Part 11

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.