Patriot

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 campsare 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 folkschoose 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 hisgaze 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 whetheror 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 whichJim 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.

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