Chapter VIII: Part 8

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 "Christ Bird" 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 sometimes called 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 she had been to church in the mountains on Christy Creek in that county in 1939.

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 has composed and set to tune more than one hundred ballads, some of which the 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, Greenup County, Kentucky. He is in error in writing the name of Emma Thomas; the murdered girl's name was Emma Carico. The tragedy occurred in the early '80's in the mill town of Ashland, Boyd County, Kentucky, which adjoins Greenup County. The town of Greenup was formerly called Hangtown because of 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 his scholars, Miss Tennessee Smith, supplied this copy of the old schoolteacher's ballad. Ellis Craft is buried on Bear Creek in Boyd County, 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 ran high against him at the time of the murder. This ballad was composed by young Bob Salyers of Cartersville, Georgia, who heard the story on all sides. 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 Collins was 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 in Fletcher, North Carolina, at the time of Collins' death. Crisp could neither 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 for their mountain Eisteddfod. Upon this occasion there is friendly rivalry as to whose ballad or poem is best, who speaks his composition best. And the prize, you may be sure, is not silver but a book of poems. This composition of Nannie Hamm Carter was read at their mountain Eisteddfod in 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 the American Folk Song Festival in June, 1941, to the delight of a vast audience. 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 ballad called--

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 to tune several years ago about Sergeant Alvin C. York, who is Jilson Setters' 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 of the word mountaineer evokes a fantastic picture--a whiskey-soaked ruffian with bloodshot eyes and tobacco-stained beard, wide-brimmed felt cocked over a half-cynical eye, finger on the trigger of a long-barreled squirrel rifle. He is guarding his moonshine still. Or he may be lying in wait behind bush or tree to waylay his deadly enemy of the other side in a long-fought blood-feud.

Though there may be a semblance of truth in both, such pictures should be taken with a grain of salt. Illicit whiskey has been made in our southern mountains, as well as in towns and cities throughout the country. There were blood-feuds in bygone days but they have been so overplayed that scarcely a vestige of the real story remains recognizable. Few of the old leaders are left to tell the facts.

I have known well and claim as my loyal friends members of families who have been engaged in the making of illicit whiskey. I have known quite well many members of families on both sides in two of the most famous feuds in the southern mountains. These people were and are today my good friends and neighbors.

As recently as the fall of 1940, I returned to Morehead, the county seat of Rowan County, for a visit with the Martins and Tollivers. Strangely enough, upon the day of my arrival I found Lin Martin, son of John Martin, who killed Floyd Tolliver, up on a ladder painting the walls of the Cozy Theatre. This modern motion-picture theater occupies the site of the old Carey House where Martin shot Tolliver. Lin was standing in almost the exact spot where his father stood when he shot Floyd Tolliver. Most willingly he stepped out into the sunlight, paint brush and bucket in hand to meet and be photographed with Clint Tolliver, a son and nephew of the Tolliver leaders, whose father, Bud, was killed by the posse in the all-day battle on Railroad Street when the Tolliver band was wiped out. Clint was a nephew of Floyd Tolliver, slain by John Martin; he married Mrs. Lucy Trumbo Martin's niece, Texannie Trumbo.

While the men shook hands in friendly fashion, believe it or not, across the street in the courthouse yard under a great oak, past which John Martin was hurried to the safety of the jail, a blind fiddler was singing the famous ballad composed by a Rowan County minstrel, called the 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 today and that is that they are too old to take up their guns to enlist in the United States Army. The men and their families are the best of friends and meet often at social gatherings.

So feuds die out, though feud tales persist. Old rancors live only in memory.

Today in Morehead, the county seat of the once Dark Rowan, there stands a modern State Teachers College on the sloping hillsides within sight of the courthouse and street where the Rowan County war was fought. One of the halls is called Allie W. Young, taking its name from the Senator whose influence brought about the establishment of the college. Young's father, Judge Zachariah Taylor Young, was once shot from ambush during the troubles.

This same county is the seat of a native art exhibit which has attracted nation-wide attention. It was started many years ago by a descendant of Mary Queen of Scots, Mrs. Lyda Messer Caudill, then a teacher of a one-room log school on Christy Creek. One morning a little boy living at the head of the hollow brought to school, not a rosy apple (there wasn't a fruit tree on his place), but clay models he had made in native clay of his dog, the cow, and his pet pig. Mrs. Caudill seized the opportunity to encourage the other children in her mixed-grade one-room school to try their hand at clay modeling. Later Mrs. Caudill became county superintendent of Rowan County Schools. Through her enthusiasm and efforts the plan has developed through the years and today mountain children of Rowan County have exhibited their handicraft in national exhibitions through the co-operation of the group of American Association of University Women of Kentucky with which Mrs. Caudill is affiliated.

SILVER MOON TAVERN

Over on Main Island Creek in Logan County, West Virginia, where Devil Anse Hatfield held forth in his day, another picture greets the eye today. Coal-mining camps are strung along from one end of the creek to the other. Omar, near where Devil Anse is buried, is quite a thriving town. 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's nerves were so shattered he jumped almost at the falling of a leaf and the company, fearing some tragedy might be the result from too sudden trigger-pulling, found other occupation for the Hatfield son.

Within a few yards of the spot where the home of Devil Anse burned to the ground stands today a rustic lodge garishly designed. Over the doorway painted in bright red letters are these words--

SILVER MOON TAVERN

Neighbors call it a beer j'int. Entering, you are greeted by the proprietor, 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 I am, Tennis Hatfield--for he it is who runs the place--will add, "Glad to see you. I've not laid eyes on you for a coon's age. Set." He waved me to a chromium stool beside the counter. "I've quit the law." Tennis had been sheriff of Logan County for a term or two. "This is easier." He flung wide his hands with a gesture that encompassed the interior of the Silver Moon Tavern. "Well, there's no harm in selling beer." He fixed me with 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. Young folks gather in here of a night and listen to the music and dance and it don't cost 'em much money. A nickel in the slot. We ain't troubled with slugs," he said casually. "The folks choose their own tune." He pointed to a gaudily striped electric music box that filled a corner of the tavern. With great care he showed me the workings of the moan box, he called it. "These are the tunes they like best." He called them off as his finger moved carefully along the titles: "Big Beaver, The Wise Owl, Double Crossing Mamma, In the Mood, and Mountain Dew. They just naturally wear that record out. Young folks here on Main Island Creek like Lulu Belle and Scotty. See, they made that record Mountain Dew." A slow smile lighted his face. "'Pon my soul all that young folks do these days is eat and dance. That's how come me to put the sign on the side of my beer j'int--Dine and Dance. We're right up to snuff here on Main Island Creek," he added with a smug smile. "But now Joe Hatfield over to Red Jacket in Mingo County, he follows preaching and he says a beer j'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 man that's had a dram too many. And if he starts to get noisy"--he lifted a toe--"out he goes! I aim to keep my place straight." He shoved his thumbs deep into the belt of his breeches. "Not much doin' at this time of day. The girls in school or helping with the housework; the boys in the mines. Don't step out till after supper. Then look out! The young bucks shake a heel and the girls put on their lipstick. Them that can't afford a permanent go around all day with their hair done up in curlycues till they look a match for Shirley Temple by the time they get here 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 the hillside where Devil Anse lay buried. "I wonder what Pa would a-thought of my place," he said with conscientious wistfulness. His eyes swept now the interior of the Silver Moon Tavern. "This couldn't a-been in Pa's young days. Nor womenfolks couldn't a-been so free. Such as this couldn't a-been, no more than their ways then could stand today." The son of Devil Anse leaned over the bar and said in a strangely hushed voice, "Woman, I've heard tell that you have a hankerin' for curiosities and old-timey things. I keep a few handy so's I don't get above my raisin'." He reached under the counter. "Here, woman, heft this!" He placed in my hands Devil Anse's long-barreled gun. "Scrutinize them notches on the barrel. That there first one is Harmon McCoy. Year of sixty-three," he said bluntly.

While I hefted the gun, Tennis brought out a crumpled shirt. "Them holes is where the McCoys stobbed Uncle Ellison and there's the stain of his gorm."

The gruesome sight of the blood-stained garment slashed by the McCoys completely unnerved me. I dropped the gun.

Instantly a door opened behind Tennis and a young lad rushed in. He took in the situation at a glance and swiftly appraised my five-foot height. "Pa," he turned to Tennis Hatfield, "you've scared this little critter out 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, and Tennis went on to say that his young son had quit college to join the army. "He'll be leaving soon for training camp. That is, if he can quit courting Nellie McCoy long enough over in Seldom Seen Hollow. 'Pon my soul, I never saw two such turtledoves in my life. She's pretty as a picture and I've told her that whether or not her and Tennis Junior every marry there's always a place for her here with us. A pretty girl in a pretty frock is mighty handy to wait table." Again the wideflung hands of the proprietor of the Silver Moon Tavern embraced in their gesture the shiny tables, booths, chromium-trimmed chairs, and the gaudy juke 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 joined the army at Detroit's United States Army recruiting office, is the son of Tolbert McCoy Hatfield of Pike County and is friend to his kin on both sides.

The two families held a picnic reunion in the month of August, 1941, on Blackberry 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 fried chicken and no shooting.

Today on the eve of another war things are still quiet up in Breathitt County so far as the Hargises are concerned. Elbert Hargis, brother of Judge Jim Hargis who was slain by his son Beach, has passed on. They buried him, the last of Granny Hargis's boys, in the family burying ground behind the old homestead on Pan Bowl, so called because it is almost completely encircled by the North Fork of the Kentucky River.

To his last hour, almost, Elbert Hargis sat in the shadow of the courthouse looking sadly toward Judge Jim Hargis's store where Beach had killed his father, the store in front of which Dr. Cox had been assassinated. His eyes shifted occasionally toward the courthouse steps down which the lifeless body of J. B. Marcum plunged when Curt Jett shot him from the back. Again Elbert's gaze turned to the second-story windows of the courthouse from which Jim Cockrell had been shot to death one sunny summer day.

Ever alert and never once permitting anyone to stand behind him, with a gun in its holster thumping on his hip every step he took, Elbert Hargis must have lived again and again the days when his brother Jim directed the carryings-on of the Hargis clan. But if you'd ask him if he ever thought of the old times, there would be a quick and sharp No!, followed by abrupt silence.

Elbert Hargis is dead now. And a natural death was his from a sudden ailment of the lungs. He died in a hospital down in the Blue Grass where white-clad nurses and grave-faced doctors with a knowing of the miracles of modern surgery and medicine could not prolong the life of the aged feudist for one short second. The last of Granny Evaline Hargis's sons rests beside his mother, alongside the three brothers John, Jr., Ben, and Jim, and the half-brother Willie Sewell, whose death away back in 1886, when he was shot from ambush at a molasses-making, started all the trouble. In the same burying ground with Elbert is the vine-covered grave of Senator Hargis, father of the boys, who preceded his wife Evaline to the spirit world long years ago.

BLOOMING STILLS

A visit today to a United States District Court in most any section of the Blue Ridge Country where makers of illicit whiskey are being tried shows that the name moonshine no longer applies to the beverage. It got its name from being made at night. Now operations in the making are conducted by day, while only the transportation of the liquor is carried on after nightfall. Trucks and even dilapidated Fords with the windows smeared with soap to conceal the load are pressed into service. The drivers consider it safer to travel with their illegal cargo under the shades of darkness.

During the questioning of witnesses and offenders in court you learn that tips provided by law-abiding citizens are the usual means of bringing offenders to trial. In rare instances, however, members of a moonshiner's own family have been known to turn him in.

The process of capturing the moonshiner has changed considerably from that of other days. Then the revenooer (mountain folk usually call him the law) slipped up from behind the bushes on the offender and caught him red-handed at the still. In those days the men who were making had their lookout men who gave warning by a call or a whistle, even by gun signals, of the approach of the law while the moonshiner took to his heels, hiding in deep underbrush or far back under cliffs. Today these mountain men have learned not to run. For the officers of the law are equipped with long-range guns and with equipment so powerful the bullets can penetrate the steel body of an automobile. The method of locating the still has changed too since the airplane has come into use. Looking down from the clouds the flyer spies a thin stream of smoke rising from a wooded ravine. He communicates by radio to his co-workers of the ground crew, who immediately set out at high speed by automobile to capture the still.

It is estimated that of the 170,000,000 gallons of liquor consumed in this country in 1939, at least 35,000,000 were illicit and that for every legal distillery there are at least one hundred illegal ones. The southern mountain region has always lent itself admirably to the making of 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 is estimated that more than 4000 stills were captured in the states of Georgia, Alabama, South Carolina, and Florida.

However, it is not the moonshiner who reaps the richest revenue from corn whiskey, which he sells for ninety cents a gallon, but the bootlegger and others down the line who add on, each in his turn, until the potent drink reaches a final sale price of ninety cents a quart and more. The tax on legitimate whiskey is $2.25 a proof gallon which makes it prohibitive in a community competing with the moonshiner's untaxed product.

Through the southern mountain region Negroes frequently are employed by white men operating stills on a large scale, where many boxes are used for the fermenting mash. The fines and sentences vary with the output and number of offenses.

The mountaineer, on the other hand, who operates a small still usually is a poor man. When brought into court he pleads that he cannot haul out a load of corn over rugged roads miles to a market and compete with a farmer from the lowlands who is not retarded by bad roads. Or again, if he is from an extremely isolated mountain section, he offers the old reasoning, "It is my land and my corn--why can't I do with my crop whatever I please?"

If the federal judge is a kindly, understanding man he will listen patiently 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 months in prison is imposed. "But, judge, your honor," pleads the perplexed mountaineer. "I've got to put in my crop and my old woman is ailin'--she can't holp none. I've got to lay in foirwood for winter, judge, your honor, my youngins is too little to holp." Often the understanding judge replies, "Now, John, you go back home and get your work done up, then come back and serve your sentence." Rarely has the judge's trust been betrayed.

LEARNING

What with good roads, the radio, and better schools and more of them the scene is rapidly changing in the Blue Ridge Country.

The little one-room log school is almost a thing of the past. Only in remote sections can it be found. No longer is the mountain child retarded by the bridgeless stream, for good roads have come to the mountains and with them the catwalk--an improvised bridge of barrel hoops strung together with cables--spanning the creek has passed. The mountain mother's warning is heard no longer. "Mind, Johnny, you don't swing the bridge." Concrete pillars support steel girders that span the creek high above even the highest flood point. Education soars high in the southern mountain region. Instead of a few weeks of school there are months now, and what is more Johnny doesn't walk to school any more. The county school bus, operated by a careful driver, picks him up almost at his very door and brings him back safely when school turns out in the evening. Instead of the poorly lighted one-room school, there is the consolidated school built of native stone, with many windows and comfortable desks. If the mountain boy or girl fails to get an education it 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 _Kentucky Progress Magazine_ of Winter, 1935, gives a remarkable example of what is taking place in an educational way in the mountain region: "Twenty-nine well-equipped, accredited four-year high schools and two junior colleges now dot the five counties, Lawrence, Johnson, Martin, Floyd, and Pike ... seven high schools and one junior college have the highest rating possible, membership in the Southern Association of Colleges and Secondary Schools.... The advent of surfaced roads has made successful consolidation possible in many instances."

Preceding the consolidated school an inestimable service has been rendered the children of the southern highlands by means of the settlement school. It would be impossible to discuss them all adequately, but of the outstanding ones of which I have personal knowledge are: that great institution at Berea, Kentucky, the Hindman Settlement School in Knott County, Kentucky; the Martha Berry School in the mountains of Georgia; the agricultural school of Sergeant Alvin C. York near Jamestown, Tennessee; and the John C. Campbell Folk School at Brasstown, N. C.

Under efficient guidance mountain boys and girls are taught to preserve the handicrafts of their forbears, knitting, spinning, weaving, making of 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 a profitable one. Nowhere in the country is there to be found a finer collection 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 that headed by Sergeant York in his agricultural school, because he is of the mountains and knows well the need of his people.