4. TRADITION

PHILOMEL WHIFFET'S SINGING SCHOOL

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

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

"We're giving you the chance, brother Whiffet, to earn a living," one of the elders murmured when the singing master that year shared with them his meager earnings. But when Philomel ventured to suggest it might liven the gathering somewhat if he brought along his dulcimer and strummed the tune while scholars sang, both elders and trustees stood aghast. Couldn't believe their ears. "Brother Whiffet!" gasped one of the elders, "so long as we're in our right mind no music box of any nature shall be brought into Bethel church house. We don't intend to contrary 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 on through the snow, eyes fixed on the beacon light of the old heating stove in the church house.

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

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

Philomel had been a widower for ten years past and never once had he cast 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 he can better himself, and I never calculate to see Clarissa's equal, let alone her betters. Nohow, singing school is good a-plenty to keep a body company." That was Philomel Whiffet's notion and he stuck to it. It was as though she, Clarissa, still bustled about the Whiffet cabin, for Philomel, though he lived alone, kept the place as she had—spic and span just as Clarissa had left it. There on the shelf were the cedar piggins, scoured clean with white sand from the creek, one for spice, one for rendering, one for sweeting. And there on the wall hung the salt gourd. "It's convenient to the woman for cooking," he had said when first they started housekeeping. How happy he had been in those days, looking after Clarissa and the little Whiffets as they came along. Not until they were all grown and married off and gone, and he and Clarissa were alone once more, did he really come to realize how very happy their household had been. He liked to look back on those times. "It's singing-school night, Pa"—Clarissa had taken to calling him Pa; got it from the children. "You best strike the tuning fork and sing a tune or two before you start. Gets your throat limbered up and going smooth." Philomel had come to wait for her urging. Then he would fumble in his waistcoat pocket for the tuning fork and tapping it to chair rim or bootheel, he'd hold it to his ear, pitch the tune, and sing a verse or two of this ballad and of that. Then when he started forth on a winter's night, "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. And your tuning fork, Pa. Don't forget to put it in your pocket." It pleased the old singing master in those days to have Clarissa feel that he was dependent upon her. And now that she was gone, for ten long years, those familiar words running through old Philomel Whiffet's thoughts were all he had left to remind him of his needs when he started out to singing school.

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

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

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

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

"I'm sorry to see that some of our high singers are not here this evening." The old singing master from his place behind the stand surveyed the gathering, squinting uncertainly by the light of the oil lamp. High on the wall it hung without chimney, its battered tin reflector dimmed by soot of many nights' accumulation. He picked up the notebook from the little stand which served as pulpit for the preachers on Sundays, and casually remarked, "We kinda look to the high singers to help us through, to pitch the tune and carry it. Too bad"—he squinted again toward the gathering—"that Drusilla Osborn is not here. Dru is a extra 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, too flabbergasted to call out Drusilla's name and send her to her own seat with the sopranos where she belonged, turned quickly his back to the school and fumbled in his pocket. He brought forth a piece of charred wood, for chalk was a rarity on Pigeon Creek, and began to set down on the rough log wall a measure of music. In shaped notes, for round notes had 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 the school again until all the tittering had subsided. Then with the same charred 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. Tom Jameson, the tenor, and Felix Rideout, who couldn't be beat singing bass, stood in a row careful-as-you-please to see that they kept a straight line, toes to the mark, shoulders back, chests expanded. They sang the scale through twice—forward and backward, bowed to the singing master, then went back to their seats. It was a never-changing form to which Philomel Whiffet clung as an example for the whole school to follow should they be called to toe the mark. A fine way to show all how a singer should rightly stand and rightly sing.

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

Not one spurned the invitation, and when the raucous noise subsided Philomel Whiffet tapped the tuning fork briskly on the edge of the stand, put it to his ear, and listened as he gazed thoughtfully downward.

"Do! Me! Sol! Do!" he sang in staccato notes, nodding the sparse gray foretop jerkily with each note as bass, alto, tenor, soprano took up their pitch. Thereupon he seized the pointer, a long switch kept conveniently near in the corner, and indicated the first note of the staff.

Scarcely had the pointer tapped a full measure before the school realized they were singing by note an old familiar tune and with that they 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 Reader which the singing master had set to tune. To make sure they had not forgotten the McGuffey piece he halted the singing and directed that they 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 note from freedom's shore to African wilds. They knew it all by heart. On and on 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 went through 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 him and announced with quiet decorum, "Those who have brought their notebooks will please open them up to page—" he faltered, fumbling the leaves of his book. "Open to page—" still groping was Philomel Whiffet and squinting at the faded pages. "Those who have not brought their notebooks can look on with someone else." Trying to act unconcerned was the singing master. "Turn to one—of our—old favorites," poor old Whiffet murmured, still fumbling the pages of the book. "My eyes—are dim"—he mumbled in confusion—"I—cannot see." Vainly he searched his vest 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 of the room, nudged the girl beside her and, pointing to the staff of music left on the wall where Philomel had placed it,—Dru began to hum. "You've pitched it too shaller," whispered the other girl, and quickly Dru hummed a lower register until her companion caught the pitch; then the 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, and bass had taken up the tune. Even Jonathan Witchcott, for all he sat on the very front bench where anybody could see with half an eye that the singing master was plagued and shamefaced, let out his booming bass with all his might and main. Hadn't Drusilla pitched the tune? What else was the doting Jonathan to do? The two had been courting full six months, just to spite Mathias Oneby if for no other reason. And Mathias, the patient and meek fellow, sitting in the far corner of the very last bench straight across from the adored Drusilla, sitting where anyone could see that Dru was playing a prank, when he heard the mighty boom of his 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 be excelled, raised his shrill notes higher still, sweeping the sopranos along with him.

Bethel church house fairly trembled on its foundation. Poor old Philomel Whiffet raised his hands in dismay: "I did not mean for you to sing!" he cried, 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 stood trembling, shaking his white head hopelessly. "I did not mean for you to sing," 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 deep into pockets of coat and breeches, and peered searchingly about the little stand where, it was plain to see, was nothing but the songbook which he had dropped in his confusion. At last his trembling hand sought the sparse foretop. There, bless you, rested the lost spectacles. He yanked them to the bridge of his nose, and then, just as though he didn't know all the time it was Drusilla Osborn behind the prank, he turned his attention toward that pretty young miss.

"Drusilla"—you'd never suspect what he was up to—"we all favor your voice in the ditty of My Son John. And you, Jonathan Witchcott, I don't know of any other fellow that can better sing the part of the courting man than you yourself. And I'm satisfied that no fairer maid was ever wooed than Dru yonder. So lead off, lest the other fellow get the best of you."

Almost before Jonathan was aware of it he was singing, with his eyes turned 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 the swain 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, while he 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 all eyes 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 watching nervously—indeed Dru was watching anxiously—Tizzie Scaggs, lest she take up Jonathan's offer, which is another girl's right in the play-game song.

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, whereupon that happy swain leaped to his feet and, extending a hand toward the singing 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 into shreds, for she and all the rest knew that by consenting to sing the play-game song through she and Jonathan had thereby plighted their troth. Either could have dropped out on the very second verse if they had been so inclined. But there, they had sung it through to the end. If she hadn't Tizzie Scaggs would have leaped at the chance. So now, the singing 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. Older folks nodded approval.

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

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

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

As for the courting play-game song and the way it turned out for Dru and Jonathan, that story too traveled far and wide, so that Philomel Whiffet never lacked for a singing school as long as he lived. That is the reason, old folks will tell you, you'll come upon so many good singers to this day along Pigeon Creek.

RIDDLES AND FORTUNES

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

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

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

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

"On the first day of May, just as soon as the sun comes up, go to an old well that's not been used for many a year. With a piece of looking glass cast a shadow into the well. The face that appears reflected there will be 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 make her believe other than that the handsome black-mustached man from Collins Gap was the one whom she had seen reflected in the well. They married. But poor Minnie Tinsley. That same May she tried her fortune at the well. But never a face appeared. Instead there seemed to float to the 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 afraid to go near the well. But, as Aunt Lindie reminded, "There are other ways. In the springtime the first dove you hear cooing to its mate, sit down, slip off your shoe, and there you will find in the heel a hair. It will be the color of your husband's locks."

There were other ways too, even for the very, very young. To try this fortune it had to be a very mild winter when flowers came early, for this was a fortune for St. Valentine's Day. "The lad sets out early on his quest," Aunt Lindie explained. "He knows to look in a place where there is rabbit bread on the ground—where the frost spews up and swells the ground. Close by there will be a clump of stones, and if he looks carefully there he will find snuggled under the stones a little Jack-in-the-pulpit. He plucks the flower and leaves it at the door of his sweetheart. Though all the time she has listened inside for his coming, she pretends not to have heard until he scampers away and hides—but not too far away lest he fail to hear her singing softly as she 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 Christopher Reffitt was scarce six when he left such a love token on my step rock and I a little tyke of five."

Many a night they told riddles at Aunt Lindie's until she herself could not think of another one. Some of the young folks came from Rough Creek away off on Little River and some from Bullhead Mountain and the Binner girls from Collins Gap. If several of the girls took a notion to stay all night, Aunt Lindie Reffitt made a pallet on the floor of extra quilts and many a time she brought out the ironing board, placed it between two chairs for a bed for the youngsters, Josie Binner, her hair so curly you couldn't tell which end was growing in her head, always wanted to outdo everyone else. Some said Josie was briggaty because she had been off to settlements like Lufty and Monaville.

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

Josie Binner slumped back in her chair.

"Now tell your riddle over again, Nellie." Aunt Lindie pointed to the Morley 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 as falling 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 was carried 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 one and left one."

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

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 of sense 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 hanged had a dog named Betty. It scampered all around him as he walked to the gallows and then dashed off and no one saw where it went. The hangman told him if he could make up a riddle that no one could riddle they would set him free. That was the riddle!"

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

"It's your turn." Aunt Lindie had sharp ears and young folks had to be mannerly in her house. If not she had her own way of teaching them a lesson. She took Ben unawares. He had to think quickly and blurted out the 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 gave back the answer:

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

Not even Aunt Lindie could keep a straight face, but to spare Ben's feelings she gave out a verse that she felt certain no one could say after her. And try as they would no one could, not even when she said it slowly:

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 is it just an old comical way of counting?"

Again no one could answer and Aunt Lindie said smilingly if she told all she knew they would know as much as she. Though perhaps she wasn't aware of it, Aunt Lindie was keeping alive their interest in telling riddles. For young folks went about in their neighborhood trying to find answers to 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 to try 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 looked straight 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 against the 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 to tell his name I'd be to blame. I have told his name five times over. Who was 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 his bristling pompadour.

And lest he assert his rights by starting on another, Aunt Lindie, which was 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 find the answer. I'll give it to you. As the woman walked out in her garden she saw a rabbit eating her cabbage and she called for her second husband to bring her a shotgun that she might kill the rabbit."

The old teller of riddles pointed out that there was good in their telling. "People have been known to be scared out of doing meanness just by 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 the best remembrance of anyone I know. Don't tell me you can't give the answer."

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

"Speak out!" urged Aunt Lindie. But no one did so she riddled the riddle. "A wicked man once planned to kill his sweetheart. He went first to dig her grave and then meant to throw her into it. She got an inkling of his intent, watched from the branches of a tree, then accused him with that riddle. He skipped the country and so that riddle saved a young 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 gave it. "You're just pranking," she admonished playfully, "but nohow—a man named Horn eat a calf's horn as he sat up in a white oak tree. But I'll give you one now to take along with you. It's a Bible riddle, now listen well:

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 of sending young folk to read the Word.

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

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

When the taffy had cooled so that it could be lifted up in the hands the fun of pulling it began. The girls buttered or greased their hands so that it would not stick, and the boys, of their choice, did likewise. Pulling taffy to see who could get theirs the whitest was an occasion for 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 again coiled on buttered plates in fancy designs of hearts and links and left to harden until it could be broken into pieces with quick tap of knife or spoon.

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

Riddles and fortunes, taffy pulling and harmless kissing games, like Clap 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 of yesterday) a most hilarious occasion.

And when a neighbor like Aunt Binie Warwick gave out the word there'd be a frolic and dance at her house, nothing but sickness or death could keep the young people away. Such an occasion started off with a play-game song in order to get everyone in a gay mood. The hostess herself 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 first notes the boys started for the girls, each with an eye on the one of his choice. Sometimes two or more of the young fellows were of the same mind, which added to the fun and friendly rivalry. The one who first caught the right hand of the girl had her for his partner in the dance that would follow. Immediately each couple stepped aside and waited until the others had found a partner. If there was a question about it, the oldest woman present, who by her years was the recognized matchmaker of 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 in the corner, chair tilted back against the wall. Fiddle to chin, he called out: "Choose your partners!"

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

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

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

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

There was bowing and shuffling of feet and, as the tempo of the fiddle increased, heels clicked against the bare floor and the caller's voice rang 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 leaning against the wall. And just for fun an oldster like Old Buck Rawlins, who didn't even have a partner, caught up one boot toe and hopped off to a corner 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 someone stepped on her toe," Aunt Binie whispered behind her hand, for she knew all the signs of young folks, "but she's just not wanting to dance with Big Foot Jeff Pickett." The next moment Dan Spotswood had pulled himself loose from his cross-eyed partner and made his way to the side of his true love who had limped to the corner.

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

"Captain Jinks," cried Dan Spotswood jovially. For Dan knew the ways of the mountains. He didn't want any hard feelings with anyone. This dance would give all an opportunity to mingle and exchange partners. Even though Big Foot had tried his best to break up the match between him and Nellie, Dan meant that that fellow shouldn't have the satisfaction of knowing 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 halfway around the crowded room before following the familiar calls of the play-party game as they sang the words along with the lively notes of the fiddle. They were words that their grandparents had sung in the days of 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, they fairly galloped around the room, much to the disapproval of old Aunt Binie. "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 a little while, "please to strike up the tune Pop Goes the Weasel."

No sooner said than done. The notes of the fiddle rang out and Uncle Mose 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 gallantly to the side of the girl of his choice and went through the steps of the Virginia Reel.

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

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

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

With dignity and charm they went through the entire dance while those on the 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 followed another 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 call from 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 to follow 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 raised louder.

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

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

THE INFARE WEDDING

Even when the dulcimer, that primitive three-stringed instrument, could not be had, mountain folk in the raggeds of Old Virginia were not at a loss for music with which to make merry at the infare wedding. They stepped the tune to the singing of a ballad, nor did they tire though the infare wedding lasted all of three days and nights. It began right after 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, the groom with his waiter at his side, and the bride with her waiter beside her. Careful they were too that they stood the way the floor logs were running. Thoughtless couples who had stood contrary to the cracks in the floor had been known to be followed by ill luck.

When the elder had spoken the word which made them one, the bride with her waiter hurried out to another room, if there was such, if not she climbed the wall ladder to the loft and there in the low-roofed bedroom she changed her wedding frock for her infare dress—the second day dress. 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 snowy white linsey-woolsey.

And what a feast her folks had prepared for the occasion. Cakes and pies, 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 quickly took down the bedsteads, tied up the flock ticks and shuck ticks in coverlids and quilts, shoved them back into the corners so as to make room for the frolic and dancing.

If the bride's granny lived it was her privilege to lead off in the singing, 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 to soft 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 the hearth and looked on.

The rest stepped the tune to the singing of the Twa Sisters, reenacting the 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 and urged even the bride to join in. In the meantime the young folks had taken the opportunity to tease the bride, while the young men went further by bussing her cheek. A kiss of the modest, proper sort was not out of order; every groom knew and expected that. Even a most jealous fellow knew to conceal his displeasure, for it would only add to further pranking on the part of the rest if he protested.

Presently two of the young lads came in bearing a pole. They caught the eye of the groom who knew full well the meaning of the pole. Quickly he tapped his pocket till the silver jingled, nodded assent to the unspoken query. They should have silver to buy a special treat for all the menfolks; forthwith the polebearers withdrew, knowing the groom would keep his word.

And now the father of the bride egged the groom and his wife to step out and join in singing and dancing the next song, which the father started in 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 advanced first toward the man in the dance. The lads already being formed in line at one side, the girls one at a time advanced as all sang, took a partner by the hand, swung him once; then stepping, in time with the song, to the next the lad repeated the simple step until she had gone down the line. The second girl followed as soon as the first girl had swung the first lad, and so each in turn participated, skipping finally on the outside of the opposite line, making a complete circle of the dancers, and resuming her first position.

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

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

When all had eaten their fill again the bride's granny carried out her part of the tradition. She hobbled in with a rived oak broom. This she placed 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's home. Also they knew it was the last chance for a shy young swain to declare himself to his true love as they sang the ancient ballad, which granny would start, and did its bidding. Usually not one of the unwed would evade this custom. For, if she sang and stepped with him, it meant 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 repeated the feasting and dancing, and on the third day the celebration continued at the home of the young couple.

In those days mountain people shared each other's work as well as their play. Willing hands had already helped the young groom raise his house of 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 where his father, like his before him, had settled, only moving farther up toward its source as his father had done when he had wed.