropped on many homes, The innocent had to die. 

 The flying glass cut off their heads, Their hands and noses too; Folks then had to stand their ground, There was nothing else to do. 

 English folks are brave and true, But do not want to fight. The Germans slip into their town And bomb their homes at night. 

 They watch the palace of the King, They watch it night and day; They have a strong and daring guard To keep the foe at bay. 

 --Jilson Setters

The aged fiddler also composed and set to tune the following balladcalled--

 BUNDLES FOR BRITAIN

 Two little children toiled along A steep and lonely mountain road, They heeded not the bitter cold But proudly bore their precious load. 

 I asked them where they might be bound And what their heavy load might be. They said, "We're going to the town To send our load across the sea. 

 "For, far away on England's shore, Our own blood kin still live, you know; They fight to stay the tyrant's hand That threatens freedom to o'erthrow. 

 "And many little homeless ones Are cold and hungry there today, 'Tis them we seek to feed and clothe And every night for them we pray. 

 "Some of them reach our own dear land, While others perish in the sea; And we must help and comfort them Until their land from war is free. "

 Oh, may we like these children face The curse of hate and war's alarm With faith and courage in our hearts And Britain's Bundles 'neath our arms. 

 --Jilson Setters

 SERGEANT YORK

His own favorite ballad, however, is that which he composed and set totune several years ago about Sergeant Alvin C. York, who is JilsonSetters' idea of "a mountain man without nary flaw. "

 'Way down in Fentress County in the hills of Tennessee Lived Alvin York, a simple country lad. He spent his happy childhood with his brothers on the farm, Or at the blacksmith shop with busy dad. 

 He could play a hand of poker, hold his liquor like a man, He did his share of prankin' in his youth; But his dying father left him with the family in his care, And he quickly sought the ways of God and truth. 

 Then came the mighty World War in the year of seventeen, And Uncle Sam sent out his call for men. Poor Alvin's heart was heavy for he knew that he must go, And his Church contended "fighting was a sin. "

 He never questioned orders and did the best he could, And soon a corporal he came to be; He was known throughout the country as the army's fighting ace, Beloved in every branch of infantry. 

 The eighth day of October the Argonne battle raged, Machine guns whined and rifle bullets flew; Then Alvin lost his temper, he said, "I've had enough, I'll show these Huns what Uncle Sam can do. "

 He took his army rifle and his automatic too, And hid himself behind a nearby tree; He shot them like he used to shoot the rabbits and the squirrels Away back home in sunny Tennessee. 

 He took the whole battalion--one-hundred-thirty-two-- While thirty-five machine guns ceased to fire; And twenty German soldiers lay lifeless on the ground As he marched his prisoners through the bloody mire. 

 His name was not forgotten, a hero brave was he, Our country proudly hailed his fearless deeds; He was offered fame and fortune but for these he did not care, His daily toil supplied his simple needs. 

 "I want nothing for myself" he said, "but for the boys and girls, Who live here in the hills of Tennessee, I'd like to have a school for them to teach them how to farm And raise their families in security. "

 His wish was quickly granted. At Jamestown, Tennessee, There stands a school, the mountains' joy and pride; And with his wife and children in the hills he loves so well, He hopes in peace forever to abide. 

 --Jilson Setters

A Tennessee mountaineer, who is proud of his "wight of learning"according to his own words, "put together" this ballad which he calls--

 NORRIS DAM

 At Norris Dam, our Uncle Sam Has wrought a mighty deed. He built a dam, did Uncle Sam, So "all who run may read. "

 He saw the "writing on the wall"-- Called the soothsayers in. Soothsayers all, both great and small Said, "It would be a sin--

 "To let the things God wrought for man Stand idle all the years. But use God's knowledge (in a can), Soothsaying engineers. "

 And so, this miracle today You see with your own eyes, Was planned ten million miles away-- In "mansions in the skies. "

 That pigeonhole is empty there; Now we employ that plan For use and pleasure, down here, where 'Twill be a boon to man. 

 So day by day in every way, At least we're getting wise; And now we play--as well we may-- On playgrounds from the skies. 

 So let us give a rousing cheer For our dear Uncle Sam, Whose mighty arm reached way up there And brought down Norris Dam. 

 --George A. Barker

 THE DOWNFALL OF PARIS

 Oh, come all ye proud and haughty people, Behold a nation plunged in gloom, A country filled with pain and sorrow Since that great city met its doom. 

 They had no thought of this disaster; The Maginot Line could never fail. Then came the downfall of proud Paris; Oh, hear the people mourn and wail. 

 Oh, see the horror and destruction, When death came flying through the air. The people vainly sought a refuge; Oh, friends, take warning and beware. 

 They hear the sound of alien footsteps, The soldiers marching side by side Among the ruins of that great city, A mighty nation's boast and pride. 

 Oh, let us then be wise and careful, And strive to keep our country free; For war is cruel to the helpless, The weak must pay the penalty. 

 God help the rulers of the nations! What is in store, no tongue can tell; But keep in mind the simple story-- The Line was broke and Paris fell. 

 --Coby Preston

 9. RECLAIMING THE WILDERNESS

 VANISHING FEUDIST

There are people all over the United States to whom the mere mention ofthe word mountaineer evokes a fantastic picture--a whiskey-soakedruffian with bloodshot eyes and tobacco-stained beard, wide-brimmed feltcocked over a half-cynical eye, finger on the trigger of a long-barreledsquirrel rifle. He is guarding his moonshine still. Or he may be lyingin wait behind bush or tree to waylay his deadly enemy of the other sidein a long-fought blood-feud. 

Though there may be a semblance of truth in both, such pictures shouldbe taken with a grain of salt. Illicit whiskey has been made in oursouthern mountains, as well as in towns and cities throughout thecountry. There were blood-feuds in bygone days but they have been sooverplayed that scarcely a vestige of the real story remainsrecognizable. Few of the old leaders are left to tell the facts. 

I have known well and claim as my loyal friends members of families whohave been engaged in the making of illicit whiskey. I have known quitewell many members of families on both sides in two of the most famousfeuds in the southern mountains. These people were and are today my goodfriends and neighbors. 

As recently as the fall of 1940, I returned to Morehead, the county seatof Rowan County, for a visit with the Martins and Tollivers. Strangelyenough, upon the day of my arrival I found Lin Martin, son of JohnMartin, who killed Floyd Tolliver, up on a ladder painting the walls ofthe Cozy Theatre. This modern motion-picture theater occupies the siteof the old Carey House where Martin shot Tolliver. Lin was standing inalmost the exact spot where his father stood when he shot FloydTolliver. Most willingly he stepped out into the sunlight, paint brushand bucket in hand to meet and be photographed with Clint Tolliver, ason and nephew of the Tolliver leaders, whose father, Bud, was killed bythe posse in the all-day battle on Railroad Street when the Tolliverband was wiped out. Clint was a nephew of Floyd Tolliver, slain by JohnMartin; he married Mrs. Lucy Trumbo Martin's niece, Texannie Trumbo. 

While the men shook hands in friendly fashion, believe it or not, acrossthe street in the courthouse yard under a great oak, past which JohnMartin was hurried to the safety of the jail, a blind fiddler wassinging the famous ballad composed by a Rowan County minstrel, calledthe Rowan County Troubles. The sons of the feudists smiled blandly. Clint Tolliver is a Spanish American War veteran and Lin's brother, Ben, was a sharpshooter in the World War. 

Both Lin Martin and Clint Tolliver say they have but one regret todayand that is that they are too old to take up their guns to enlist in theUnited States Army. The men and their families are the best of friendsand meet often at social gatherings. 

So feuds die out, though feud tales persist. Old rancors live only inmemory. 

Today in Morehead, the county seat of the once Dark Rowan, there standsa modern State Teachers College on the sloping hillsides within sight ofthe courthouse and street where the Rowan County war was fought. One ofthe halls is called Allie W. Young, taking its name from the Senatorwhose influence brought about the establishment of the college. Young'sfather, Judge Zachariah Taylor Young, was once shot from ambush duringthe troubles. 

This same county is the seat of a native art exhibit which has attractednation-wide attention. It was started many years ago by a descendant ofMary Queen of Scots, Mrs. Lyda Messer Caudill, then a teacher of aone-room log school on Christy Creek. One morning a little boy living atthe head of the hollow brought to school, not a rosy apple (there wasn'ta fruit tree on his place), but clay models he had made in native clayof his dog, the cow, and his pet pig. Mrs. Caudill seized theopportunity to encourage the other children in her mixed-grade one-roomschool to try their hand at clay modeling. Later Mrs. Caudill becamecounty superintendent of Rowan County Schools. Through her enthusiasmand efforts the plan has developed through the years and today mountainchildren of Rowan County have exhibited their handicraft in nationalexhibitions through the co-operation of the group of AmericanAssociation of University Women of Kentucky with which Mrs. Caudill isaffiliated. 

 SILVER MOON TAVERN

Over on Main Island Creek in Logan County, West Virginia, where DevilAnse Hatfield held forth in his day, another picture greets the eyetoday. Coal-mining camps are strung along from one end of the creek tothe other. Omar, near where Devil Anse is buried, is quite a thrivingtown. It was here that Jonse, the eldest son who loved Rosanna McCoy, spent his last days as a night watchman for a power plant. Jonse'snerves were so shattered he jumped almost at the falling of a leaf andthe company, fearing some tragedy might be the result from too suddentrigger-pulling, found other occupation for the Hatfield son. 

Within a few yards of the spot where the home of Devil Anse burned tothe ground stands today a rustic lodge garishly designed. Over thedoorway painted in bright red letters are these words--

 SILVER MOON TAVERN

Neighbors call it a beer j'int. Entering, you are greeted by theproprietor, a mild, pleasant fellow who asks in a slow mountain drawl, "What kin I do for you?" If you happen to be an old acquaintance as Iam, Tennis Hatfield--for he it is who runs the place--will add, "Glad tosee you. I've not laid eyes on you for a coon's age. Set. " He waved meto a chromium stool beside the counter. "I've quit the law. " Tennis hadbeen sheriff of Logan County for a term or two. "This is easier. " Heflung wide his hands with a gesture that encompassed the interior of theSilver Moon Tavern. "Well, there's no harm in selling beer. " He fixed mewith a piercing look such as I had seen in the eye of Devil Anse. "What's more there's no harm in drinking it either, in reason. Youngfolks gather in here of a night and listen to the music and dance and itdon't cost 'em much money. A nickel in the slot. We ain't troubled withslugs, " he said casually. "The folks choose their own tune. " He pointedto a gaudily striped electric music box that filled a corner of thetavern. With great care he showed me the workings of the moan box, hecalled it. "These are the tunes they like best. " He called them off ashis finger moved carefully along the titles: "Big Beaver, The Wise Owl, Double Crossing Mamma, In the Mood, and Mountain Dew. They justnaturally wear that record out. Young folks here on Main Island Creeklike Lulu Belle and Scotty. See, they made that record Mountain Dew. " Aslow smile lighted his face. "'Pon my soul all that young folks do thesedays is eat and dance. That's how come me to put the sign on the side ofmy beer j'int--Dine and Dance. We're right up to snuff here on MainIsland Creek, " he added with a smug smile. "But now Joe Hatfield over toRed Jacket in Mingo County, he follows preaching and he says a beerj'int is just sending people plum to hell. I don't know about that. There's never been no trouble here in my place. I won't sell a manthat's had a dram too many. And if he starts to get noisy"--he lifted atoe--"out he goes! I aim to keep my place straight. " He shoved histhumbs deep into the belt of his breeches. "Not much doin' at this timeof day. The girls in school or helping with the housework; the boys inthe mines. Don't step out till after supper. Then look out! The youngbucks shake a heel and the girls put on their lipstick. Them that can'tafford a permanent go around all day with their hair done up incurlycues till they look a match for Shirley Temple by the time they gethere of a night. Times has surely changed. "

A bus whizzed by and disappeared beyond the bend of the road. 

"Times has changed, " Tennis repeated slowly as his gaze sought thehillside where Devil Anse lay buried. "I wonder what Pa would a-thoughtof my place, " he said with conscientious wistfulness. His eyes swept nowthe interior of the Silver Moon Tavern. "This couldn't a-been in Pa'syoung days. Nor womenfolks couldn't a-been so free. Such as thiscouldn't a-been, no more than their ways then could stand today. " Theson of Devil Anse leaned over the bar and said in a strangely hushedvoice, "Woman, I've heard tell that you have a hankerin' for curiositiesand old-timey things. I keep a few handy so's I don't get above myraisin'. " He reached under the counter. "Here, woman, heft this!" Heplaced in my hands Devil Anse's long-barreled gun. "Scrutinize themnotches on the barrel. That there first one is Harmon McCoy. Year ofsixty-three, " he said bluntly. 

While I hefted the gun, Tennis brought out a crumpled shirt. "Them holesis where the McCoys stobbed Uncle Ellison and there's the stain of hisgorm. "

The gruesome sight of the blood-stained garment slashed by the McCoyscompletely unnerved me. I dropped the gun. 

Instantly a door opened behind Tennis and a young lad rushed in. He tookin the situation at a glance and swiftly appraised my five-foot height. "Pa, " he turned to Tennis Hatfield, "you've scared this little critterout of a year's growth. And she ain't got none to spare. "

Seeing that all was well he backed out of the door he had entered, andTennis went on to say that his young son had quit college to join thearmy. "He'll be leaving soon for training camp. That is, if he can quitcourting Nellie McCoy long enough over in Seldom Seen Hollow. 'Pon mysoul, I never saw two such turtledoves in my life. She's pretty as apicture and I've told her that whether or not her and Tennis Juniorevery marry there's always a place for her here with us. A pretty girlin a pretty frock is mighty handy to wait table. " Again the wideflunghands of the proprietor of the Silver Moon Tavern embraced in theirgesture the shiny tables, booths, chromium-trimmed chairs, and the gaudyjuke box in the corner. 

In September, 1940, Tennis Hatfield's son, Tennis, Jr. , joined the army. He was nineteen at the time. 

The Hatfields and McCoys have married. Charles D. Hatfield, who joinedthe army at Detroit's United States Army recruiting office, is the sonof Tolbert McCoy Hatfield of Pike County and is friend to his kin onboth sides. 

The two families held a picnic reunion in the month of August, 1941, onBlackberry Creek where the blood of both had been shed during the feud, and at the gathering a good time was had by all with plenty of friedchicken and no shooting. 

Today on the eve of another war things are still quiet up in BreathittCounty so far as the Hargises are concerned. Elbert Hargis, brother ofJudge Jim Hargis who was slain by his son Beach, has passed on. Theyburied him, the last of Granny Hargis's boys, in the family buryingground behind the old homestead on Pan Bowl, so called because it isalmost completely encircled by the North Fork of the Kentucky River. 

To his last hour, almost, Elbert Hargis sat in the shadow of thecourthouse looking sadly toward Judge Jim Hargis's store where Beach hadkilled his father, the store in front of which Dr. Cox had beenassassinated. His eyes shifted occasionally toward the courthouse stepsdown which the lifeless body of J. B. Marcum plunged when Curt Jett shothim from the back. Again Elbert's gaze turned to the second-storywindows of the courthouse from which Jim Cockrell had been shot to deathone sunny summer day. 

Ever alert and never once permitting anyone to stand behind him, with agun in its holster thumping on his hip every step he took, Elbert Hargismust have lived again and again the days when his brother Jim directedthe carryings-on of the Hargis clan. But if you'd ask him if he everthought of the old times, there would be a quick and sharp No!, followedby abrupt silence. 

Elbert Hargis is dead now. And a natural death was his from a suddenailment of the lungs. He died in a hospital down in the Blue Grass wherewhite-clad nurses and grave-faced doctors with a knowing of the miraclesof modern surgery and medicine could not prolong the life of the agedfeudist for one short second. The last of Granny Evaline Hargis's sonsrests beside his mother, alongside the three brothers John, Jr. , Ben, and Jim, and the half-brother Willie Sewell, whose death away back in1886, when he was shot from ambush at a molasses-making, started all thetrouble. In the same burying ground with Elbert is the vine-coveredgrave of Senator Hargis, father of the boys, who preceded his wifeEvaline to the spirit world long years ago. 

 BLOOMING STILLS

A visit today to a United States District Court in most any section ofthe Blue Ridge Country where makers of illicit whiskey are being triedshows that the name moonshine no longer applies to the beverage. It gotits name from being made at night. Now operations in the making areconducted by day, while only the transportation of the liquor is carriedon after nightfall. Trucks and even dilapidated Fords with the windowssmeared with soap to conceal the load are pressed into service. Thedrivers consider it safer to travel with their illegal cargo under theshades of darkness. 

During the questioning of witnesses and offenders in court you learnthat tips provided by law-abiding citizens are the usual means ofbringing offenders to trial. In rare instances, however, members of amoonshiner's own family have been known to turn him in. 

The process of capturing the moonshiner has changed considerably fromthat of other days. Then the revenooer (mountain folk usually call himthe law) slipped up from behind the bushes on the offender and caughthim red-handed at the still. In those days the men who were making hadtheir lookout men who gave warning by a call or a whistle, even by gunsignals, of the approach of the law while the moonshiner took to hisheels, hiding in deep underbrush or far back under cliffs. Today thesemountain men have learned not to run. For the officers of the law areequipped with long-range guns and with equipment so powerful the bulletscan penetrate the steel body of an automobile. The method of locatingthe still has changed too since the airplane has come into use. Lookingdown from the clouds the flyer spies a thin stream of smoke rising froma wooded ravine. He communicates by radio to his co-workers of theground crew, who immediately set out at high speed by automobile tocapture the still. 

It is estimated that of the 170, 000, 000 gallons of liquor consumed inthis country in 1939, at least 35, 000, 000 were illicit and that forevery legal distillery there are at least one hundred illegal ones. Thesouthern mountain region has always lent itself admirably to the makingof moonshine and for this reason has been a thorn in the flesh of U. S. Alcohol Tax Unit. During the year 1939, according to _Life_, it isestimated that more than 4000 stills were captured in the states ofGeorgia, Alabama, South Carolina, and Florida. 

However, it is not the moonshiner who reaps the richest revenue fromcorn whiskey, which he sells for ninety cents a gallon, but thebootlegger and others down the line who add on, each in his turn, untilthe potent drink reaches a final sale price of ninety cents a quart andmore. The tax on legitimate whiskey is $2. 25 a proof gallon which makesit prohibitive in a community competing with the moonshiner's untaxedproduct. 

Through the southern mountain region Negroes frequently are employed bywhite men operating stills on a large scale, where many boxes are usedfor the fermenting mash. The fines and sentences vary with the outputand number of offenses. 

The mountaineer, on the other hand, who operates a small still usuallyis a poor man. When brought into court he pleads that he cannot haul outa load of corn over rugged roads miles to a market and compete with afarmer from the lowlands who is not retarded by bad roads. Or again, ifhe is from an extremely isolated mountain section, he offers the oldreasoning, "It is my land and my corn--why can't I do with my cropwhatever I please?"

If the federal judge is a kindly, understanding man he will listenpatiently to the story of the mountaineer who has made illicit whiskey, and if it be only the first or second offense, a sentence of six monthsin prison is imposed. "But, judge, your honor, " pleads the perplexedmountaineer. "I've got to put in my crop and my old woman is ailin'--shecan't holp none. I've got to lay in foirwood for winter, judge, yourhonor, my youngins is too little to holp. " Often the understanding judgereplies, "Now, John, you go back home and get your work done up, thencome back and serve your sentence. " Rarely has the judge's trust beenbetrayed. 

 LEARNING

What with good roads, the radio, and better schools and more of them thescene is rapidly changing in the Blue Ridge Country. 

The little one-room log school is almost a thing of the past. Only inremote sections can it be found. No longer is the mountain childretarded by the bridgeless stream, for good roads have come to themountains and with them the catwalk--an improvised bridge of barrelhoops strung together with cables--spanning the creek has passed. Themountain mother's warning is heard no longer. "Mind, Johnny, you don'tswing the bridge. " Concrete pillars support steel girders that span thecreek high above even the highest flood point. Education soars high inthe southern mountain region. Instead of a few weeks of school there aremonths now, and what is more Johnny doesn't walk to school any more. Thecounty school bus, operated by a careful driver, picks him up almost athis very door and brings him back safely when school turns out in theevening. Instead of the poorly lighted one-room school, there is theconsolidated school built of native stone, with many windows andcomfortable desks. If the mountain boy or girl fails to get an educationit is his own fault. There is a central heating system and the teacher, you may be sure, is a graduate of an accredited college. The _KentuckyProgress Magazine_ of Winter, 1935, gives a remarkable example of whatis taking place in an educational way in the mountain region:"Twenty-nine well-equipped, accredited four-year high schools and twojunior colleges now dot the five counties, Lawrence, Johnson, Martin, Floyd, and Pike . . . Seven high schools and one junior college have thehighest rating possible, membership in the Southern Association ofColleges and Secondary Schools. . . . The advent of surfaced roads has madesuccessful consolidation possible in many instances. "

Preceding the consolidated school an inestimable service has beenrendered the children of the southern highlands by means of thesettlement school. It would be impossible to discuss them alladequately, but of the outstanding ones of which I have personalknowledge are: that great institution at Berea, Kentucky, the HindmanSettlement School in Knott County, Kentucky; the Martha Berry School inthe mountains of Georgia; the agricultural school of Sergeant Alvin C. York near Jamestown, Tennessee; and the John C. Campbell Folk School atBrasstown, N. C. 

Under efficient guidance mountain boys and girls are taught to preservethe handicrafts of their forbears, knitting, spinning, weaving, makingof dyes, and even a pastime once indulged in by boys and men--whittling. Idle whittling has been converted into not only an artistic craft, but aprofitable one. Nowhere in the country is there to be found a finercollection of whittled figures, ranging from tiny chicks to squirrels, rabbits, birds, than those made by the mountain youths at the John C. Campbell Folk School. 

Perhaps no greater service is being rendered mountain folk than thatheaded by Sergeant York in his agricultural school, because he is of themountains and knows well the need of his people. 

But even before the settlement school had been thoroughly rooted therewas the Moonlight School of Rowan County, Kentucky, for adultilliterates. It was a great, a magnificent undertaking by a mountainwoman--Mrs. Cora Wilson Stewart, born in Rowan County. She had been ateacher in the wretched, poorly lighted one-room log school. Becomingcounty superintendent, she set about to lead out of ignorance anddarkness the adult illiterates of her county. Happily she had beenpreceded in such an undertaking by a pioneer teacher in rugged HockingCounty, Ohio, in the days of the Civil War. There Miss Kate Smith, scarcely in her teens, who saw her brothers shoulder their muskets andmarch off to the Civil War, took upon herself the task of teaching, first, a bound boy, an orphan lad bound by the state to a farmer. Thelad later became a stowaway in a covered wagon in which the youngteacher and her parents rode west. This lad in his teens was only one ofmany adult illiterates taught by the Ohio woman and her plan proved thatit could be done. That boy, William Wright, became a Judge of the Courtof Appeals. 

With book-learning have come many broadening factors in the life of thesouthern mountaineer. His sons attend agricultural college, hisdaughters are active workers in the 4-H clubs. They return to thehillside farm to show their mothers how best to can fruit. The boys havelearned how to improve and conserve the soil, how to save forests. Theconsolidated school has taught mountain children to mix with others. They have Girl Scout groups and Boy Scout groups; they learnself-government under trained leaders. 

Above all, book-learning is swiftly wiping out the old suspicions andsuperstitions about the medical profession. Time was when there was butone doctor in all of Leslie County, Kentucky. Mountain mothers relied onthe old midwife; infant mortality was appalling. Then came the FrontierNursing School headed by Mrs. Mary Breckinridge. Her work is knownthroughout the breadth of the nation. The Frontier Nursing Service hasthe support of the leading people of the nation. Debutantes gladly giveup a life of frivolity and ease to become trained in obstetrics and givetheir services to helping mountain mothers and babies. Its purpose wasto combat the infant death rate in remote Kentucky mountain sections. The nurses ride on horseback and visit and care for mountain mothers. Mrs. Breckinridge herself was a nurse during the World War in France andwent back to the Scottish Highlands--from which her kinsman AlexanderBreckinridge came to settle in the Shenandoah in 1728--where she becamea midwife. 

Mountain folk usually are slow to take on new ways. But the wonderswrought through the Frontier Nursing Service they have "seen with theirown eyes. "

Learning has brought about a great change for the better in the life ofthe mountain woman. Once we saw her lank, slatternly, meek, stoic--mother of a dozen or more, obeying with patient fortitude thewill of her man. We saw too the pitiable child-bride marrying perhaps aman three times her age because he could take care of her. There beingso many in the family Pappy and Mammy were glad to be rid of one oftheir flock. Though both pictures were often as overdrawn as that evokedby a daughter of the Blue Ridge--a whimsical picture of a pretty maid infull-skirted crinoline with a soft southern accent--moonlight andhoneysuckle, a gallant, goateed colonel paying court to her charm andbeauty while he sips a mint julep. This picture and that of thesnaggle-toothed mountain woman in bedraggled black calico can no more betaken for fact than that Jesse James is still holding up stagecoaches orthat cowboys in high boots and leather breeches are daily wedding therich easterners' daughters who have come West. 

There are well-organized centers: weaving centers that market the waresof mountain women all over the nation; music centers and recreationalcenters. Women and their daughters are better dressed and certainly theygive more care to their appearance than the mountain woman did when sherode to the county seat on court day with a basket of eggs and butterand ginseng on one arm and a baby on the other. 

She still knits and crochets and hooks rugs--not from leavings of thefamily's wearing clothes--but from leavings she buys from the mills. Shedoes not have to take her wares to the county seat--today she stretchesup a clothesline across the front stoop, pins her rugs and lace on theline, and the passing motorist buys all that her busy hands can make. 

The question is often asked: How does the mountain woman regard herright to vote? Generally she is unconcerned with the vote. But as timegoes on, by reason of the many factors that enter into her new way ofliving, she is evidencing more interest, both in the county and stateelections. Strangely enough, though the mountain woman went hesitantlyto the polls, a Kentucky mountain woman, Mrs. Mary Elliott Flanery, ofElliott County, was the first woman to be elected to the legislaturesouth of the Mason and Dixon line. She was self-educated and for anumber of years was rural correspondent for newspapers, which experienceperhaps gave her a broad understanding of political matters and theincentive to enter the field. Hers was a distinctive service to thecommonwealth and particularly to her sisters of the southern highlands, inasmuch as she was first of her sex to actually voice before alegislature the problems and needs of the mountain woman. 

Today with rural electrification the mountain woman ceases to be adrudge. She is on a par with her sister of the level land. 

She no longer stumbles wearily to the barn after dark with a batteredlantern, its chimney blackened with smoke. She has only to switch on alight and turn to milking. Or if her household has progressed to dairyfarming, as many of them have, finding the sale of milk to the citycreameries more profitable than raising vegetables, she has only toattach the electric devices and the cows are milked mechanically. Shesits no more at the churn, one hand gripping the dasher, the otherholding a fretful babe to her breast. Now that unseen juice, or'lectric, comes along the wire and into the new churn and there! Almostbefore you know it there is a plump roll of butter. 

The whole family benefits from rural electrification. The youngest girlof the household is not reminded of the irksome task of cleaning andfilling the lamps, trimming the wicks. What if the single bulb swingingfrom the middle of the ceiling is fly-specked! It still gives amplelight for the room. The hazard of the overturned oil lamp and the fearof burning the house down are gone too. "I'd druther have 'lectric thana new cookstove or a saddle mare, " any mountain woman will tell you. 

She is through with the back-breaking battling trough and the washboard. Her proudest possession and the greatest labor-saving device on theplace is the electric washer. Carefully covered with a clean piece ofbleach, it holds a distinguished place in the corner of the dining roomwhen not in use. It is the first thing to be exhibited to the visitor. 

But whenever progress brings, it likewise takes away. 

The fireside gathering where the glowing logs provided light and cheerfor the family circle, conducive to story and riddle and song, hasalmost reached the vanishing point. Instead, the young folks pile intothe second-hand Ford and whiz off to town. They don't wait for courtweek, when in other days the courthouse yard was the market place of thehillsman. Though the old courthouse still stands as it did in earlydays, the scene has changed. There is one ancient seat of justice in theBig Sandy country within sight of the spot where the first settlersbuilt their fort for safety against Indian attack, and over the doorthese words catch the eye--

 READER, WHERE WILT THOU SPEND ETERNITY?

Young folks don't seem to give it much thought. Just across the road (itis paved now) the raucous sound of the juke box is heard playing IUnderstand, Hut Sut, You Are My Sunshine and Booglie, Wooglie, Piggy. The jitterbugs are at it early and late. They know all the hits on theHit Parade. They know Frankie Masters' and Jimmy Dorsey's latest recordsand the newest step and shake. If they ever tire, which is rarely, thereare booths and stalls where they may sip a soda, drain a bottle of coke, crunch a sandwich, a yard-long hot dog, a hamburger. Or, if he is realsophisticated and she "has been farther under the house hunting eggsthan some have been on the railroad cars, " he will cautiously draw hiship flask, when the waiter or proprietor isn't looking, and pour a snortof year-old or Granddad in the glass of cracked ice. Sure, you buy yourcracked ice, what do you think this is? "Let's go on to the Rainbow, "she suggests presently, when only cracked ice is left in the glass. "Rainbow? You got your rainbow right here in the juke box, " he answers. "I don't mean no rainbow like's on the groan box, and you know it. "Maybe they go, maybe they don't. But things are surely changing alongthe once quiet mountain trail. Now if the lad is real devilish he willtry a slug in the juke box instead of a coin. Then the proprietor dropshis beaming smile and asserts his authority. A young stripling or twomay drop in, stagging it. One gets an eye on a pretty girl dancing withher date. But just let him try to cut in. "Can't you read?" With theproprietor's husky voice the intruder feels at the same moment theproprietor's firm hand upon his shoulder. "What's eatin' you? Can't youread, I say!" The owner of the big voice and bigger fist points awarning finger to the sign on the wall--

 NO STAG DANCING

The stag isn't slow in being on his way. He and his pals pile into theircar and head toward the next tavern. 

The present generation of mountain youth may have lost theirsuperstition but they will take a long chance on beating the pinballmachine. They will play it for hours--until the last nickel is droppedin the slot because, "Yes siree, just last night at the Blue Moon I sawa fellow get the jackpot. Double handful of coin!"

A mountain girl once ashamed because her granny smoked her little claypipe puffs a cigarette nonchalantly held between highly manicuredfingertips. She will spend her last dollar for a permanent and lipstick. She would not be interested in the simple fireside games, Clap In andClap Out, Post Office and Drop the Handkerchief. Such things are far tooslow for her highstrung nerves these days. 

However, community centers are trying valiantly to bring back squaredancing and community singing. The effort is successful in somelocalities, particularly through North and South Carolina. Old-timesinging school with the itinerant singing master has given place tosinging societies that meet sometimes in the summer months on thecourthouse square or indoors. 

Religious customs, too, are becoming modernized. The foot-washing of theRegular Primitive Baptists, while it is still carried on in some of themountain churches, lacks much of the solemnity and imposing dignity ofbygone days. The church house itself is changed, which may account formuch of the modification of customs. The log church is replaced with amodern structure of native stone. The walls are painted. There is a gaschandelier suspended from the ceiling. While there is still noelaborate, elevated pulpit, the floor of the front portion of the churchwhere the faithful wash each other's feet is today covered withlinoleum. The long spotlessly white towel used for drying the feet ofthe meek has given place to a brightly colored green and red stripedbath towel (basement special, or such as are found on the counters ofthe five and ten). The singing, instead of being the solemn chant of thesixth century to which mountain folk for generations adapted the wordsof their traditional hymns, is in swift tempo, almost jazz such as canbe heard at any point on your radio dial any day in the week. 

The jolt wagon, with its rows of straight hickory chairs, carrying thewhole family to meeting with a well-filled basket with victuals for all, is a thing of the past. At a recent foot-washing down in the Georgiamountains there was but one wagon in front of the little church. Astring of automobiles of all sizes and makes was strung along the roadfor a mile. 

The solemn funeralizing with its simple beauty is almost a thing of thepast in the southern mountains. Today it is accompanied by the barkingof the hot-dog vendor, "Get your hot dogs here. A nice ice cold drink ofCoca-Cola here! Here's your Doctor Pepper! Cold orange drink!"

The decorations on the grave--once paper flowers made by lovinghands--are garish factory-made flowers in cellophane covers. Mother'spicture in the glass-covered box beside her headstone is gone long ago. The favorite hymn is sometimes sung and a few of the old-time preacherssurvive to weep and pray and sing and offer words of praise for thelong-departed friend. The present generation do not speak of thefuneralizing. Today it is a memorial. Strangely enough, however, only afew miles from the heart of the Big Sandy country, a memorial servicewas held for O. O. McIntyre for the second time on August 11, 1940. Atwilight memorial it was called and his good friends and closeassociates came to hear him eulogized. 

The mountain preacher of yesterday is passing fast. Then, his was amanifold calling. When he traveled the lonely creek-bed road with hisBible in his saddlebags, he was the circuit rider bringing news of theoutside world to the families along the widely scattered frontier. He, like the mountain doctor, was truly counselor and friend. The peoplelooked to him to tell of things that would be happening in the nearfuture. They hung upon his every word from the pulpit. His reasoning inspiritual matters was sound and his eloquence impelling. His sermonsoften combined quotations from the early writers of England, passagesfrom Shakespeare, true echoes of Elizabethan English, as might beexpected considering his ancestry. Words flowed freely from his lips. The mountain preacher to this day has a natural gift of oratory. It hasbeen handed down through generations. He needs only the spur and theoccasion to burst forth. The mountain preacher, as some may imagine, wasnot always untutored or illiterate--of the type we sometimes encountertoday in remote mountain regions. In early days he was quite often bothpreacher and teacher, such as William E. Barton, father of Bruce Barton, who after preaching in the thinly settled parts of Knox County, Kentucky, became the pastor of a Chicago church in later years. Some ofthe early roving preachers even studied theology in the great centers oflearning both in America and Europe. 

At one time, even as late as the last quarter of a century, there werestrait-laced Baptist preachers (my own blood kin among them) who wouldnot permit an organ in the church. But today it is quite the vogue foryoung evangelistic couples to hold forth with piano-accordion andguitar. "It peps up the joiners, " the evangelist says. On the otherhand, in remote churches, where preachers still hold that note-singingand hymn books with notes are the works of the Devil, these same fellowswill play up the hysteria of the audience with the "Holy Bark, " the"And-ah, " "Yep, Yep, " and the "Holy Laugh, " chiefly at foot-washingceremonies. 

The number of young people, however, who cling to the custom offoot-washing is comparatively small. One reason may be that they are toobusy with other things, or that they consider such practicesold-fashioned. 

 MOUNTAIN MEN

Old Virginia had its Patrick Henry, the Blue Grass its Clays andBreckinridges, but the Big Sandy produced from its most rugged quarteras fine and noble timber as could be found throughout the breadth andwidth of the Blue Ridge Country. 

Early in his youth Hugh Harkins came from Pennsylvania to settle inFloyd County in the heart of the Big Sandy. That was far back in the1830's. He knew the saddlery trade but the young man preferred theprofession of law. So acquiring a couple volumes on practice andprocedure he began to study for the bar. He built himself an office ofstone which he helped to dig from the mountain side and with every sparedollar he bought more law books and timber land. He died in 1869, but bythat time his grandson, Walter Scott Harkins, had a thirst to follow hisfootsteps. The boy, even before he was old enough to understand theirmeaning, listened avidly to the speeches of his grandfather in thecourtrooms of the mountain counties. And when Walter Scott Harkins wasonly a strip of a lad he rode the unbeaten paths to courts of law withhis law books in his saddlebags. If the day were fair he'd get off hishorse, tether it to a tree and climb high on the ridge. There withstatute or law reporter in hand he would read aloud for hours. Againhe'd close the book and with head erect, hands behind him, young Harkinswould repeat as much as he could remember of the text. Often he waxedenthusiastic. He longed to be an orator. Sometimes thoughtlesscompanions would jeer at the young Demosthenes, even pelt him withacorns and pebbles from ambush. But Walter Scott Harkins wasn't dauntedby any such boyish pranks. He kept on orating. 

In the meantime, as he rode the lonely mountain paths, he took notice ofthe fine timber, just as his grandfather had before him. He was admittedto the bar in 1877 and hung out his shingle at the door of hisgrandfather's office. Like Hugh Harkins, the grandson also beganinvesting his earnings, meager though they were, in timber land. 

One summer evening near dusk the young lawyer was riding toward themouth of Big Sandy when he was startled to see in the distance a gianttongue of flame shooting skyward. At first he thought there was fire onthe mountain but he soon discovered that the flame did not spread butcontinued in a straight column upward. He sat motionless in the saddlefor a moment. By this time darkness had descended. The young lawyer wasfascinated by the brilliant flame and determined to test its strength. Taking a law book from his saddlebags he opened the volume and, to hissurprise, was able to read the small type by the light of the distantflame with as great ease as though an oil lamp burned at his elbow. Thenhe recalled the story of how Dr. Walker, the English explorer, had onceread his maps by the light of a burning spring. Unlike the earlyexplorer young Harkins determined to do something about it. The legalmind of the lad spurred his zeal to find the cause of the illuminatingflame. 

Walter Scott Harkins not only found the cause but he probed the effectwith fine results. With the aid of other interested persons he acquiredmineral rights of lands in the Big Sandy country which included theburning spring, the like of which in the next decade was to illuminatetowns and cities and operate industries as far removed as one hundredmiles. 

Moreover Walter Scott Harkins lived to see more than 75, 000 acres of hisown forest leveled, whereby he piled up a fortune that could scarcely beexhausted even unto the fifth generation of Harkinses. 

On the window of his law office in Prestonsburg, Floyd County, Kentucky, appears in letters of gold, an unbroken line of five generations ofHarkinses who have followed the practice of law. Likewise the Harkins'descendants hold unbroken title to the largest acreage of timber land inthe country. The virgin forest brought its owner more than $160, 000 andthe second growth is ready to cut. 

Lumber companies bought 70, 000 acres of forest and constructed their ownrailroads to carry out the timber. They calculated it would take abouttwenty-five years to cull out all the big timber and by that time therewould be a second growth. Wasteful methods of lumbering, together withfrequent forest fires and man's utter disregard for the future, havealready brought about the necessity for reforestation in many mountainsections. As far back as 1886 out of the Big Sandy alone was run$1, 500, 000 worth of timber. 

Rafts of logs carpeted the Big Sandy River and at its mouth was thelargest round timber market in the world. With its row of riverfrontsaloons Catlettsburg, between the Big Sandy and the Ohio Rivers, wasthen called the wettest spot on earth. Through its narrow streets strodeloggers and raftsmen. Theirs was talk of cant hooks and spike poles, calipers and rafts. "You best come and have a drink down to Big Wayne'sthat'll put fire in your guts. " The boss wanted his whole crew to bemerry, so the whole crew headed for Big Wayne Damron's Black Diamond. 

Today the old riverfront lives only in memory. That part of the countyseat is a ghost town. Timbermen and loggers gather no more for revelryat the riverfront saloon. And should you ask the reason, the old riverrat will answer with a slow-breaking smile, "See off yonder--locks anddams! Can't run the logs through that!"

Forests that were felled a quarter of a century ago are once again readyfor the woodsman's ax. 

The present generation of timbermen look upon a very different scene. Their dim-eyed grandparents complacently beheld the push boat, thatcrude ark which was urged along the stream by means of long poles. Itgave way to shallow drift steamers. And in turn the steamers were shovedaside for the railroad which was quicker. The boats, _Red Buck_, _DewDrop_, once the pride of the river, soon went to anchor anddeterioration. 

The county seat changed as well. Once women came to do their tradingthere with homemade basket, filled with eggs, butter, ginseng which theyswapped for fixings, thread, and calico. They motor in now to shop. 

Typical of the changing scene is the town of Prestonsburg in FloydCounty. It became a county seat in 1799 and was once called SpurlockStation. Today it is a thriving city with a country club. Daughters ofonce rugged farmers and struggling country lawyers now have a socialposition to maintain. 

Mountain women are becoming class conscious! More's the pity. 

 COAL

It is often said, "Old mother nature must have laughed heartily at thepioneer, who in his mad rush to go west hurried down through the widetroughs between the mountains, hurrying on through the valleys, passingunheeded the wealth in forests on either side, the wealth in mineralsunder his very feet. " But there came a time when the mountain mendiscovered the treasure. 

Over in Johnson County, adjoining Floyd, where Walter Scott Harkins hadan eye for timber, his young friend was being twitted for a differentreason. "John Caldwell Calhoun Mayo, " they'd string out his long name, "when you're cooped up in the poorhouse or the lunatic asylum, you can'tsay we didn't warn you to quit digging around trying to find a fortuneunder the ground. "

But young Mayo, like his friend Harkins the lawyer, would only say, thumbs hooked in suspenders, "He who laughs last, laughs best. "

Some of his youthful companions continued to poke fun but John CaldwellCalhoun Mayo turned them a deaf ear. On foot he trudged endless mileswhen he was a poor lad, or rode a scrubby nag along the Warrior's Path, always seeking coal deposits, pleading with landowners for leases andoptions on acreage he knew to be rich in minerals. He surmountedseemingly impossible barriers, even having legislation enacted to setaside Virginia land grants. He tapped hidden treasures, developed thewealth of the Big Sandy country that had been locked in mountainfastnesses for centuries. Through his vision, thriving cities blossomwhere once was wilderness. 

The United States Geological Survey shows one eighth of the total coalarea of the nation to be in this region; it supplies nearly one quarterof all the country's bituminous coal. 

 PUBLIC WORKS

Only in recent years has the mountaineer begun to forsake his cove, however unproductive the earth may be, for the valley and public works. Indeed mountain folk long looked down on their own who sought employmentat public works, mines, lumber camps, steel mills. They decried anyemployment away from the hillside farm, because it meant to them beingan underling. No mountaineer ever wanted to be company-owned. Leastwisenone of the Wellfords of Laurel Creek. But Clate, youngest of MarkWellford's family, lured by the promise of big cash money, decided toquit the farm and take his wife and little family down to the foothills. "There's a good mine there, pays good money, and there's a good mineboss on the job, " so Clate was told. Some two years later Clate, a wearyfigure, emerged one evening from the company commissary. His face wassmudged with coal dust. A miner's lamp still flickered on his grimy cap. He carried a dinner bucket and the baby on one arm. Over his shoulderhung a gunnysack that bulged with canned goods and a poke of meal. Athis heels followed his bedraggled, snaggle-toothed wife, a babe in herarms and another tugging at her skirts. Her faded calico dress thatdragged in the back was tied in at the waist with a ragged apron. Therewas a look of sad resignation in her eyes. Now and then she brushed ahand up the back of her head to catch the drab stray locks. She mighthave been fifty, judging from the stooped shoulders and weary step. Yetthe rounded arms--her sleeves were rolled to the elbow--looked youthful. 

Clate halted a few minutes to talk to another miner, a boy in his teens. "What'd you load today?" the younger asked after casual greetings. "'Tarnal buggy busted a dozen times, held me back, " Clate complained, shifting the dinner pail and the baby. "Always something to hold a manback. " "I'm figuring on going to Georgia, " the young lad soundedhopeful. "Got a buddy down there in the steel mill. Beats the mines anyday. " He saw some young friends across the street and hurried to jointhem. 

"Come on, Phoebe!" Clate called over his shoulder to his wife, "get amosey on you. I'm hongry. And 'ginst you throw a snack of grub togetherit'll be bedtime. An' before you know it, it's time to get up and hitfor the hill again. " He plodded on up the winding path to a row ofshacks. His little family followed. 

The row of dilapidated shacks where the miners lived was clinging to themountain side at the rear, while the fronts were propped up with roughposts. They were all alike with patched rubberoid roofs, broken tilechimneys, windows with broken panes. Rough plank houses unpainted, though here and there a board showed traces of once having been red orbrown. Between the houses at rare intervals a fence post remained. Butthe pickets had long since been torn away to fire the cookstove orgrate. There were no gardens. Coal companies did not encouragegardening. Miners and their families lived out of cans, and canned goodscome high at the company's commissary. 

A tipple near the drift mouth of the mine belched coal and coal dust dayafter day. When Phoebe--you'd never have known her for the pretty girlshe used to be far back in the Blue Ridge--rubbed out a washing on thewashboard, hung it to dry on the wire line stretched from the back doorto a nail on the side of the out-building, she knew that every rag sherubbed and boiled and blued would be grimy with coal dust before itdried. What was she to do about it? Where else could the wash be hung?Once Phoebe thought she had found the right place. A grassy plot quitehidden beyond a clump of trees. She put the wet garments in a basket andcarried them off to dry, spreading them upon the green earth. But nosooner had she spread out the last piece than a fellow came riding up. "What's the big idea?" he demanded, shaking a fist at the garments onthe ground. And Phoebe, from Shoal's Fork of Greasy Creek, never havingheard the expression, mumbled in confusion, "I'm pleased to meet you. "

"Don't try to get fresh, " the fellow scowled. "Don't you know thisground is company-owned? The big boss keeps this plot for his saddlehorse to graze on. Pick up your rags and beat it!"

She understood from the gesture the meaning of beat it and obeyed inhaste. 

There was little room to stretch up a line indoors, though she didsometimes in the winter when the backyard was too sloppy to walk in. Clate Wellford's was one of the smaller shacks, a room with a lean-tokitchen. The others, with two rooms, cost more. Besides there were otherthings to be taken out of date's pay envelope before it reached him;there were electric light, coal, the store bill, and the company doctor. 

"None of my folks have been sick. We've never even set eyes on thedoctor, " Clate complained to the script clerk on the first payday. 

"What of it?" the script clerk replied. "You'd be running quick enoughfor the doctor if one of your kids or your old woman got sick or metwith an accident, wouldn't you? The doctor's got to live same as therest of us. "

So the miner stumbled out with no more to say. Sometimes he'd vent hisspleen upon his wife. "You wuz the one that wanted to come here! WishtI'd never married. A man can't get nowheres with a wife and young oneson his hands. " And the wife, remembering the way of mountain women, offered no word of argument. 

When the owners of the coal operation came from the East to check upoutput and earnings they didn't take time to make a tour of inspectionof the shacks. Certainly they had no time to listen to complaints ofminers. 

Lured by the promise of big money Clate Wellford, like many othermountain men, forsook the familiar life of his own creek for the strangework-a-day of the mining camp. 

Back on Shoal's Fork of Greasy Creek there was always milk a-plenty todrink. Bless you, Clate knew the time when he'd carried buckets full ofhalf-sour milk to the hogs. How they guzzled it! Here there was never adrop of cow's milk to drink. You got it in cans--thick, condensed, sickeningly sweet. Couldn't fool the children, not even when you thinnedit with water. "It don't taste like Bossy's milk, " the youngsters shovedit away. 

What was more, back on Shoal's Fork there was always fried chicken inthe spring. All you could eat. Turkey and goose and duck, if you chose, through the winter and plenty of ham meat. There was never a day date'sfolks couldn't go out into the garden and bring in beans, beets, corn, and cabbage. He'd never known a time when there were not potatoes andturnips the year round. The Wellfords had come to take such things forgranted. But here in the coal camp you could walk the full length of theplace from the last ramshackle house on down to the commissary and neversee a bed of onions and lettuce. The shacks were so close together therewas no room for a garden, even if the company had permitted it. 

"That's company-owned!" the boss growled at Clate that time he wastrying to break up the hard crusty earth with a hoe. 

"I've got my own onion sets, " Clate tried to explain. "My folks fetched'em down. "

"Who cares?" the company boss snarled. "What you reckon the company'srunning a commissary for? The store manager can sell you onions--readyto eat. "

So the miner didn't set out an onion bed. 

Again, Clate found some old warped planks outside the drift mouth of themine; he brought them home and was building a pigpen. The mine boss camecharging down upon him. 

"What you doing with the company's planks?"

The frightened Clate tried to explain that he had supposed the woodthrown aside was useless and that he was making ready for the youngshoat his folks meant to bring him. 

"What you suppose the company would do if every miner packed off planksand posts that he happens to see laying around?" he eyed Clatesuspiciously. "We'd soon shut down, that's what would happen. And as formeat. You can buy sow-belly and bologna at the commissary. " There wassomething more. "If you want to keep out of trouble and don't want acouple bucks taken out of your pay, you better get them planks and postsback where you found them!"

The miner's shack was perched on such high stilts that the wind whistledunderneath the floor until it felt like ice to the bare feet of thechildren. It took a lot of coal in the grate and the kitchen stove tokeep the place halfway warm. The children were sick all through thewinter. Now and then the company doctor stopped in on his rounds of thecoal camp to leave calomel and quinine. 

With the birth of her last baby, Clate's wife got down with a bealedbreast after she had been up and about for a week. "I'm bound to hiresomeone, " Clate told his wife. So he hired Liz Elswick to come and dothe cooking, washing, and ironing and to look after the children. 

Out on Shoal's Fork neighbor women came eagerly to help each other incase of sickness. 

Though it was not much they had to pay Liz--she took it out in trade atthe store, the makings of a calico dress, a pair of shoes--it was ahardship on the Wellfords. For Liz Elswick, like other women in a coalcamp, never having handled real money, knew little of cost. Nor did sheknow how to supply the simple needs of the family. Phoebe was too ill tooffer a word of advice, poor though it would have been. So, before long, Clate was behind with his store bill. Or to put it the other way around, for the company always took theirs first, Clate had nothing left in hispay envelope on payday. 

Then, when he might have had a few dollars coming, something else wouldhappen: shoes would be worn out, he'd have to buy new ones for thechildren couldn't go barefoot in the winter. He himself had to wearheavy boots in the mine in order to work at all, for Clate had to standin water most of the time when he picked or loaded. Another time thehouse caught fire and burned up their beds, chairs, everything. Eventhough he had steady work that month he had to sell his time to thescript clerk in order to get cash to replace his loss. A buddy in themine was selling out his few possessions at a sacrifice because his wifehad run off with a Hunkie. The Hungarian showed the faithless creature abillfold with greenbacks in it, promised her a silk dress and apermanent. 

"Why don't you buy new furniture at the commissary?" the script clerkwanted to know of Clate. "There are beds and chairs, bureaus and tables. Get them on time. "

"I can't afford it, " Clate said honestly. 

So, after much bickering, the company's script clerk offered to give theminer script for his time. 

"My buddy has to have cash money, " Clate argued. "He's quitting. Goingback to his folks over in Ohio. "

Clate found out that when he sold his time he got only about fifty centsfor a dollar. 

"What you think I'm accommodating you for?" the company's script clerkwanted to know. "I'm not out for my health. Course if you don't want totake it"--he shoved the money halfway across the counter to Clate--"youdon't have to. There are plenty of fellows who are glad to sell theirtime. "

There was nothing left for Clate to do. He and his family had to havethe bare necessities, bed, table, chairs. 

Soon he was in the category with the other miners, always behind, alwaysoverdrawn, always selling his time before payday. Soon he was getting anempty envelope with a lot of figures marked on the outside. Clate wascompany-owned! If he lived to be a hundred he'd never be paid out. 

Though Clate Wellford and the other coal miners never heard the wordredemptioner and indent, they were not unlike those pioneer victims ofunscrupulous subordinates. Men in bondage like the sharecropper of theDeep South, the Okie of the West. 

How different the children of the coal field looked to those along thecreeks in the shady hollows of the Blue Ridge!

In the coal camps they were unkempt and bony, in dirty, ragged garments. They squabbled among themselves and shambled listlessly along the narrowpath that led past the row of shacks toward the commissary. The path wasblack with coal dust and slate dumped along the way to fill the mudholes. 

Why do they continue to live in such squalor and in bondage? Why don'tthey move away?

If a miner should decide to move out, he has no means of getting his fewbelongings to the railroad spur some distance from the camp, for he hasneither team nor wagon. All these are company-owned. The company, whichcontrols the railroad spur, also has control too over the boxcars thatare on the track. Only the company can make requisition for an emptyboxcar. If a miner wants to move he cannot even get space, though he iswilling to pay for it, in a boxcar to have his goods hauled out. 

He stays on defeated and discouraged. 

If, however, he does quit one coal camp and get out he is unskilled inother labor and if he should try to evade his store and otherobligations with one coal company, the office employees have a way ofpassing on the information to another operation. There are ways ofputting a laborer on the blacklist. 

But why should he try to move on? Word comes back to the miner fromother buddies who have tried other camps. "They're all the same. Mightas well stay where you are. "

Behind every shack is a dump heap of cans, coal ashes, potato peel, coffee grounds, and old shoes. 

Rarely was the voice of the miner's wife raised in song as she ploddedthrough her daily drudgery. Now and then the young folks could be heardsinging--but not an ancient ballad. Rather it was a rakish song pickedup from drummers coming through the mining camps who sold their inferiorwares to the commissary manager. 

There was a church propped up on the hillside. But meeting usually brokeup with the arrest of some of the young fellows who didn't try hardenough to suppress a laugh when the camp harlot went to the mourner'sbench, or when some old creature too deaf to hear a word the preachersaid went hobbling toward the front. Sometimes an older miner, who forthe sheer joy of expressing a long-pent-up feeling, shouted "Praise theLord!", was dragged out by a deputy sheriff, along with the youngbloods, on a charge of disturbing religious worship. 

The limb of the law usually knew who had a few dollars left from theweek's pay. The law knew too that a miner preferred to pay a fine ratherthan lie in jail and lose time on the job next day. 

There was no pleasant diversion around the coal camp for womenfolk andchildren, no happy gatherings such as the play party, a quilting, anold-time square dance. In their drab surroundings, little wonder men andwomen grew old before their time. 

That was yesterday. Today there are model mining towns throughout thecoal fields. Holden in West Virginia even has swimming pools and moderncottages for its miners. A miner can work on the side too--it is notuncommon to see signs over his cottage or barn door reading, "Paintingand Paper Hanging, " "Decorating. " There are thrifty vegetable gardens, and miners' wives vie with each other in the product of their flowergardens. Holden is sometimes called the Model Mining Town of America. Ithas welcomed visitors from all over the land. 

In Harlan, Kentucky, once the center of many stormy battles betweenminers and operators, the county crowned a Coal Queen on August 23, 1941, commemorating the first shipment of coal thirty years previously. The queen, a pretty eighteen-year-old high school girl, won the titlefrom six other contestants, enthroned on a replica of the railroad carwhich hauled out the county's first coal. As part of the celebration a$1500 public drinking fountain was dedicated and speakers hailed theeconomic progress of Harlan County since 1911. Each day 1200 railroadcars loaded with coal leave the county. 

It was an all-day program being sponsored by the Harlan Mining Institutesafety organization in co-operation with the County Coal OperatorsAssociation. 

Not only were mining officials present from many points but politiciansas well were present, including Mrs. Herbert C. Cawood, Republicannominee for sheriff, a sister of the crowned coal queen. 

 BACK TO THE FARM

For those who do not have a hankering for work in the foothills andindustrial centers there is today a greater incentive to go back to thefarm or to stay there than ever before in the history of our country. For the young mountaineer there is the Future Farmer Association whichnot only trains him in soil conservation, guides him in what is best forhis type of farm, or what stock he can best produce, but also holds outthe spur of reward. It is a fine plan for promoting friendly rivalry andspurs the future farmer to excel his young neighbor. Each fall there isa great state fair in a leading city of each of the Blue Ridge states, where the young future farmers of America gather with their exhibits inlivestock, poultry, exhibits of their own crops. There is even a revivalof the prettiest baby contest so familiar to the old county fair of thelong ago. However today the contest has expanded beyond mere beauty;there is a health baby contest. The grand champion rural child is givenan award with much pomp, and to complete the spirit of friendly rivalryand to bring about better understanding and fellowship between countryand town there is also a contest for the champion rural and city baby. 

The mountain boy, because he is no longer isolated by rugged roads, meets his city cousin on common ground. 

The scene has changed along the once rugged creek-bed road. In place ofthe saddle hung on a wall peg on the front stoop for passersby to viewand perhaps envy, a new saddle once the joy and pride of the mountainlad, today there is a spare tire and there is an auto in the foreyard orin the garage, a garage which is often bigger than the little cabinitself. 

The mountain farmer is being taught by skilled leaders to help himself. 

Even if the mountaineer's farm is on a forty-five-degree slope there ishope for him today, thanks to the Farm Security Administration. Aworkable plan for soil rebuilding was the first step. To reclaim wetland the mountain man digs drainage ditches. Stone, heretofore hidden inthe mountain side and unused, is now utilized for building barns andhouses. On fourteen acres a man and his family, including a couple ofgrown sons and their families, can today raise a living and becomfortable. With a loan of $440 from the Farm Security Administration aonce unproductive miserable farm can be made liveable and productive. 

The farmer of the hill country is being trained to put to use the thingsat hand. 

Second-growth timber is coming on and is conserving the productivequalities of the hillside soil which was drained away by ruthlesscutting of timber a quarter century ago. Today the farmer is taught totreat his farm and pasture land with lime and phosphate, a thing unheardof in the early days. And the greatest of all his blessings today, themountain farmer will tell you, is the good road. 

Why then should he want to leave the mountains he knows and loves sowell?

It was tried by the young folks, but finding themselves ill fitted forwork at coal camps or steel and iron mills or factories or industrialcenters, they returned eagerly to the hills, at least during the firstfive years of the thirties. 

To this day, though some have remained in the mill towns, it is notuncommon to hear the womenfolk--whose men have provided them with modernconveniences, a frigidaire, a gas range, an electric washer and iron, aspigot of running water--say, "Wisht I had back my cellar house, mycedar churn, the battling block to make clean our garments. All thesehere fixy contrapshuns make slaves of my menfolks at public works toearn enough cash money to pay for them. " And again, "I'm a-feared ofthat 'mobile. I'd druther ride behint old Nell in the jolt wagon. "

Recently a Harvard sociologist, Dr. C. C. Zimmerman, has suggested that, because the Appalachian and Ozark farmers are producing children inexcess of the number "required to maintain a population status quo, "they pull up stakes and settle in "declining rural New England. "

However, those in a position to know, through long years of closecontact with the southern mountaineer and his needs, point out that noresettlement or colonizing plan can be worked out until a better programof regional analysis is first accomplished. They point out that many amountain farmer would not earn in a whole lifetime of toil enough moneyto make a down payment on "even a rundown New England farm. "

Besides there is still in the makeup of the mountaineer that spirit ofindependence. He does not want to rent. He wants to own outright, evenif his property is no more than a house seat. There are fewsharecroppers in the southern highlands. A mountaineer would rathersuffer starvation than be subservient. Though he may be illiterate hestill remembers, because the story has been handed on by word-of-mouth, the suffering and mistreatment of his forbears across the sea. 

To add to his security today there is the Tenant Purchase program forrehabilitation through the United States Department of Agriculture, andmountain men themselves are selected as members of the committee. It isa part of the FSA. The _Big Sandy News_, July 25, 1941, carries thisstory to the mountaineer: "The Tenant Purchase program provides for thepurchase of family type farms by qualified tenants under theBankhead-Jones Tenant Purchase Act. Farm Security Administrationrehabilitator loans are available to low income farm families, ineligible for credit elsewhere, for the purchase of livestock, workstock, seed, fertilizer and equipment, in accordance with carefullyplanned operation of the farm and home. About 150 farm families inLawrence county have already been helped by this program. 

"The services of debt adjustment committeemen are available to allfarmers, as well as to FSA borrowers. The committeemen will assistcreditors and farm debtors to reach an amicable adjustment of debtsbased on the ability to pay. "

In this particular section of the Blue Ridge, while some are looking tothe soil, others have an eye on the waters above the earth. There isbeing revived the plan of twenty years ago for the canalization of oneof the best-known and most important rivers of the Blue RidgeCountry--the Big Sandy. As a means to that end there is an organizationcalled the Big Sandy Improvement Association and, with a mountain man, Congressman A. J. May, to espouse its cause, things look promising forthe project. 

The mountain men and their city co-workers get together and speak theirminds and exchange views at dinner meetings down in the Big SandyValley. A survey is being conducted to show to what extent a navigableriver would aid industry, especially the coal business. Mountain men arejoining their practical knowledge with the scientific knowledge of menof the level land who are putting the plan of canalization of the BigSandy River before Uncle Sam for consideration and backing. 

The people of the Blue Ridge mountains are learning slowly and surely tomingle and to work with others. That again is due to good roads. 

Once there was the simple manner of making sorghum, whereby the mountainman paid for the use of the mill in cash or cane; today there is theSorghum Association which helps the mountaineer market his product. There is even a Blackberry Association whose trucks drive to the verydoor and load up every gallon a family can pick. 

Conservation is evident on every side and mountain people are realizingthe benefits in dollars. 

Where once timbering was carried on in an appallingly wasteful manner, reforestation under the guidance of trained leaders is under way. Campsof the CCC dot the whole southern mountain region and fruits of theirefforts can be seen in the growing forests on many a mountain side. InMammoth Cave National Park alone 2, 900, 000 seedlings were planted tostay gulley erosion in an area of 3, 000, 000 square yards. 

Mountain boys who have entered CCC camps are rated high in obedience, deportment, and adaptability to surroundings. Some of them have neverbeen away from home before. Many have been no farther than the nearestcounty seat. 

Frequently the mother back home can neither read nor write but she showswith pride a letter from her son. "My boy's in the Three C's. He's writme this letter. Read with your own eyes. " You see her glow with genuinepride of possession as you read aloud--perhaps the hundredth time shehas heard it--the boy's letter. The mother shows it to everyone whocrosses her threshold there in the Dug Down Mountains of Georgia. Thereis another letter too. "Johnny's captain writ this one. " She knows themapart even though she does not know A from B. "Johnny's captain has writmoughty pretty about our boy. " So well does the old mother know thecontent of the letters she is ready to prompt if the visitor omits somuch as a single word in the reading. And when Johnny came home, afterhis first months of service were ended, he was hailed as a conqueringhero by family and neighbors alike. The mother was proudest of all. "Look at this-here contrapshun. " From the well-ordered case in the boy'strunk she brought out a toothbrush. "He's larnt to scrub his teeth withthis-here bresh and"--she added with unconcealed satisfaction--"he don'tdip no more. 'Pon my honor he's about wheedled me into the notion ofgivin' up snuff. But when a body's old and drinlin' like I'm getting tobe dipping is a powerful comforting pastime. "

The mountain boy's older brothers and father too have come to understandco-operation. They can work with others. They know the meaning of WPAfolklore. When the boss calls out jovially, "Come and grab it, boys!"they, who have never heretofore worked by the clock, know dinner time isup and they must start back to work. When the head of the work crewcalls out "Hold! Hold! Hold!" they know a fuse of dynamite is about tobe lighted to blast the rock from the mountain side and they hurry tosafety. "Dynamite is powerful destructuous!" one tells the other, andthey remain at safe distance until again the boss of the crew calls out"All right!" and they are back with pick and shovel. 

The mountaineer has become a good steel worker, a dairyman in thefoothills, a good mill hand. 

The old folk, however, still cling to the old order of things. Oncethere was an old schoolmaster in the southern mountains who refused togive up teaching from the McGuffey Readers despite the fact thatlegislation had ruled out the old familiar classics. So persistent washe in his decision it eventually brought on a heart attack which causedhis death. 

Men of the hills have been quite baffled by CIO and other union cards. Young men first joining the CIO were heard to boast, "We can haveanything we want. The CIO is going to buy me and my woman and the kids anice, fine, pretty home. Pay all our bills if we get sick. "

Only a few short years ago in a coal camp in West Virginia a mountainman, who was then working at public works for the first time, foundhimself haled into court at the county seat on some misdemeanor charge. When asked "Who is the President of the United States?" heunhesitatingly gave the name of the sheriff who had arrested him. Solong had his family lived apart that he knew nothing of the workings ofhis own government and nothing about the various offices, high and low. Yet in the family burying ground of that mountain man inscriptions onthe tombstones of his ancestors show that three of them served withdistinction in the War of the Revolution. 

Lest the coming generation forget the ways of their forbears and theAmerica for which men struggled and died--the America of yesterday--thescene is being faithfully reconstructed in various ways in nationalparks. The boys of the CCC camps are having a very important hand inreconstruction and conservation. 

Some years ago a nephew of Fiddling Bob Taylor of Tennessee met withseveral friends on hallowed ground in that State, not for a patrioticcelebration but merely for the joy of roaming in the great out-of-doors. The ex-governor's kinsman, like his forbears, had been born on the sitewhere in 1772 the first step was made in American independence by theWatauga Association. This autumn day these sons of those earlypatriots fell to talking of the country, its scenic beauty, itsresources--particularly in the mountain region. "Fitting shrines set inthe beauty of the great out-of-doors are the finest monuments to ourpatriots, it seems to me, " said one. Another said, "The world's historyshows that from the time of creation the successful men were those whoreally loved the out-of-doors. Abraham was a nomad whose home waswherever he pitched his tent. Moses sought the silence and solitude ofMidian before God could speak to him. David was a shepherd boy on theJudean hills. Elijah dwelt in a cave. In the New World we seeWashington, the surveyor, a lover of the out-of-doors; Thomas Jefferson, finding happiness and contentment in roaming the hills of Virginia; theimmortal Lincoln, coming from the backwoods of humble parents; TheodoreRoosevelt, cowboy on the plains of our western country. "

With a smile Fiddling Bob's nephew turned to his friends. "Fellows, I'llwager there's not one among them from Abraham down to Teddy but wouldenjoy a canter over a good highway to take a look at the Blue RidgeCountry. The most beautiful forests and parks in the world. Ought tolink 'em up with a highway. "

"Not a bad idea, " chorused the friends, and they took another round ofmint juleps to celebrate the birth of a thought. 

"Ideas grow and thoughts travel fast, " Fiddling Bob's nephew remarkedsome years later when setting out on a cross-country journey. "ThePark-to-Park Highway grows annually and this Skyline Drive, which is apart of the plan, is one of the most alluring of all modern roads. "Starting at Front Royal, the northern entrance to the Shenandoah ValleyPark, it continues to Rockfish Gap near Waynesboro on the south, adistance of 107 miles. It is a broad mountain highway following thecrest of the Blue Ridge, invading a world that was remote and known onlyto mountain folk. Today over its smooth, paved surface cars climbquickly to airy heights from which may be viewed innumerable vistas ofthe Piedmont plateau and the Shenandoah Valley. At strategic pointsparking overlooks have been constructed, from which are seen tumblingwaterfalls, deep and narrow canyons, cool shady forests, open meadows, and wild flowers of every shade and hue throughout the summer. Autumnpresents a boundless riot of color and winter a snowy, sparkling blanketpierced by tall green pines. 

The Skyline Drive links with the Blue Ridge Parkway at Rockfish Gapwhich will at last connect the Shenandoah National Park with the GreatSmoky Mountain National Park in North Carolina and Tennessee. 

"In case you don't know, " Fiddling Bob's nephew likes to remind astranger, "Shenandoah Valley Park was presented by Virginians to thenation in 1935 and more than three million dollars have been spent onthe Skyline Drive alone--a drive that hasn't a parallel in America. Through this wilderness the Father of his Country once trudged on footas a surveyor and looked down upon the beauty of the Shenandoah Valleyfrom the lofty peaks of the Blue Ridge. His was the task to survey landsfor the oncoming settlers. He had no moment to explore under the earth. That was the task of later men. Today for good measure, after you havebeheld the breathtaking beauty from the heights, just travel seveneighths of a mile from Front Royal to the Skyline Caverns where you'llsee the most unusual cave flowers that man has ever looked upon. Why"--Fiddling Bob's nephew puffs vehemently on his corn-cob pipe--"doyou know that Dr. Holden, he's professor of Geology at VPI, says theseHellicitites, that's what he calls 'em, 'these weird, fantastic, andpallid forms' warp scientific judgment. And, friends, it's nature'swork, these inconceivable structures hidden from the world for millionsof years down under the ground. "

He turned with a beaming countenance when we had emerged from the cavernof matchless wonders. "Young Americans don't have to study geographybooks these days. All they have to do is get a second-hand car, fill itup, and strike out on the Park-to-Park Highway. They'll get an eyefuland an earful too from native sons, and learn more about America thanthey can dig out of the dry pages of a book in a year. Why, right downthere at Charlottesville there's Ash Lawn where James Monroe lived andmeditated. His friend, Thomas Jefferson, set about building the place in1798 while Monroe was in France looking after Uncle Sam's business. Evengreat and busy men in those days were neighborly. Thomas Jefferson did agood part by his neighbor James Monroe when he built that house, and theambassador thanked him generously when he came back to occupy the place. The two used to roam the grounds together and spent many happy hoursthere. They visited to and fro; you see Monroe lived across yonderwithin sight of his friend's home. The great of the past take on realitywhen you actually set foot upon the ground they have trod. Places cometo life when we see them with our own eyes. That's the purpose of thesegreat highways, the Park-to-Park highways that connect the scenes ofAmerican history. "

As the terrain changes there is a great variety in the scenes alongSkyline Drive. Sometimes the road leaves the crest to tunnel through arocky flank of mountain and you come unexpectedly upon sparkling streamstumbling down the mountain side to the valley below. The eye follows thecascade to the very edge of the drive. It disappears beneath the widesurface and reappears beyond a rocky wall, cascading down and down tofertile valleys below. 

Virginians, and people of the Blue Ridge generally, count one of theirgreatest prides the restoration of the capital at Williamsburg throughthe generosity of John D. Rockefeller, Jr. Old and young who passthrough the graceful wrought-iron gates to the Governor's Palace thrillat the sight of the restored colonial capital named for King WilliamIII, a scene which all in all reflects old England in miniature, "as thestate of mind of its citizens reflected the grandeur that was to beAmerica. " Here are the stocks in which offenders were locked while theysuffered jibes from passing tormentors. Elegant coach-and-four remindthe visitor of days of grandeur of Old Virginia when the FFV's wereentertained at the royal palace. Across the way is the wigmaker's shop, and the craft house, displaying the Wolcott Collection of ancient toolsand instruments. Here too is seen the Wren building, oldest academicstructure in English America, "first modeled by Sir Christopher Wren. "

Even a youngster of the Blue Ridge knows about Yorktown where LordCornwallis surrendered in 1781. "Here's where we fit and plum whoppedthe life outten the redcoats, " we overheard a mountain boy from amission school boasting to his companions. 

Within a few short hours I had left behind Old Virginia and itsreminders of colonial days and crossed into the Mountain State. 

"There's plenty of beauty and culture in Old Virginia, I'm not denyingthat--" Bruce Crawford looked over his spectacles at his inquisitivevisitor--"but there's just as much on this side of the Blue Ridge. We'vegot as many wonders under the earth as above it. And"--he turned now inhis swivel chair in his quarters in the Capital to look far up theKanawha River--among the many duties of this Fayette County man is thatof letting the world know about his state--"I'm not forgetting Booneroved these parts. Trapped and hunted right here on the Kanawha. Butwhat I started to talk about was not the hills, the rivers, and thecaves, but the people. " He spoke slowly, deliberately, this sturdy, well-groomed hillsman. Like Sergeant York of the Tennessee MountainsBruce Crawford can, if need be, drop easily back into the dialect of hispeople. And he is an accomplished writer. "I don't care enough about itto follow the profession of writing, " he said, and fire glowed in hisgray eyes. "But as old Uncle Dyke Garrett used to say, 'I takened all Icould a while back from furriners' so I cut loose and wrote my notionsabout it and it was published in the _West Virginia Review_. Take italong with you on your travels through the Mountain State and see ifI've come near hitting center. "

It seems to me he came mighty near hitting center and with BruceCrawford's permission, here are his sentiments:

"In recent weeks two ignorant jibes were flung at the State of WestVirginia, one by a Southern editor and the other by a Northerncartoonist. 

"The editor, a Virginian, moaned that rude mountaineers had routedDemocrats of the 'old Southern type' from the Capital on the Kanawha andthat the Lost Cause was lost all over again. He was still sad becauseSenator Matthew M. Neely had been elected Governor on a platform torestore democracy to the Democratic Party, and government to thegoverned, in West Virginia. 

"The cartoonist represented us by a stock hill-billy character withbushy beard and rifle in hand, gunning for someone around the mountains. 

"Both editor and cartoonist have their heads in the sands of the past. 

"West Virginians are Mountaineers by geography and tradition, and proudof it. Originally they were induced by wily Virginians to come intothese mountains and form a buffer back-country against Indians, Frenchand British. Here they grew sturdy, self-reliant and independent. Theyfought the first and last battles of the American Revolution, as well asthe first land engagement of the war to preserve the Union. They wereshooting for liberty while Patrick Henry was still shouting for it amongappeasers of King George. A continental commander, it is told, refusedto enlist more volunteers from the Colonies, saying he had plenty ofWest Virginians. General Washington, too, thought these mountaineerswere tops, for in a dark hour of the Revolution he said: 'Leave me but abanner to place upon the mountains of West Augusta, and I will gatheraround me the men who will lift our bleeding country from the dust andset her free. '

"These mountaineers saved piedmont and tidewater Virginia from Indians, helped win the American independence, and made possible the opening upof Kentucky to the West. They then expected a fair deal from theVirginia Government, but they did not get it. So when Virginia secededfrom the Union, they seceded from Virginia. And proudly they adopted themotto, 'Mountaineers are always free, ' a sentiment so generallysubscribed to that it appears over the entrance to our penitentiary. 

"The slurs persist through ignorance. 

"True, we have had all-out clan wars. We have had violent chapters inour industrial story, under state governments apparently consideredbenevolent by the Virginia editor. We tolerated waste of both human andmaterial resources under wild individualism. But a new day has come, promising the greatest good to the greatest number, and we shall havemuch to advertise, as envisioned in Governor Neely's inaugural addresswhen he said:

"'Fortunately impoverished land can be reclaimed; denuded areas can bereforested; unnecessary stream pollution can be prevented; and in ourpurified watercourses fish can be made to thrive. . . . For our posterityand ourselves, we must restore as much as possible of the matchlessheritage which we wasted as improvidently as the base Indian who threwaway a pearl that was richer than all his tribe. . . . If to West Virginiascenery, which is surprisingly diversified and transcendently beautiful, we add the lure of fully restored forests, fish and game, the State willeventually become a happy hunting ground for the sportsman; a paradisefor the tourist; and the home of prosperity more abundant than we haveever known. '

"Progress toward these aims is being made under the direction of variousheads. 

"In addition to mining areas producing more soft coal than any otherstate, plus our varied manufactures, we have fertile valleys and slopesfrom which . . . An increasing harvest is reaped. The State's diversity ofactivity should, in the fullness of time, make West Virginia the mostprogressive, the most socially balanced, and therefore the most trulycivilized State in the Union. 

"Our road system is being rapidly improved. . . . Many of our historic andscenic spots and recreational areas, hitherto locked in the uplands, areeasily reached as more and more tourists travel pioneer trails on modernhighways. 

"All these things now are being discovered, or soon should be, by thewhole Nation. Ours is the Vacationland at the Crossroads of the East. 

"Just as in other times of national peril the human and materialresources of this region figured indispensably, so today its greatstrength will be used against the Hitler menace. . . . West Virginia, withits industrial development and strategic isolation from attack, maybecome the Defense Hero of a war in which states little and large havefallen before the juggernaut of tyranny. Again, as in the time ofWashington, the Nation may look to these West Virginia hills, and planthere the oriflamme of freedom. 

"Let us sing of the soft, folded beauty of the Alleghenies; of riversroaring with primeval discontent and streams crystal-clear (save thoserunning red from wounded hills); of Edenlike forests in Monongahela'smillion acres; of Ohio's fertile valley, placid and hill-bordered, whereonce 'warwhoop and savage scream echoed wild from rock and hill'; ofclean-trimmed rolling landscapes of Eastern Panhandle, famed for historyand old houses; of lovely pastoral valleys of the South Branch, Greenbrier and Tygart; of wild, boulder-strewn New River Canyon; ofWebster's forest monarchs and her deep, cool woods; of the 'brown watersof Gauley that move evermore where the tulip tree scatters its blossomsin Spring'; of the green hills mirrored in starlit Kanawha; ofwhite-splashing Blackwater Falls, awe-inspiring Grand View, enchantingSeneca Rocks, and the remote Smoke Hole region with its Shangri Lainhabitants. 

"Sing of our rhododendron and its dark-green, wax-like leaf and purpleflower; of Mingo's mighty oak that weathered six hundred winters; of ourhighest peak, Spruce Knob, bony above the lush forest; of CranberryGlades and their strong plants native to Equator and Pole; bracingaltitudes, averaging highest east of the Mississippi. 

"Sing a lay for the strawberries of Buckhannon, buckwheat of Kingwood, our lowly but uprising spud, tobacco at Huntington, and the wine-smellof orchards in Berkeley; for the horses of Greenbrier, Herefords ofHampshire, sheep on Allegheny slopes, deer in a dozen State Parks, andbears in the pines of Pocahontas. 

"Sing of timber, iron and steel; of coal heaved by brawny miners intothe bituminous bin of the Nation; of oil gushers and gas flow; ofvitrolite and chromium, plastics and neon, rayon and nylon; of glassstained for cathedrals of Europe; of billions of kilowatts from coal, and potentially more water power; of fluorescent bulbs at Fairmont, andpoisonous red flakes in the Kanawha sky from metallurgical plants--firepoppies blooming in the night. 

"Sing of deeds and events of deathless renown; of Morgan Morgan and hisfirst white settlement at Bunker Hill; of James Rumsey and his steamboaton the Potomac; of Chesapeake and Ohio's epic completion across theState in '73 to the tune of legendary John Henry's steel-driving balladin Big Bend tunnel; of turnpikes, taverns and toll houses longabandoned; of our leaders, Negro and white, in business, industry, education, religion and government; of our stalwarts of union laborwhose vision, social comprehension and courage helped to bring a new dayfor all; of our cherished democracy, flexible and self-righting in aworld where popular rule is a rarity. 

"I have catalogued in clumsy prose what a Thomas Dunn English or a RoyLee Harmon could peel off in crisp, singing lines. Surely we have giftedsouls who can illumine our story in song--the story of MountaineersAlways Free, of West Virginians always Mountaineers--for a betterunderstanding by the country at large . . . Of this land of heroic past, exhilarating present, and promising future. "

A journey through the Mountain State convinces the traveler that on herside of the Blue Ridge West Virginia offers as many wonders under theearth as above it, if one is not a claustrophobe. There's Gandy Sinkswhere my friends of the Speleological Society were trapped by acloudburst on August 1, 1940; and Seneca Caverns, in MonongahelaNational Forest, once the refuge of Seneca Indians about twenty mileswest of Franklin on U. S. Route 33, and six miles from Spruce Knob. Caves as unbelievably beautiful as the Luray Caverns of Virginia, wherethe great council room of the Seneca tribe remains as it was in the dayof the redskins. There is even a legend about Snow Bird, the onlydaughter of Bald Eagle and White Rock, his wife. Inside the cavern, ifyou look carefully, there is to be seen the outline of the lovely faceof Snow Bird on the great stone wall. There are a Wigwam, and anIceberg, an Alligator, and the Golden Horseshoe and Balcony of theMetropolitan, all in natural stone formation. 

West Virginia has developed 84, 186 acres in its state-park and forestsystem. Sparkling rivers flow throughout the state. At the junction ofthe Ohio and Kanawha Rivers where Daniel Boone once roamed there is amonument commemorating the battle of the Revolution between colonialtroops and Indians. Here too are the graves of a woman scout, "Mad Anne"Bailey, and a Shawnee chieftain, Cornstalk. There are hundreds of milesof trails, safe underfoot, but flanked by as wild and rugged lands asever infested by the Indian. 

 VALLEY OF PARKS

If Dr. Walker, the English explorer, should return to the earth todayand visit the Big Sandy country near the point where he first enteredthe state of Kentucky, he'd be amazed at the sight which would greet hiseyes. Cities have sprung up where once was wilderness. Yet one naturalbeauty of the country remains unchanged: the great gorge made by RussellFork of Levisa Fork of the Big Sandy, breaking through the mountain atan elevation of 2800 feet--The Breaks of Big Sandy. Here in the days ofthe Civil War many thrilling episodes took place and through The Breaksa Confederate regiment trekked back to Virginia leaving behind a stringof Democratic counties in its wake. 

Recently added to Jefferson National Forest, another link in the chainof Park-to-Park highways, The Breaks of Big Sandy is the mostpicturesque and historic spot in eastern Kentucky. It is located onState Route 80, just thirty miles from Pikeville where many of theMcCoys live peaceably today. Kentucky, with the mother state Virginia, is planning a better and broader highway to The Breaks, which willreadily connect it with the Mayo Trail. And the native sons stilldwelling in the hills, aided by their neighbors representing them instate and federal offices, are busily planning an improvement programfor the area in which The Breaks are embraced. 

Once the Dark and Bloody Ground, Kentucky today is fairly teeming withreawakening. Her people are hastening to bring from hidden coves thingsonce discarded as fogey. "We aim for this generation to know how thriftyand apt their forbears were, " is frequently heard from their lips. Inhistoric Levi Jackson Wilderness Road State Park (U. S. 25), nearLondon, there is an old cider press. Far back in 1790 William Pearl, oneof the early settlers in Laurel County, made and set up the crude pressfor making cider, or brandy if he chose. The press rests on a stone basefive feet wide. Happily, Pearl's great-grandson was wise enough topreserve the relic and present it to the park. Within the park also isFrazier's Knob, the highest point in the state of Kentucky. On the banksof Little Laurel flowing through the park one may see an old-timewatermill in full operation. And if you have a bit of imagination you'llwait your turn and take home a poke of meal and have cornbread forsupper. 

Through this region--now The Valley of Parks--Boone blazed his famoustrace and Governor Shelby built the first wagon road through thewilderness from infant Kentucky to Mother Virginia. Along the way apleasant reminder of an almost forgotten past is that of the WildernessRoad Weavers busy at loom and wheel. They process cloth from wool andflax before your eyes and explain with care the art of making homemadedyes from herb and bark. An older woman pauses with shuttle in hand. "See the hollow tree off yonder, a mother and her babe hid there toescape the Indians. And the cabin over there with the picketin' fencearound, that's our library now and we've got all sorts of curiositiesthere too. " A visit within reveals the curiosities to be relics of earlyhome arts and mountain industries. 

Cumberland Falls, Kentucky's Million Dollar State Park, of 593 acres, was a gift of T. Coleman du Pont and family of Delaware; its chiefattraction is the Falls, once called Shawnee, with the profile of anIndian plainly to be seen in jutting rock over which the roaringcataract plunges near Corbin and Williamsburg. In this once Dark andBloody Ground there is amazing beauty; on July 1st, 1941, Mammoth Cave, the twenty-sixth National Park, was dedicated with imposing ceremonies, adding another link to the Park-to-Park plan. If it had not been for thesaltpeter from this cave the Battle of New Orleans would have been lost, for from this mineral gunpowder that saved the day was made. So vast isone of its caverns, the Snowball Dining Room, 267 feet underground, thathundreds of members of the Associated Press held a dinner there in 1940. Mammoth Cave is reached by U. S. Highway 70, west from Cave City, andone hundred miles south of Louisville. The vast national park of whichit is a part is watered by the Green River, known to early explorers. 

Kentucky's most talked-of cave in recent years is that in which FloydCollins lost his life in 1925. The tons of rock in Sand Cave under whichhe was trapped did not cause his death, however. Collins died ofpneumonia. His body now lies buried in Crystal Cave, which was Floyd'sfavorite of all those he had spent his life in exploring. 

One travels cross country from Crystal Cave to the Blue Grass on RussellCave Road, along with some of the 45, 000 other people who have comewithin a single year to see Man o' War, the most famous race horse ofall times. "The Blue Grass region of Kentucky, " says Prof. E. S. Good, head of the department of animal husbandry of the University ofKentucky, "is the premier breeding ground for light horses because ofits ample rainfall, mild climate, abundance of sunshine and a soil richin calcium and phosphorus, so necessary to produce superior bone, muscleand nerve. "

Though mountain men are proud to own a good pair of mules and willpraise the merits of this lowly beast without stint, they generally knowor care little about blooded race horses. They take pride in lessglamorous possessions. For instance, they are proud that in their midstthe McGuffey Readers were still taught by an aged schoolmaster indefiance of legislation which barred the classics and that the littlelog school in which he taught is the first and only shrine in Kentuckyto the illustrious educator, Dr. William Holmes McGuffey, who compiledthe Eclectic Readers which gave the children of America a different, brighter outlook upon life back in those dark days of Indian warfare. The McGuffey Log School shrine stands not far from the mouth of BigSandy River in Boyd County. Each year hundreds of McGuffey enthusiastsmake a pilgrimage to the humble shrine of learning. 

"We've got no end of fine sights to see. " Mountain folk are justlyboastful. "Down at Bardstown is the Talbott Tavern built 162 years ago, one of the first such taverns where travelers could tarry west of theAlleghenies. On the walls there are the marks of bullets left by thepistols of Judge John Rowan, who fought a duel with Dr. Chambers andmortally wounded him. There's Audubon Memorial State Park with allmanner of paintings, books, and pictures left by Audubon, kin of aFrench King, who spent many a happy day roaming the hills of Kentuckyand studying the ways of wild birds. And no country can claim a greaterman than was born right here at Hodgenville, and even if we didn't havea memorial built out of stone to Abraham Lincoln he will live in ourhearts as long as the world stands. " The mountaineer who sings thepraises of his native land eyes his listener attentively. "Bless you, folks are so friendly and kind of heart in Kentucky they even have arefuge for turkeys. There is a sanctuary for this native American fowlin the Kentucky Woodlands Wildlife Refuge just west of Canton. And tomake sure the wild creatures do not starve there are vast unharvestedcrops grown on the cleared land and left for them to feed upon. Heretoo, if travelers will drive slowly along the wooded trails, they aremost sure to come upon a startled deer, for there are more than 2000roaming in the woodland. "

Along with other traditions there survives in Kentucky the medieval riteof blessing the hounds which takes place usually on the first Saturdayin November. In his clerical robes the Bishop of Lexington, in the heartof the Blue Ridge, performs the ceremony much in the manner of theprelates of ages past. With proper solemnity the bishop bestows uponeach huntsman the medal of St. Hubert, patron of the hunt, while thegay-coated hunters stand with bowed heads and the hounds, eager for thehunt, move restlessly about the feet of their masters. 

Across the Blue Ridge in the Carolinas fox hunting and horseback ridingare sports as popular as in Kentucky. But above all the things in whichthe people of the Carolina mountains lead are their matchlesshandicrafts, weaving, spinning, and their skill in play-making. 

Who hasn't heard of "Prof. " Koch, Director of the Carolina Playmakersand of the group's plays? And the thing about the Playmakers which setsthem apart is that they are chiefly of the mountains. Their plays aremade out of the life of mountain folk. Archibald Henderson declares, "Koch is the arch-foe of the cut-and-dried, the academic, thespecifically prescribed. All his life he has demanded room for therandom, outlet for the unexpressed, free play for the genius. " Nowadayshe travels by caravan with his Carolina Playmakers from coast to coastthat the world may see for itself what genius unrestrained can turn out. If one wishes to see them, in their own setting, which thousands of usdo every year, there is The Playmakers' Theatre at Chapel Hill, NorthCarolina, the first theater building in America to be dedicated to themaking of its own native drama. 

"This love of drama is in the blood of Carolinians, " they themselveswill tell you. "Get three of them together and before you can say JackRobinson they're building a play. A folk play, each one with an idea, asituation. Why, right over to Kernersville in North Carolina the firstlittle theater was born. And say, if you want to hear ballad singers, stop wherever you're a-mind to in the Blue Ridge in the Carolinas andkeep your ears open. There's a fellow over on South Turkey Creek, littlemore than a dozen miles as the crow flies from Asheville, and you'llhear the finest singing of old-time ballads you ever listened to. Mostlymenfolks like best to sing. Womenfolks turn to the loom, particularly inNorth Carolina. "

A visit to the Weave Shop at Saluda convinces the visitor of the skillof mountain women. Fabrics of unbelievable beauty are turned out athandlooms and it is mountain women who lead in the work. 

Much has been written on the subject of handicrafts but perhaps the mostcomprehensive treatment of the diversified subject is Allen Eaton's_Handicrafts of the Southern Highlands_. 

Through Allen Eaton's knowledge of handicrafts and his untiring effortsa great service has been rendered the mountain people of the Blue Ridgein marketing their wares. For he has been instrumental in organizing ahandicraft guild which serves the entire southern mountain region. Theco-operating units cover various phases of handicraft. The ShenandoahCommunity Workers of Bird Haven specialize in toy making, while The JackKnife Shop of Berea College, the Woodcrafters and Carvers of Gatlinburg, Tennessee, the Whittlers at the John C. Campbell Folk School inBrasstown, North Carolina, embrace most every type of handicraft intheir output which is the work of mountain boys and girls. 

It was to mountain people that George Washington looked for hope andhelp in the hour of our country's need, and two later presidents heldthe same opinion. The mother and the wife of a president of these UnitedStates have done likewise. 

One winter day more than a score of years ago a group of childrenhuddled about the pot-bellied stove in a little log church in themountains of Georgia. They had trudged through snow and mud and a cold, biting wind to reach this one-room church house. Though the older folkwere eager to teach the children lessons of Scripture, few of them couldread or write. A mountain child, like every other child, delights inhearing an older person read, whether it be a make-believe story or areal story from the Bible. "Wisht you could read the Word, " an eagerlittle girl this winter day said to the old woman who, though she couldneither read nor write, was doing her best to explain from a smallcolored leaflet the meaning of the Sunday School lesson. 

The story reached the ears of a lady not far away. After that she beganreading Bible stories to the mountain children gathered at a little logcabin near her home. "Martha Berry didn't need eye specs to see howeager the children were for learning, " one of her mountain friendsremarked, "and then and there she began to ruminate through her mind away to help them help themselves. 'Not to be ministered unto, but tominister, ' that was what Martha Berry said from the very first and thatis still the motto of the great institution that has steadily grown upfrom the humble beginning in a little one-room log house. "

It is an unusual institution of learning with a campus equally unique, for in its 25, 000 acres are a forest, a mountain, and a lake and morethan one hundred buildings which were not only erected by Berrystudents, but built from materials also made by them. Here mountain boysand girls express the fine spirit of independence inherited from theirforbears. Once they enter the Gate of Opportunity, they _earn_ theireducation. The mountain boy, with his carpentry, brick-making, stock-raising, hand-carving, matches his skill in friendly rivalry withthe girl, in her spinning and weaving, making dyes and canning fruits. In one year the girls canned 50, 000 gallons of fruit grown within theboundary of the Berry Schools. 

Boys and girls of the Georgia mountains need not despair nor be backwardwhile the "Sunday Lady of Possum Trot" keeps open the Gate ofOpportunity to the Berry Schools. 

"There's a heap of change here in these mountains for our children. If achild's afflicted in its nether limbs, it don't need to lay helpless nomore, a misery to itself and everyone else. There's the waters of WarmSprings and doctors with knowing that are there to help them on foot, " amountain mother told me last winter when I stopped at her cabin. "Takethe night, " she urged. "You can get a soon start in the morning, if youchoose. " I accepted her hospitality and she told me much of her earlylife there and of crippled children of the mountains who had beenrestored through bloodless surgery. Of one boy in particular she toldwho for long years had never walked a step until he had been brought tothe healing salt waters. "He can drive a car now and climb a mountain onfoot. He drove an old couple that had bought a new car all the way fromWarm Springs plum acrost the State of Georgia and back again so's hecould travel the Franklin D. Roosevelt Highway. It give him something tobrag about when he got back home. " The old woman lifted her eyes to thehills reflectively. "There have been a heap of people in this countrywho stood in the light of their afflicted children claiming it was theGood Lord's will that they were so and that it was a deep-dyed sin totry to change them. Some claimed it was a sin against the Holy Ghost tocarve upon their crooked little limbs and shed their life's blood eventhough it might make them to walk. Folks with such notions as that areplum in benighted darkness. But times have changed and it's learning andgood roads that make it. Nohow, there are doctors now with a heap oflearning who can straighten twisted joints of crippled children andnever shed their life's blood. Not nary drop!" The old woman's eyeswidened with incredulity. "I've seen crippled children packed away on aslide plum helpless and come back home on foot as spry as a wren andnever a scar on their flesh. They've got knowing ways off yonder to WarmSprings where the doctors and nurse women, to lend a hand, straightenout the twisted little bodies of many a crippled child. They do say itis a sight to the world how them little crippled fellers can cavortaround in the salty waters in no time, playful as minner fish in a sunnymountain brook. And they never shed a drop of their life's blood. So yousee there's always a way around a mountain if you can't climb over it. And by these new ways of learning the doctors and the nurse women arenot breaking faith with the belief of mountain people. It's a great anda glorious gospel, I tell you!"

 * * * * *

If you climb to the top of a peak in Dug Down Mountains, a spur of theBlue Ridge that dwindles to a height of 1000 feet in southeasternAlabama, and take a look at the state--provided the binoculars arestrong enough-you'll see why there's a saying down in that country tothe effect that "Alabama could sleep with her head resting upon theiron-studded hills of her mineral district, her arms stretched acrossfields of food and raiment, and her feet bathing in the placid waters ofMobile Bay. "

This Cornucopia of the South is not sleeping, however; she is on herfeet and bestirring herself and aware of her almost limitless resources. 

"She could dig beneath her surface and find practically every chemicalelement required in the prosecution of modern war. . . . She could fire herguns with 7, 529, 090 pounds of explosives produced annually in hermineral mines. . . . In her hour of victory, she could declare herself theQueen of the Commonwealth, mold her diadem with gold from Talladega, andembellish it with rubies from the bed of the Coosa that drains the DugDown foothills of the Blue Ridge. "

In short, her native sons like to boast, "Alabama could isolate herselffrom all the world and live happily forever after. "

And lest they forget the past, the first White House of the Confederacy, where Jefferson Davis lived and ruled, still stands, a grim reminder ofthe old South. 

 * * * * *

How amazed the pioneer dwellers of the Blue Ridge would be if they couldstalk down the mountain side and take a look at what Uncle Sam has beendoing the past eight years! Strange words too would fall upon theirears, modern-made to suit modern things. What with good roads and autos, hotels have sprung up thick as mushrooms; so have motels. There's theZooseum, combining living curiosities and relics. Pleaz Mosley gottogether in a corner of his farm a lot of Indian relics, petrifiedoddities, and a few rare varmints, a five-legged calf and a one-eyed'possum, and housed them in a shack down by the new road that cutthrough his bottom land and drew sightseers day after day. 

"But Pleaz's Zooseum can't hold a candle to the curiosities down in theHolston and Tennessee River country, " his neighbors say. "Looks likethey just naturally turned loose the briny deep in that country. Whenthey started in on the job old Grandpap up and spoke his mind. Said he, 'Sich carryings on is destructuous of the Master's handiwork and I don'tcountenance it. ' He'd set there by his log fire in his house all hisendurin' life. The fire had never went out on that hearth since he wasborned and he told the goverment he didn't aim the embers should diedown whilst he lived. Well, sir, to pacify the old man they up and movedhim, house, log fire and all, up higher in the mountains and hima-settin' right there by the fire all the time. Now he can look down tothem mighty waters and them public works with his door open and neverjolt his chair away from the hearth. "

If Daniel Boone could retrace his steps along the Holston and TennesseeRivers perhaps he would gape, too flabbergasted to utter a word. Or hemight ask in dismay, "What's become of my elbow room?" The country heonce roamed with gun and dog has been transformed into a mighty floodedarea to make way for the world's largest project of its kind. At firstmuch was said back and forth about the Tennessee Valley Authority. Someviewed it with a dubious eye, called it names--a New Deal experiment, amerchant of electricity, a threat to private ownership of business, oragain merely a new series of letters in alphabetical government, theTVA. To isolated mountain folk who came to look as time went on, it wasthe plum biggest public works they had ever set eyes on. 

Eight years after it was begun--by the middle of 1941--with warthreatening the civilized world, the TVA has become a defense arm. 

Uncle Sam at once cast his discerning eye down Tennessee way and hisNational Defense Advisory Committee designated the TVA as one of itsdefense industries, and an appropriation of $79, 800, 000 was granted theAuthority, and a call from the defense power program went out for TVA"to add to its system of ten multi-purpose dams the Cherokee Power Damon the Holston River, to build another near the Watts Bar Dam and toadvance work on the Fort Loudoun Dam on the Tennessee River. "

"About the only things unchanged are the caves under the earth and theforests, I reckon, " an old mountaineer observes. "They won't never digaway them Great Smoky Mountains, I'm satisfied, though they've got aroadway on the very top from Newfound Gap Highway to Clingman's Dome. And they've got what's left of the Cherokees scrouged off to theirselvesin Qualla Indian Reservation. "

Wise and far-seeing men have looked to the preservation of much ofnature's beauty through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, whichembraces Little Pigeon Gorge, and Chimney Tops, which command abreathtaking view of the surrounding country. 

"My grandfather journeyed miles on foot over these mountains, " a youngman told me one day when I tarried at the Mountaineer's Museum inGatlinburg on U. S. Highway 71. "Look over yonder is Le Conte, theGrand-pappy of Old Smoky Mountain as we say here in Tennessee. " Heturned about in the other direction. "And off there the rushing watersof Little Pigeon turn an old-time mill wheel. "

Leaving the alluring sights of Little Pigeon I turned the nose of myantiquated car toward U. S. Highway 25E to visit Cudo's Cave. It iselectrically lighted and bright as day. A cave that appears to be anendless chain of rooms. Within are all manner of rock formations, aPalace, a great Pipe Organ, even a reproduction of Capitol Dome not madeby mortal hand; Petrified Forests, Cascades that seem to be covered withice, and a Pyramid said to be eighty-five million years old. And in themidst of these ageless wonders the names of Civil War soldiers carved onthe stone walls. 

"If all this had been on top of the earth, " my mountaineer guidedeclared, "destructuous man would have laid it waste long ago. Lookabout, " he urged. "There's every sort of varmint by the Master's Hand, from a 'possum to an elephant, and even the likeness of the Americanflag. "

Outside the caves which lie under three states, Kentucky, Tennessee, andVirginia, you look down upon the town of Cumberland Gap to the right ofwhich are remains of Civil War trenches. 

"There are wonders no end to be seen around this country, " mountainpeople say, "and things maybe never thought of anywhere else. "

Perhaps that is not an unlikely statement, considering the stirringevent a few years ago that took place at Dayton, Tennessee, whenClarence Darrow and William Jennings Bryan argued the question ofevolution pro and con. Or when you know that at the little town of Modelacross the Tennessee River from Calloway County, Kentucky, a quietminister by the name of James M. Thomas, prints his little paper fromhis own handmade type on his own handmade press. It is a tiny papercalled _The Model Star_ and it reaches the far corners of the earth. Most of its content is of a religious nature, though there are a fewadvertisements. While it brings the minister little in financial returnhe finds his recompense in the enthusiasm of readers scattered fromPitcairn Island to Cairo, Bucharest, and Shanghai. 

Tennesseans have a way of doing unusual things. And they are a religiouspeople, especially those who have spent their lives in mountain coves. There's Sergeant York. He admits he sowed his wild oats in his youth. "We drinked and gambled, " he says, "and we cussed and fit. " But whenthis giant mountaineer's eyes were opened to the evil of his ways, afterthe death of his father, Alvin C. York forsook his old habits once andfor all. When the World War came he declared himself a conscientiousobjector. His church--the Church of Christ in Christian Union--held thatwar was a sin. York had a terrific struggle deciding his duty betweenGod and patriotism. He loved his God. He loved his country. He madeevery effort to obtain exemption because he firmly believed it a sin tofight and to kill, even for the sake of one's country. But for all that, he could not gain exemption. Whereupon York went alone into themountains and fervently prayed for guidance. When the voice of Godpointed the way he followed, with the result that all the world knows. 

"You might call my escape from death purely a matter of luck, but I knowdifferent, " he says. "It was faith in God that kept me safe. I prayedthat day alone on the mountain and asked Him to bring me back home aliveand well and He did. I knowed He would. That's what faith in God will dofor a man. "

Alvin York is a true mountain man. He seeks neither praise norself-glory. Upon returning from the World War he spurned a fortune inpictures and vaudeville appearances, refusing steadfastly tocommercialize his war record. And with the same determination hedeclined to sell out to small politicians who tried to use him when heundertook to raise funds to start a school for mountain boys and girls. Knowing the need of the young people of his Tennessee mountains, Yorkhas made his life purpose to give them "a heap o' larnin'. " This he hascontinued to do year after year through the York Agricultural Schoolnear Jamestown, Tennessee. Mountain folk call it Jimtown. Now there's ahighway running through the town called York Highway. 

Sergeant York likes to sing. He "takened lessons in Byrdstown, " andbeing especially fond of singing hymns, he acquired the name of "TheSinging Elder. " He teaches a Sunday School class and did even before hewent to war. He admits smilingly that his fight with "small politicians"who wanted to use him and his war record was a worse battle than that ofthe Argonne Forest. Alvin York married his childhood sweetheart, GracieWilliams, upon returning from war, and the Governor of Tennesseeperformed the ceremony at Pall Mall where the mountain hero was born. Heis the father of seven children. For some time he served as projectsuperintendent at a CCC camp in the Tennessee mountains. He is presidentemeritus of the school he founded and has written his life's story in asimple, straightforward way, with never the slightest hint ofboastfulness. 

When it came to putting in parts of official records and commendation ofhis heroism, Sergeant York did so reluctantly. "But it has to be put in, I reckon. " He finally had to give in. 

Sergeant York's achievement, capturing single-handed 132 Germans, killing 20 others, and destroying 35 machine-gun nests standsunparalleled. 

This tall, red-headed, freckled mountain man says modestly that healways was a pretty good shot and that he kept in practice by hunting inthe Tennessee mountains, shooting turkeys and going to shooting matchesthat required a pretty steady nerve to hit center of a criss-cross mark. 

"I'm happiest here in the Valley of the Three Forks of the Wolf, " saysthe Singing Elder, "here in Fentress County just across the Kentuckystate line, once the happy hunting ground of Creeks and Cherokees. Hit'sthe place I love best with my family, my dogs and my gun. Hit's where Ibelong. "

Looking backward, history shows that mountain men, such as Alvin York, have always led their countrymen in time of war, as I have pointed outearlier. In the Civil War the southern highlands sent 180, 000 riflemento the Union Army. In the Spanish-American War they rushed to thedefense of our country. In the World War, Breathitt County, known forits fighting blood, had no draft quota, so many of her valiant sonshastened to volunteer. Though mountain people have suffered the stigmaof family feuds, they have lived to see old rancors forgotten. Hatfieldsand McCoys, Martins and Tollivers shoulder their muskets and marchside-by-side when they have to defend their native land. 

The Big Sandy country is still filled with patriots. In Floyd County, the father of eleven sons is not worried about the draft, according tothe _Big Sandy News_, November 15, 1940: "Frank Stamper, PrestonsburgSpanish-American War veteran, isn't worried about the draft 'catching'any of his eleven boys, six of whom are of draft age. Five of the bra'laddies already are infantrymen in the U. S. Army--enlisted men. Thesixth, Harry, from whom the family has not heard in nine years, may alsobe in the army now, and not subject to conscription later. Two of hissons--Everett of Jackhorn, Kentucky, and Avery of Ronda, West Virginia, were in the World War as volunteers, and when you take in considerationthat Mr. Stamper himself was a volunteer in the Spanish-American War, itmakes the adult population of the family about unanimous in the matterof patriotism. The five sons in the army now are: Frank, Jr. , Paul, Damon, John and Charles. Mr. Stamper is the father of twenty-sevenchildren, seventeen of whom are living. "

 WHEN SINGING COMES IN, FIGHTING GOES OUT

Mountain folk, especially those who have had the misfortune of beingmixed in troubles (feuds to the outside world) believe earnestly that"when singing comes in, fighting goes out. " "Look at the Hatfields andMcCoys, " they say. "They make music together now at the home of one sideand now at the home of them on t'other side. They sit side-by-side onthe bench at the Singing Gathering down on the Mayo Trail come thesecond Sunday in June every year. Off yonder nigh the mouth of BigSandy, across the mountains which once were stained with the blood ofboth families. What's more, Little Melissy Hatfield and Little Bud McCoyeven sing together a ballad that tells of the love of Rosanna McCoy forDevil Anse's son Jonse. And their elders sing hymn tunes long cherishedin the mountain church, whilst tens of thousands gathered on the hillsall around about listen with silent rejoicing over the peace that hascome to the once sorry enemies. "

To be sure, there is the singing of folk songs handed down by word ofmouth from generation to generation. When the mountain people are askedthe origin of their music, the usual reply is "My grandsir larnt me thisfiddle tune, " or "My Granny larnt me this song-ballet. "

Since mountain people have brought their music out of the coves andhollows for the world to hear through their Singing Gathering andFestivals, the nation is fast becoming aware of the importance of folkmusic in the life of Americans today. Great singers have taken up thesimple songs of our fathers. "Wipe out foes of morale with music, " saysLucy Monroe, New York's "Star Spangled Banner Soprano, " director ofpatriotic music for RCA-Victor, when she sang on September 11, 1941, before the National Federation of Music Clubs in New York. "Let's makecertain that when the present crisis is passed, music will have done itsfull job of defense, " she said enthusiastically. The singer urgedfederation members to become soldiers of music. "Let us enlist togetherto form a great army of music!" she urged. Miss Monroe was commissionedby Mayor LaGuardia to devote her efforts to the cause of music for theOffice of Civilian Defense. Whereupon she outlined a four-point program:1. To visit large plants and industrial centers connected with defensework to give musical programs and to suggest that the plants begin eachday's activities with playing the Star-spangled Banner--to tell the menwhat they are working for. 2. To conduct community sings in largecities. 3. To collect phonograph records for the boys in army camps, establishing central depots in every locality in the country. 4. To givetalks, with song illustrations, on the history of the United States ofAmerica in colleges, high schools, women's clubs, and music clubs. 

Though some may see folk song, the basis of all music, endangered bymotion pictures, Kurt Schindler, authority on ancient European customsand collector of folk music in other lands, believes the danger lies inanother direction. "The young students, the modernists, in their greatdesire to keep up with the times wish to kill the old things. "

All the forces working in America to preserve folk song should shareKurt Schindler's fears. The press is cognizant of the farflung effortthroughout the land. The _Atlanta Journal_ (September 19, 1928) says, "The collection and preservation of mountain folk music is a singularlygracious work and one of rare value to history. Collected in its naturalenvironment, it is perforce authentic both in tune and idiom, andsincere collectors are not content with this alone--they complete therecord by tracing the songs to their origins. Such is a most graciouswork and one which lovers of beauty, whether music or in legend or inlocal history, throughout the South, would do well to imitate. "

Far removed from the metropolitan area where great singers interpret thesimple songs of our forbears and urge the necessity of theirpreservation, an untrained mountain minstrel is lending his every effortto aid not only in conserving but in correlating as well the folk loreof the Blue Ridge Country. He is a kinsman of Devil Anse Hatfield andlives just around the mountain from where the old warrior lies buried. "Sid Hatfield never was mixed up in the troubles in no shape norfashion, " anyone can tell you. "He'd not foir a gun if you laid one inhis hand. But just give him a fiddle! Why, Sid Hatfield is themusic-makinest fellow that ever laid bow to strings. What's more he putsa harp in his mouth and plays it at the same time he's sawin' the bow. I've seen him and hear-ed him, many's the time. "

And so have thousands of others. For Sid Hatfield spends his spare time, when he's not working for the Appalachian Power Company in Logan County, West Virginia, making music first at one gathering, then another. Sid'srepertoire is almost limitless. He plays any fiddle tune from Big Sandyto Bonaparte's Retreat. And when it comes to the mouth harp, Sid justnaturally can't be beat. "I love the old tunes, " he says, "and they mustnot die. You and I can help them to live. Let old rancors die, but notour native song. "

To that end he has become a prime mover in a folksong and folkloreconservation movement called American Folkways Association. "There are alot of McCoys, " he says, "who can pick a banjo and sing as fine a dittyas you ever heard. There's Bud McCoy over on Levisa Fork. Never saw hisbetters when it comes to picking the banjo. We've played together awhole day at a stretch and never played the same tune twice. We juststop long enough to eat dinner and then we go at it again. Bud'steaching his grandson, Little Bud, and he's not yet five year old. Little Bud can step a hornpipe too. Peert as a cricket!" A slow breakingsmile lights Sid's open countenance. "Reckon you've heard of ourAssociation, " and, not giving anyone time to answer, Sid is off on thesubject nearest and dearest to his heart. "We've got the finestAssociation in the country. Got a nephew of Fiddling Bob Taylor in ourAssociation and by next summer we aim to hold a Singing Gathering downin his country--the Watauga country in Tennessee. Folsom Taylor, that'shis name and he's living now in the far end of the Blue Ridge inMaryland. He helped us with the Singing Gathering we held in theCumberlands in Maryland this past summer. We've got another helper downin Tennessee. His name is Grady Snead. He was in the World War and aboutlost his singing voice but he's not lost any of his spirit for mountainmusic and old-time ways. Why, every summer ever since Grady got backfrom the war he's gathered his people around him in Snead's Grove--heowns quite a few acres down in Tennessee--and they have an old-timepicnic and they have hymn singing and ballad singing and fiddle music. This past summer our Association joined in with them at the Snead picnicand you never saw the like that day in Snead's Grove. People thick asbees and pleased as could be. We started off a-singing a goodold-fashioned hymn all together and that put everybody in good heart. Never saw such a picnic in all my born days. There's nothing like a goodold-fashioned all-day picnic to make friends among people and then mixin a lot of good old-time music. That's what Americans were brought upon and that's what they're going to live on more and more through thesetroubled hours and as time goes on. "

That day at Snead's Grove, Sid Hatfield told them about the Associationand how already different organizations had united with it. He told of apreacher over in Maryland who had joined in whole-heartedly. "He'sadopted the great out-of-doors for his temple in which to worship withsong and prayer. Robinson is his name. Reverend Felix Robinson, as finea singer and as fine a preacher as you'd ever want to sit under. "

Then Sid put down his fiddle and his mouth harp and drawing from hiscoat pocket a crumpled paper, he began again. "My friends, I want toread you this piece in the _Chicago Daily News_. This is the place toread it. We ought to be warned about what can happen in this country toour music, by what has happened to some of our people. Though maybesometime it's been for the best. This piece was writ by a mighty knowingman. His name is Robert J. Casey and he flew from Chicago for his paperthe _Chicago Daily News_ to hear with his own ears the music of themountains from the lips of mountain singers at Traipsin' Woman cabin onthe Mayo Trail the second Sunday in June, 1938. "

There was a moment's breathless silence over the great gathering therein Snead's Grove. The look of fear and apprehension gave way to that ofeagerness and hope as Devil Anse Hatfield's kinsman read with quietdignity:

"'One breathes a sigh for the Hatfields and McCoys who maintain theDemocratic majority in cemeteries along the West Virginia line. Onevoices a word of commendation for the Hatfields and the McCoys who drivetaxi-cabs in Ashland or run quiet, respectable and legal beer parlors inHuntington. And looking from one group to the other, one realizes thatsomething has happened to the hill country. 

"'A person of imagination standing on the tree-shaded porch of theTraipsin' Woman cabin up in Lonesome Hollow probably still can hearechoes of "the singing gathering" which only a few hours agodemonstrated the essential durability of the hill folks. . . . Where a dayor two ago there was only a neutral interest in such proceedings, nowpeople are talking of Elizabethan culture preserved completely for amatter of centuries by people who lived on the wrong side of the tracks, just a few rods from the fence of the rolling mills. 

"'There is a tendency in some quarters to look upon the sing-festival asa permanent and predictable community asset. But that is because thesophisticated and urban population is ignoring the present status of theMcCoys and the Hatfields, as for many years it has ignored thecrack-voiced "ballet" singers and the left-handed virtuosi in its ownbackyard. '"

Sid Hatfield paused in his reading to say a few words on his own. "Thereis one, not calling any names, who discovered a forgotten England in theKentucky uplands. " He turned again to read from the paper. "'One who setdown the words of the amazing ballads and studied music in order tocapture the changeless arrangements for psaltery, dulcimer and sakbut, who has no such illusions. The music of the hills today is a thin echoof tunes that were sung on the village greens in Shakespeare's time. Tomorrow it will be gone!'" Sid Hatfield's voice lifted in warning. "'And with it will vanish the early English idiom of the hillfolks--their costumes, their customs, their dances, the singing ritualof their weddings. Pretty soon there aren't going to be any more hillfolk--if indeed, there are any now. 

"'"The Hatfields and McCoys, they were reckless mountain boys, " whosehistory is now as stale as that of the Capone mob. Their feud, which . . . Threatened to provoke a civil war between two states, gave rise to thegeneral belief in the lasting endurance of the hill dwellers. A racemust be hardy as the ragweed when it could not be exterminated even byits own patient effort. The tenantry of the flatlands might be excusedfor believing that a special Providence intended it to survive, despitepoverty, malnutrition, bad housing and wasting disease forever and ever. 

"'And so it might have survived, for the hill people had "the habit ofstanding. " They had set a precedent of fertility and hardihood and thewill to live for a matter of centuries. . . . But there had come influencesover which not even the carefully nurtured stubbornness of 300 yearscould prevail. . . . The railroad and the concrete highway and theautomobile and the black tunnels of the coal mine. 

"'. . . The day of isolated communities and isolated culture in the UnitedStates is already past. . . . The hill folk have been known to the flatlandpeople chiefly for feuds and moonshine. Perhaps tempers are no lessquick, but it's less trouble to get to court and have grievancesadjudicated according to law. And the music is going--and thetraditional dances. It is one of the defects of all educational systemsthat they make it easier for a person to forget by removing thenecessity for his remembering. '"

Sid Hatfield again voiced his own observations. "Time was when old folkscould recall every word of hundreds of ballads. " He turned once more toread from the newspaper in his hand. "'. . . And every note of a musicwhose disregard for melodic rule made it exceedingly difficult toremember. Now, when such things can be written down, no "grandsir" willbother to repeat them to the youngins and the youngins will get theirmusic from the radio. By that time there will be no doubt that QueenElizabeth is dead. '"

Devil Anse's kinsman surveyed his listeners. "My friends, we've gota-bound, me and you and you, " he singled out a lad here a man, a womanthere, "to put our shoulders to the wheel and save our old ways and ourold music. "

Then he told about the American Folkways Association and its purpose. "We aim to unify efforts to conserve and cultivate the traditions andcustoms of the Blue Ridge Country where conditions are ideal for arenewed emphasis on living a simple and natural life . . . To preserve thepast and present expressions of isolated peoples in the SouthernAppalachians which are untainted by any form of insincerity ormake-believe. There is growing interest among city-bred people in thefolk-ways, and through research and actual experiences, they arelearning to appreciate the simple folk-life that is still intact. "

Sid, like Devil Anse, understands crowd psychology, though neither callsit by that name. Sid had the attention of his hearers and he told themmore. "We're getting our eyes open more every day to the boundlesstreasures in America. People all through the Blue Ridge don't aim tostand by and see things disappear because new ways have come in. They'vestarted all sorts of gatherings and festivals to keep alive the thingsthat mean America!"

With quick gesture he enumerated upon his fingers as he named some ofthem: "There's the Forest Festival held in October at Elkins, WestVirginia, with a pretty mountain maid for its Queen; the TobaccoFestival in Shelbyville, Kentucky, that pays homage to the leadingproduct of the Blue Grass country, next to the race horse, of course;there's the Mountain Laurel Festival at Pineville, Kentucky, in May, glorifying the beauty and profusion of the mountain flower; the VirginiaApple Blossom Festival in April in the Shenandoah Valley at Winchester, Virginia--a wilderness of blossoms that has made beautiful a once lonelyvalley; the Rhododendron Festival in Webster Springs, West Virginia, inJuly, that vies in charm with a like event in Kentucky; the Sweet PotatoFestival in Paris, Tennessee, that pays tribute to the yam; the AmericanFolk Song Festival in the foothills of Kentucky. Then there's the SneadPicnic that our good friend Grady Snead has been carrying on everysummer ever since he got back from the war across the waters; there'sthe Mountain Choir Festival over in Oakland, Maryland, in the month ofAugust, when hundreds of mountain boys and girls gather together to singhymns and old ballads too; there's the Arcadian Folk Festival and thePoet's Fair and the Arcadian Guild all bunched together at Hot SpringsNational Park and McFadden Three Sisters Springs where down in the OzarkCountry folks welcome the advent of 'the Moon of Painted Leaves' andpattern new dreams in the valley of pastoral fancy, listen to the Pipesof Pan, meet old friends, and make new ones in a sylvan environment, where poetry slides down every moonbeam. Every sort of gathering rightwhere it belongs, where it was cradled through all these longgenerations. "

Sid paused a moment for second wind. "When we look about we're bound toown this is a mighty changing world. Time was when the mountain peoplerode to the gatherings in Brushy Hollow in jolt wagons. They kept it upa while, loading the whole family in the jolt wagon. But times havechanged. . . . A body has to sort o' keep up with the times, like Prof. Koch. Bless you, he loads his whole pack and passel of boys and girls ina bus and packs them hither and yon 'crost the country to show out withtheir play-making. The Carolina Playmakers just naturally fetch themountain to Mohammed. " Sid flung wide his hands, brought them slowlytogether. "To get all such folks to work together that's why we formedthe American Folkways Association. What's more we've got us a magazineto tell about what we've done and aim to do--the _Arcadian Life_magazine, with our good friend Otto Ernest Rayburn as editor, 'way downin the Ozarks. " Sid Hatfield smiled pleasantly. "There's no excuse forfolks not being neighborly nowadays. No matter where they live, whatwith good roads and the automobile--we've just got a-bound to beneighborly. To sing together, to make music together, to show out ourcrops and our posies and our handiwork together. Here in Snead's Grovetoday is the third time we've bore witness that our Association is notjust a theory. We made our first bow in the Kentucky foothills in June, the second in Maryland in August, and now in Tennessee. In October weaim to join hands and hearts and our music in Arcadia under the Autumnmoon. "

That day in Snead's Grove in Tennessee they wanted Sid Hatfield to keepright on but taking a squint at the sun sinking in the west, he said inconclusion, "I've got a long ways to travel back to the West Virginiamountains but I hope we'll all be together again here in the Grove nextsummer, this day a year, the Lord being willing. "

 VANISHING TRAIL

Perhaps it is merely the result of evolutionary process, economic ratherthan intentional, that man has wiped out many reminders of the past;that the forest primeval has passed to make room for blue grass, tasseled corn, and tobacco; that forts and blockhouses gave way to thesettler's log house encircled by a garden patch; that the windowlesscabin has gone to make room for the weather-boarded frame of many roomsand glass windows; that the village has vanished for the town--theindustrial center. 

The Wilderness Trail broken first by mastodon, then panther and bear andfrightened deer, has been transformed into a modern highway. The ShawneeTrail along which Indians lurked and tomahawked white men has becomeMayo Trail, taking its name from a country schoolteacher. He was afar-seeing man, who stumbled sometimes hopelessly along the lonely way, when he needed help to bring out of the bowels of the earth the treasurein coal he knew to be hidden there. Mayo Trail is an amazing engineeringfeat that connects mountains with level land. Limestone Trail in MasonCounty has left along its course only a vestige of vegetation to remindus it was once the path of buffalo and Indian. To motorists hurryingonward it is merely U. S. 60 that leads to another city. 

The rugged, unbroken path once pursued by the lad Gabriel Arthur, aCherokee captive, called on Hutchins Map in 1778 the "War Path to theCuttawa Country, " uniting today with the Wilderness Trails, has becomethe open gateway to the West. Boone's Trace, or Boone's Path, leadingfrom Virginia through Cumberland Gap, to the Ohio River, still is calledBoone's Path. Since 1909 it has been a national motorway, being a partof the Dixie Highway which runs from Michigan to Florida. It was overthis same path that Governor Duncannon of Virginia built the first wagonroad in 1790. During the Civil War the region of the Gap was fortifiedand occupied by Confederate and Union soldiers in turn. Later, in 1889, the first railroad entered the Gap. Today Skyline Highway--U. S. 25 and58--leads from the saddle of the historic Gap to the top of PinnacleMountain, commanding a view of six states, Kentucky, Tennessee, Virginia, North Carolina, Georgia, and Alabama. 

And the scene has changed. 

Spring has come to the Blue Ridge. The hum of industry echoes along oncelonely creeks, through quiet hollows. We see no more the oxcartlumbering, creaking laboriously along, higher and higher up the ruggedmountain side. The latest model motor glides swiftly over the smoothsurface, winding its way upward and upward. Off yonder the TVA hasharnessed the waterpower of the Holston and Tennessee, made a greatvalley to burst into a miracle of man's genius. Modern industrial plantssteam along the banks. 

Good roads, the automobile, schoolhouses, the airplane have wiped outall barriers between mountain and plain. The Blue Ridge casts a long, long shadow across blossoming valleys. The mountaineer of yesterday withhis Anglo-Saxon speech of Elizabeth's time, his primitive plow and loom, has vanished before the juggernaut of progress. But the children of thehills are blessed with a rich, a priceless heritage in tradition, song, and love of independence that will not die as long as mountains standand men of the mountains survive to defend and preserve it. 

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 INDEX

Abingdon, Virginia, Declaration of, 31-32aborigines, 8adventurers, 15agriculture, 112-21, 283-89Alabama, 310Alamance, Battle of, 28Allegheny Mountains, 4American Folk Song Festival, 241American Folkways Association, 320-27animal life, 8Appalachia, 3-4, 5"Appalachia, " by Martha Creech, 210Apple Blossom Festival, 326Arcadian Folk Festival, 326Arcadian Guild, 326_Arcadian Life_, 327art exhibit, Kentucky, 250Arthur, Gabriel, expedition of, 17-18, 328Ash Lawn, 293"Ashland Tragedy, The, " by Peyton Buckner Byrne, 228Athiamiowee Trail, 9_Atlanta Journal_, 319Audubon Memorial State Park, 304

Bailey, "Mad Anne, " 300ballads, 132, 152, 154, 159, 210-47, 249, 306; and music, 43-44; patriotic, 239-47Baltimore, Lord, 7, 12Bankhead-Jones Tenant Purchase Act, 286baptism, 60-61Baptists, 161-64, 268; Regular Primitive, 161-64, 266Bardstown, Kentucky, 304Barker, George A. , "Norris Dam, " 245; "Skyline Drive, " 215Barton, Bruce, 268Barton, William E. , 268beliefs, women's, 120-21belting a tree, 113Berea College, 259, 307Berry Schools, 259, 307-10Big Bone Lick, 8Big Meeting, 57, 71Big Sandy Breaks, 301Big Sandy Improvement Association, 287_Big Sandy News_, 286, 317Big Sandy River, 4, 18, 19, 48, 116, 271, 304; canalization, 287; superstition, 168"Big Sandy River, " by D. Preston, 211birds, 6-7black cat, legend of, 189-94Blackberry Association, 288blessing the hounds, 305blindness, conjured, 180-85block houses, 22blue grass country, 303Blue Lick, 35Blue Ridge Mountains, 4Blue Ridge Parkway, 292boats, river, 272books, 16, 29, 34, 306Boone, Daniel, 19, 21, 22-39, 295, 302; capture by Indians, and escape, 35-36; death and grave, 39Boone, Mrs. Daniel, 24-25Boone's Trace (Trail; Path), 33, 328Boonesborough, 35, 37, 39; Battle of, 36Braddock, General, 23Breaks of the Big Sandy, 301Breathitt County, Kentucky, 73, 74, 75, 79, 88, 316Breckinridge, Alexander, 13, 261Breckinridge, Mrs. Mary, 261Bryan, William Jennings, 314Bryans, trek with Boone, 29-30Buckley, Noah, 169-72Buffum-Dillam feud, 88-91"Bundles for Britain, " by Jilson Setters, 242Burchett, Luke, "Jennie Wylie, " 219Burning Spring, 21, 26, 270Byrne, Peyton Buckner, "The Ashland Tragedy, " 228

CCC, 288, 290CIO, 289-90Callahan, Ed, 75, 76, 77, 78, 80, 81, 82Campbell, John C. , Folk School, 259, 307canalization, river, 287candy pulling, 143-44"Captain Jinks, " 147Carolina Playmakers, 305-06, 326-27Carter, Nannie Hamm, "It's Great to Be an American, " 239Casey, Robert J. , 322cat, black, legend of, 189-94Catlettsburg, Kentucky, 116, 271-72Caudill, Mrs. Lydia Messer, 250caverns, 186, 292, 300, 303, 313Cawood, Mrs. Herbert C. , 283Chapel Hill, North Carolina, 306Charette, Missouri, 38Cherokees, 18, 32, 312, 328; legend, 186-89_Chicago Daily News_, 322Child, lost, finding of, 170-72Christmas, Old and New, 158-61"Church in the Mountains, " by Jessie Stewart, 222church music, 268churches, new, 266cider press, old, 302Civil War, 47, 55, 72, 231, 310, 313, 316, 328Civilian Conservation Corps, 288, 290claims, land, 32climate, 7, 41Clinch Valley, 30coal mining, 250-51coal mining and miners, yesterday and today, 273-83"Coal Queen, " 283Cockrell, James, 74-81Cockrell-Hargis feud 73-88Collins, Floyd, 303; ballads of, 235, 237Confederacy, White House, 310Congress of Industrial Organizations, 289-90conjuring, 180-85conservation, 288Constitution, first American, 29"convicts, " early, 16corn, grinding of, 112-13Cornstalk, Chief, 300corpse, winking, legend of, 203-05country dances, 148County Coal Operators' Association, 283courting and song, 122-34cow, poisoned, 174-75Craft, Uncle Chunk, 72-73Crawford, Bruce, 294-99Creech, Martha, "Appalachia, " 210; "The Robin's Red Breast, " 218; "Woman's Way, " 226Crisp, Adam, "Floyd Collins' Fate, " 237crocheting, 120-22Crockett's Hollow, legend of, 180-85crops, 112-21croup, curing, 171crown, death, 177-78Crystal Cave, 303Cudo's Cave, 313"Cumberland, " origin of use of name, 20Cumberland Falls Park, 302-03Cumberland Gap and Mountain, 4, 20, 26, 30, 33, 46, 313, 328-29Cumberland Plateau, 4, 19Cumberland River, 3, 19customs, religious, 155-67Cuttawa country, 17, 19

dancing, 145-50; modern, 264-65; wedding, 153Darrow, Clarence, 314Davis, Esther Eugenia, "West Virginia, " 214Davis, Jefferson, 310Dayton, Tennessee, 314death, omens of, 177-79death crown, 177-78"Death of Mary Fagin, The, " by Bob Salyers, 232Declaration of Abingdon, Virginia, 31-32Declaration of Independence, 34deer woman and fawn, legend of, 194-99Delisle, map, 19Dillam-Buffum feud, 88-91dipping snuff, 289divining rod, use of, 169-72Dixie Highway, 328doctor, mountain, ballad of, 223doctor, wizard, 190doctors, 173-74, 261Donegal, Lord, 12"Downfall of Paris, The, " by Coby Preston, 246drives. _See_ highwaysDug Down Mountains, 105, 310Duke, Effie and Richard, ballad of, 234Duncannon, Governor, 328Duquesne, Captain, 36

Eaton, Allen, _Handicrafts of the Southern Highlands_, 306education. _See_ schoolselectrification, rural, 263-64Elizabeth, Queen, 10, 43Evans, Lewis, map, 19evolution trial, 314excise laws, hatred of, 11, 43explorers, 16

Fagin (Phagan), Mary, ballad of, 232fairs, state, 284families, large, 285-86family honor, 106-11Farm Security Administration, 284, 285, 286, 287farming, 112-21, 283-89"Fate of Effie and Richard Duke, The, " by Coby Preston, 234"Fate of Floyd Collins, The, " by Jilson Setters, 235fauna, 8feather, white, 178-79festivals, 325-26feuds, 45-111; ballad on, 216; vanishing feudist, 248-55. _See also_ family namesfighting and singing, 317-27Flanery, Mrs. Mary Elliott, 262-63flora, 5-6, 56"Floyd Collins' Fate, " by Adam Crisp, 237Foley, Ben, 105-11Foley, Jorde, 105-11Foley Sods, 105folk festivals, 325-26folk lore, and conservation of, 320-27folk singing, 317-27Folk Song Festival, 241Folkways Association, American, 320-27foot-washing, 161-64, 266, 268-69Forest Festival, 325forestry, 288forests, national, 300, 301Fort Boone, 39fortunes and riddles, 135-50fox hunting, 305Frank, Leo M. , ballad of, 232Franklin D. Roosevelt Highway, 309Frazier's Knob, 302Frontier Nursing School, 261Fugate, Chester, 74-75funeralizing, 155-58, 267furs, 17, 19, 22Future Farmer Association, 283

games, kissing, 144Gandy Sinks, 300Garrett, Aunt Sallie, 55-72Garrett, William Dyke, 55-72, 201, 202, 295Gentry, Pol, legend of, 189-94geography song, 128-29Georgia Warm Springs, 308-10Good, Professor E. S. , 303"Good Shepherd of the Hills, " 55-72Great Kanawha River, 37Great Meadows, and Battle of, 23, 26Great Smoky Mountains National Park, 292, 312-13Green River, 19, 303Greene, General Nathanael, 19Greenup (Hangtown), Kentucky, 231

Hamm family Eisteddfod, 239handicrafts, 306-07_Handicrafts of the Southern Highlands_, by Allen Eaton, 306Hangtown (Greenup), Kentucky, 231Hargis, Beach, and murder of father, 79, 82-87Hargis, Elbert, 254-55Hargis, Judge James, and murder by son, 75-87Hargis-Cockrell feud, 73-88Harkins, Hugh, 269-70Harkins, Walter Scott, 269-71Harlan, Kentucky, 283Harlan Mining Institute, 283Hart, "Honest" John, 15Hart, Nathaniel, 32Hatfield, "Devil Anse, " 46-67, 250; anecdote of, 62-63; conversion and baptism of, 63-67; ghost, 199-202; statue of, 199-202; stories told by, 49-54Hatfield, Jonse, 251Hatfield, Levisa Chafin, 46-72; grave, 200Hatfield, Sid, 320-27Hatfield, Tennis, 251Hatfield burying ground, 199-202Hatfield-McCoy feud, 46-72Hatfields and McCoys, reunion, 254-55; singing together, 317-27haunted house, legend of, 205-09Hedrick, Ray, and his "haunted house, " 205-09Henderson, Archibald, 305Henderson, Richard, 32, 37Hennepin, Louis, 18Henry, Patrick, 30highways, 291-93, 309, 315, 328, 329hill people, tribute to, 322-25"hill-billies, " 41-42Hindman Settlement School, 259Hodgenville, Kentucky, 304Holden, West Virginia, 282-83Holston River, 17, 33home industry, 117-19, 262, 306-07honor, family, 107-11horses, race, 303-04hospitality, 42hounds, blessing of the, 305house with the green gables, legend of, 205-09hunters and trappers, 17Huraken and Manuita, legend of, 186-89Hutchins, Thomas, map, 19, 228hymns, 66, 67, 70-71, 157-58, 162-63

illiteracy, 40; adult, school for, 260improvements, modern, 263-64Indents, 15independence, spirit of, 286Indians, 9-10, 13, 15, 17, 18, 21-22, 28, 30, 33, 35; legend, 186-89; picture language, 9-10; ways and customs, 9-10industry, home, 117-19, 262, 306-07infantile paralysis, 308-10infare wedding, 151-54Ireland, English invasion of, 10-11; oppression of, 11-12"It's Great to Be an American, " by Nannie Hamm Carter, 239

Jack Knife Shop, 307James I of England, 10James, Frank, 49, 51-52Jefferson, Thomas, 293Jefferson National Forest, 301"Jennie Wylie, " by Luke Burchett, 219Jett, Curt, 74-81, 88John C. Campbell Folk School, 259, 307Jones-Wright feud, 73

Kentucky, art exhibit, 250; beginning of colonization, 32; first white man in, 18; past, commemoration of, 301-02_Kentucky Progress Magazine_, 259Kentucky River, 18, 19, 33, 35Kentucky Woodlands Wildlife Refuge, 305Kernersville, North Carolina, 306killings, 42, 43kissing games, 144Koch, "Prof. , " 305-06, 326-27

labor, coal-mine, yesterday and today, 273-83land claims, 32_Land of Saddle-Bags, The_, by Dr. James Watt Raine, 16, 34land-purchase program, 286land reclamation, 284Lawton, John and Dessie, story of, 58-59learning. _See_ schoolslegends, 180-209, 218Levi Jackson Wilderness Road State Park, 302Levisa River. _See_ Louisa RiverLimestone Path, 9, 328Lincoln, Abraham, 304Little Theatre, 305-06Logan Wildcats, 47, 55logging and loggers, 5-6, 112-17, 270, 271-72, 288; superstition, 168London bombing, ballad on, 241Louisa (Levisa) River, 21, 46"Love of Rosanna McCoy, The, " by Coby Preston, 216Loyal Land Company, 19-21, 49lumbering. _See_ logginglynchings, 74, 96-97

Main Island Creek, 250Mammoth Cave and National Park, 288, 303Man o' War, 303Manuita and Huraken, legend of, 186-89maps, and making of, 18-19, 328Marcum, James B. , 74-81marriages. _See_ WeddingsMartha Berry School, 259, 307-10Martin-Tolliver feud, 91-104, 203-05; end of, 249May, A. J. , 287Mays, John Caldwell Calhoun, 273Mayo (Shawnee) Trail, 301, 317, 322, 328McCoy, Harmon, 46McCoy-Hatfield feud, 46-72McCoys and Hatfields, reunion of, 254-55; singing together, 317-27McGuffey, Dr. William Holmes, Readers, and shrine, 128, 289, 304McIntyre, O. O. , 267McNeely, Reverend John, 70Mecklenburg, North Carolina, Resolutions, 22, 34medicine, 261Meeting, Big, 57, 71meetings, religious, 155memorials, 267men, mountain, 269-72minerals and soil, 8mining, coal. _See_ Coal_Model Star, The_, 314Monongahela National Forest, 300Monroe, James, 293Monroe, Lucy, 318Monticello, Virginia, 293Moonlight School, 260"moonshine, " 43, 46-111, 248, 255-58; origin of, 11Morehead, Kentucky, 249-50Morgan, General John Hunt, 72Morgan's Riflemen, 34Mosley, Pleaz, Zooseum, 311mound builders, 8, 9Mountain Choir Festival, 326"Mountain Doctor, " by Jilson Setters, 223Mountain Laurel Festival, 325"Mountain Preacher, " by D. Preston, 221"Mountain Singers, " by Rachel Mack Wilson, 228"Mountain State" (West Virginia), 294-300"Mountain Woman, " by John W. Preble, Jr. , 225mountaineers, the, 40-45Mountaineer's Museum, 313mountains, 4-5murders, 42, 43museums, 311, 313music, and ballads, 43-44; church, 268

Neely, Matthew M. , 295, 297neighborliness, 44-45Nelson's Riflemen, 34New Light, 164-67"Norris Dam, " by George A. Barker, 245North Carolina, settlement, 21-22, 26-29Nursing School, Frontier, 261

"Oh, Brother, Will You Meet Me!" 157oil, 270-71Old Buffalo Path, 9"Old Time Waterfront, " by Coby Preston, 213omens of death, 177-79oratory, 155

paleontology, 8Paris, downfall of, ballad on, 246Park-to-Park Highway, 291-93parks, national and state, 288, 291, 292, 302-03, 304, 312-13parkways. _See_ highwaysPartlow, Deborah, story of, 60-61paths. _See_ trailspatriotic ballads, 239-47Pearl, William, 302Pennsylvania, Proprietors of, 13people of the Blue Ridge, 10petroleum, 270-71Phagan (Fagin), Mary, ballad of, 232physicians, 261picture language, Indian, 9-10Piedmont Plateau, 4pig, bewitched, 189-94Pilot Knob, 26Pinnacle Mountain, 329pioneers, 10play-game songs, 145-48play-making, 305-06Playmakers' Theatre, 306poems, mountain, 210-47Poets' Fair, 326"Pop Goes the Weasel, " 148-50poteen, 11, 43Powell Valley, 30preachers, mountain, 267-69Preble, John E. , Jr. , "Mountain Woman, " 225Preston, Coby, "Old Time Waterfront, " 213; "The Downfall of Paris, " 246; "The Fate of Effie and Richard Duke, " 234; "The Love of Rosanna McCoy, " 216Preston, D. , "Big Sandy River, " 211; "Mountain Preacher, " 221Prestonsburg, Kentucky, 272Primitive Baptists, Regular, 161-64, 266products of the soil, 112-21progress, gains and losses by, 264-69Proprietors, Pennsylvania, 13public works, 274-83purchase, land, program for, 286

quilts, 120-21; poem on, 226quitrents, 13-14

race horses, 303-04Raine, Dr. James Watt, _The Land of Saddle-Bags_, 16, 34rainfall, 7Rangers, 21-22, 27Rayburn, Otto Ernest, 327reclaiming the wilderness, 248-329reclamation, soil, 284"recorder, the, " 43redemptioners, 15Reffitt, Aunt Lindie, 135-43reforestation, 288Refuge, Kentucky Wildlife, 305Regular Primitive Baptists, 161-64, 266Regulators, 27, 28religious customs, 155-67rent system, 13-14reptiles, 7Revolutionary War, 34; battle monument, 300; commemorating, 290Rhododendron Festival, 326riddles and fortunes, 135-50river boats, 272river improvement, 287rivers, 3-4roads, improvement of, 286, 287Robertson, James, expedition of, 27-29"Robin's Red Breast, The, " by Martha Creech, 218Robinson, Reverend Felix, 321-22Rockcastle River, 18Rockefeller, John D. , Jr. , 294Roosevelt, Franklin D. , Highway, 309Roosevelt, Theodore, _The Winning of the West_, 29Rowan County, Kentucky, 92, 250-51, 260; art exhibit, 250"Rowan County Troubles, The, " 249rug-making, 262rural electrification, 263-64Russell, Captain William, 29Russell Cave Road, 303

"Sad London Town, " by Jilson Setters, 241Saint Valentine Day charm, 136-37salt licks, 8Saltpeter Cave, 186Salyers, Bob, "The Death of Mary Fagin, " 232Sand Cave, 303Schindler, Kurt, 319schools, 258-62. _See also_ names of schools and collegesScopes trial, 314Scotch-Irish, 10-14, 31Seneca Caverns, 300"Sergeant York, " by Jilson Setters, 243Setters, Jilson, and his ballads: "Bundles for Britain, " 248; "Mountain Doctor, " 223; "Sad London Town, " 241; "Sergeant York, " 243; "The Fate of Floyd Collins, " 235settlers, 10Sewell, Willie, 73Shawnee (Mayo) Trail, 9, 301, 317, 322, 328Shawnees, 18, 19Shelby, Isaac, 302Shenandoah Community Workers, 306Shenandoah National Park, 291, 292Shenandoah Valley, 4, 13showboat, 116-17silver mine, lost, legend of, 186-89Silver Moon Tavern, 251-55silver tomahawk, legend of, 186-89singing and songs, courting, 133-34; folk, 317-27; Gatherings, 317-27; geography song, 128-29; mountain, 210-47; mountain, poem on, 228; play-game, 145-48; school, Philomel Whiffet's, 122-34; societies, 266Skyline Caverns, 292Skyline Drive, 291-93, 329"Skyline Drive, " by George A. Barker, 215Smith, Kate, 260snakes, 7; use in religious services, and bites, 164-67Snead, Grady, and his picnic, 321, 326, 327Snow Bird, legend of, 300snuff, dipping, 289soil, and minerals, 8; products of, 112-21; reclamation, 284Songs. _See_ singing and songsSorghum Association, 287sorghum making, 118-19Spanish-American War, 316"speakings, " 155Speleological Society, 300Spring, Burning, 21, 26, 270Spurlock Station, 272Stamper, Fred, 317Stewart, Mrs. Cora Wilson, 260Stewart, Jessie, "Church in the Mountains, " 222stills. _See_ "moonshine"superstitions, 168-79, 180, 181surgery, primitive, 173-74Sweet Potato Festival, 326Swindle Cave, 186

TVA, 311-12taffy pulling, 143-44Talbott Tavern, 304Taylor, Fiddling Bob, 290Taylor, Folsom, 321tenant purchase program, 286Tennessee, 311-17; first permanent settlement, 26Tennessee River, 3, 4, 19Tennessee Valley Authority, 311-12Theatre, Little, 305-06Thomas, Reverend James M. , 314timber. _See_ loggingTiptons, the, legend of, 180-85Tobacco Festival, 325Tolliver-Martin feud, 91-104, 203-05; end of, 249tomahawk, silver, legend of, 186-89topography, 8tradition, 122-54trails, 9-10, 17, 19, 20, 26, 33, 39, 273, 328Traipsing Woman cabin, 322-23Transylvania, and Company, 32-35, 36-38trappers and hunters, 17trees, 5-6; belting, 113. _See also_ lumberturkey refuge, 304-05"Twa Sisters, " 152

Unaka Mountains, 5

Valley of Parks, 302Valley of Virginia, 17"Vauxhall Dance, " 50Virginia Apple Blossom Festival, 326Virginia reel, 148-50vote, women's, 263

WPA, 289Walker, Dr. Thomas, expeditions of, 19-21, 46, 49, 270, 301Warm Springs, Georgia, 308-10Warrior's Path, 9, 17, 19, 20, 26, 33, 273Washington, George, 23, 34, 292, 296Watauga Association, 29, 290Watauga country, 25; settlement of, 26-29Watauga River, 32water-witch, 169-72watercourses, 7Weave Shop, 306weavers, Wilderness Road, 303weddings, infare, 151-54; on horseback, unlucky, 172-77Wellford, Clate, 274-83wells, finding, 169-72West Virginia, 294-300"West Virginia, " by Esther Eugenia Davis, 214_West Virginia Review_, 295Whiffet, Philomel, singing school, 122-34whiskey, 11, 43. _See also_ "moonshine"white feather, 178-79Whittlers, 307whittling, 259wilderness, reclaiming, 248-329Wilderness Road Weavers, 302Wilderness Trail, 33, 39, 328Wildlife Refuge, Kentucky, 305Williamsburg, Virginia, 294winking corpse, legend of, 203-05_Winning of the West, The_, by Theodore Roosevelt, 29witch, legend of, 189-94witchcraft, 180-85wizard doctor, 190woman, mountain, 262-64, 272; poems on, 225, 226; work, 117-21, 263-64woman suffrage, 262"Woman's Way, " by Martha Creech, 226Wood, Colonel Abraham, 17Woodcrafters and Carvers, 307Works Progress Administration, 289works, public, 274-83World War, 316, 317Wright, Judge William, 260Wright-Jones feud, 73Wylie, Jennie, ballad of, 219

Yadkin River, 4York, Sergeant Alvin C. , 295, 314-16; ballad of, 243; school, 259, 315York Highway, 315Yorktown, Virginia, 294Young, Judge Will, 88younger generation, the, 264-66

Zimmerman, Dr. C. C. , 285Zooseum, Mosley's, 311