Ozark Country
Page 20
He led his love so dear.
She said, “’Tis for you only,
That I should ramble here.
“Oh, Edward, I’m so tired,
I care no more to roam,
For roaming makes me weary,
Please, Edward, take me home.”
“Down in these woods I’ll show you,
You cannot from me fly.
No mortal hand can save you;
This moment you must die.”
“What have I done, dear Edward,
That you should take my life?
You know I’ve always loved you
And would have been your wife.”
He saw not when he pressed her
Against his cruel heart;
He saw not when he kissed her
For he knew that they must part.
Down on her knees before him
She pleaded for her life,
But in her snow-white bosom
He plunged the fatal knife.
“Oh, Edward, I’ll forgive you,
This being my last breath,
I never have deceived you.”
And she closed her eyes in death.
The best-known folk song of ancient lineage in the Ozarks is “Barbara Ellen” or “Allen.” It was carried to America from England by the earliest colonists and transplanted in the highlands of Missouri and Arkansas by the pioneer settlers, and it has been a favorite ever since. This old ballad was popular in England at the time of Goldsmith. It probably originated in the thirteenth or fourteenth century but was not printed until 1740. Few songs have been preserved so well and carried so far as this one. Sometimes the version is fragmentary as the one I heard in the Boston Mountains recently.
’Twas in the early month of May
When all the buds were swellin’,
Young William on his deathbed lay
For the love of Barbara Allen.
He sent his servant to the place
Where his true love was a-dwellin’,
“Arise you up and quickly go
If your name be Barbara Allen.”
Slowly, slowly she got up
And came to where he’s lying,
And when she reached him thus she spoke,
“Young man, I think you’re dying.”
She started to go down in town,
She heard the death bells ringin’.
She looked due east, she looked due west,
And saw the corpse a-comin’.
“Oh, mother, mother, make my bed,
And make it long and narrow!
Since William died for me today,
I’ll die for him tomorrow.”
The folly ballads were popular in the backhill country a generation or two ago and some of them are still heard in the out-of-way places. These songs are distinguished by their nonsensical last lines or choruses. A favorite in the Ozarks is “Rolly Trudum.”
When I was out walking
To breathe the pleasant air,
I saw a lady talking
To her daughter fair.
Rolly trudum, trudum, trudum, rolly day.
Now hush up, dear daughter,
And stop your rapid tongue,
You’re talking about marrying,
And you know you are too young—
Rolly trudum, trudum, trudum, rolly day.
Now hush up, dear mother,
You know I’m a lady grown,
I’ve lived seventeen years
And I’ve lived it all alone—
Rolly trudum, trudum, trudum, rolly day.
Oh, if you was to marry,
Oh, who would be your man?
I know a jolly farmer
And his name is handsome Sam.
Rolly trudum, trudum, trudum, rolly day.
There’s doctors and lawyers
And men that follow the plow,
But I’m going to marry
For the fidget’s on me now—
Rolly trudum, trudum, trudum, rolly day.
They’ve gone for the parson,
The license for to fetch,
And I’m going to marry
Before the sun sets.
Rolly trudum, trudum, trudum, rolly day.
Oh, now my daughter’s married,
And well for to do.
So hop along my jolly boys,
I think I’ll marry, too.
Rolly trudum, trudum, trudum, rolly day.
Many of the old folly ballads, with their whack-fol-loddy and bob-a-lob-a-loosy refrains, have no meaning whatever and they are said to be among the oldest ditties on record. Their original purpose seems to have been lost in the shuffle of history. Sometimes the refrain monopolizes practically all of the composition. The tail wagging the dog. Here is an example.
When I get on yonder hill,
There I’ll sit and cry my fill,
All my tears will turn a mill,
Sing bob-a-lob-a-loosy larry!
Surely, surely, surely mat-a-rue,
Surely mat-a-rac-back, surely barbecue,
When I sought my Sally bob-a-linktum,
Bob-a-lob-a-loosy larry!
The revolution in Germany in 1848 brought a large number of German immigrants to the United States. Many of these settlers wandered westward and settled at St. Louis. Some of them drifted on to the Ozark hills. When the Civil War broke out, many of these foreigners lined up with the North under General Franz Sigel. They were good soldiers, due to their previous military training, but they were taught a lesson, long to be remembered, at the Battle of Wilson’s Creek. Their “Dutch” war song, sung to the tune of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” is a relic of these strenuous days. The words of this song were supplied by the late A. M. Haswell, Ozark novelist.
I FIGHTS MIT SIGEL
Ven I come from dot Dutch country,
I vorks sometimes at bakin’.
Und den I keeps a beer saloon,
Und den I tries shoe makin’.
But now I was a soldier been,
To safe dot Yankee eagle;
Und so I gits mine soldier clothes,
Und go and fight mit Sigel.
Yah, dot been true,
I speak mit you,
To go and fight mit Sigel.
Dose Dutchermans of Siegel’s band,
At fighting haf no rival,
Und effer time der meets der foe,
Dey shosh ’eem like der devil.
Und so I vas er soldier been,
To safe dot Yankee eagle,
Und gits me ein big rifle gun
Und go and fight mit Sigel.
Chorus (repeated)
Old Ben and Price at Vilson Creek,
Fights mit us like creation,
Und ve falls back to get recruits,
To safe dot Yankee nation.
Und if de vorst comes to de vorst,
To safe dot Yankee eagle,
I puts britch-loons upon mine frau
To go und fight mit Sigel.
Chorus (repeated)
The most popular fiddle tunes of the Ozarks are folk music without made-to-order markings. Some of them have historical or legendary origins, like “The Eighth of January” which, it is said, was composed to celebrate the victory of Andrew Jackson at New Orleans, January 8, 1815. But the majority of rollicking melodies one hears at the country dance or musical have been handed down from generation to generation and are real folklore. Most of the tunes played by ear in the Ozarks are in the following list:
“Arkansaw Traveler,” “Buffalo Girls,” “Black-Eyed Susie,” “Cacklin’ Hen,” “Devil’s Dream,” “Eighth of January,” “Fisher’s Hornpipe,” “Gal I Left Behind Me,” “Gray Eagle,” “Hell Among the Yearlin’s,” “Irish Washerwoman,” “Limpin’ Sally Waters,” “Leather Britches,” “Midnight Breakdown,” “Money Musk,” “Ocean Wave,” “Old Jim Lane,” “Pick the Devil’s Eye Out,” “Pop Goes the Weasel,” “Rattlesnake Shake,” “Sally Goodin,” “Soldier�
�s Joy,” “Sixteen Days in Georgia,” “Sourwood Mountain,” “Sugar in the Coffee,” “Turkey in the Straw,” “Wagoner,” and “Woolsey Creek.”
One of the strangest musical instruments in the Ozark hills is the “jawbone of an ass.” Kermit Shelby of Reeds Spring, Missouri, explained to me how his neighbor, Albert Smith, plays this unusual instrument. He holds the jawbone on his left knee with his left hand, small end up, the teeth turned outward. In his right hand he holds a plain old barlow knife, blades closed so that either end knocks against the jawbone from underneath. He beats a rhythmic double-time tattoo. Shelby says that it sounds something like the Cuban rumba players shaking their dried-seed gourds. It also resembles the music of the bone knockers, only more violent. To add variety the player gives the smooth side of the jawbone a vigorous slap-slap in the manner of the swing boys who slap bull fiddles. This makes the loose teeth vibrate in an unearthly fashion like skeletons jumping up and down. Albert Smith certainly has got rhythm.
CHAPTER X
Things Eternal
Death and Burial
Nate Delmar loped his gray mare around the bend toward Woodville, carrying a six-foot coffin stick in his hand. He stopped long enough at my camp on the Devil’s Eyebrow to say howdy, and to tell me a neighbor had died the night before and that he was riding to Mart Hull’s place to have a coffin made. The light hickory stick, cut a few inches longer than the dead man’s body, would give Mart the correct measurement. This veteran woodcarver would build a durable pine coffin, lined in white and covered with black sateen cloth. If all went well, Nate’s neighbor would be buried in the Antioch graveyard in true traditional form before sundown that day.
The conversation with Nate, and the sight of the ominous stick he carried, started my investigation of Ozark death and burial customs. An old schoolteacher by the name of John Higgins lived near my camp and I questioned him. He had lived his life in the James–White River country and knew the lore of his people.
“Here in the backhills,” began the teacher, speaking slowly between puffs from his clay pipe, “we are superstitious enough to highly respect our dead. We may go unwashed while living, but we can’t escape a good scrubbing when they lay us out. A grave never remains open overnight and a body is always laid with its feet to the east that it may rise facing the sun on Resurrection morning. A rain on the day of a burying is a good omen and we respect our dead by remaining on the ground until the last clod of dirt is in the grave. We give funeral processions the right of way on the road and toll bridges and ferries don’t charge any fees. As a youth I was taught never to count the wagons in a funeral procession nor to meet one on the road if there was any possible way to avoid it. A coffin is always made about six inches longer than the remains to allow for stretching. Many people in the hills believe a corpse will stretch and become too long for the coffin if burial is delayed.”
I interrupted with a question. “Do all the natives stick to the old traditions concerning death and burial?”
“Yes and no. There is a set way of doing things at the time of death and no respectable citizen would think of doing differently. Only now and then do you find a man who has no regard for tradition. Old Zeke Walters was such a man. Zeke was thought to be possessed of a devil, and it surely did shock the neighbors when he buried his wife, Sally, the way he did. The old man didn’t believe in funeralizing and when Sally died he didn’t even call a preacher. It wasn’t that they were scarce in the country either. You could shake a bush on almost any ridge and two or three preachers would drop out. But Zeke didn’t have anything to do with any of them. He was so wicked he wouldn’t ask one of them to ride if he passed him in the road.
“Of course, Zeke followed certain rules for his own protection. Just as soon as Sally breathed her last, he stopped the clock and covered up the looking glass with a white cloth. He knew right well that if the clock should stop of itself while the corpse was in the house, one of the family would die within a year. Zeke seldom used the glass at any time, but he might forget himself and look in, you know, and that meant death. Zeke Walters was as mossbacked a hillbilly as ever swung a broadax, but too smart to take chances on a thing like that. Neighbors went in, of course, to lay out and set up with the corpse, but the old man seemed unconcerned about the whole affair. Of course, he had Mart Hull make a coffin, but whether or not he ever paid for the work, I don’t know.
“Sally died early one morning and the next afternoon we loaded the corpse into Zeke’s wagon and, with a neighbor and myself sitting in the back end, drove to the old Antioch burying ground. Three or four men had gone ahead to dig the grave in a patch of weeds in the corner of the cemetery.
“When we pulled up alongside, Zeke didn’t even get out of the wagon. He left it up to me and the other neighbors who were there to lower the coffin into the grave. We did it as best we could with an old pair of lines I had thrown into the wagon. It surely didn’t seem right to do a burying like that with no parson and no mourners. Even the children had been left at home.
“The coffin lowered, we began to shovel dirt. It didn’t quite fill the grave and Zeke suggested that we throw in a few old rails to fill it up. When we had done this, he drawled in his unconcerned way, ‘Wal, boys, that’s good enough,’ and drove on to town.
“Zeke had boasted that when Sally died he would be married again ‘’fore th’ wagon tracks war out’n th’ yard.’ He was a man of his word in this instance for, before the next full moon winked over Eagle Rock bluff, he had married a woman of the Posey neighborhood and brought her home to stepmother his eight or nine tousle-headed youngsters.”
When I first came to the Ozark Country, undertakers were almost unknown in the backhill sections. When a person died, neighbors gathered in and did the work now taken care of by the professional funeral directors. Two chairs were set facing each other and rough boards, long enough to accommodate the body of the deceased, placed upon them. A sheet was placed over the boards and a pillow laid at one end. Then the corpse was laid on the boards with the head carefully placed on the pillow. A cloth was tied around over the top of the head so that the mouth would be closed when rigor mortis set in. The eyes were closed with coins, usually twenty-five-cent pieces for adults, placed on them to hold down the lids until they were set.
Sometimes a cloth was saturated with soda and placed over the face to bleach the skin and keep it from turning. The body was washed thoroughly and dressed for burial. There was no embalming, and burial followed as soon as possible.
The majority of hillsmen now hold membership in burial associations and are served by professional undertakers. The funeral service may be held at the home or in the church, but the general custom is to have the last rites at the cemetery. When the procession arrives at the cemetery, the casket is opened and friends and relatives are invited to view the remains. A song is sung and the casket is lowered into the grave. Bible verses are read, a short talk is made, and then the officiating minister, taking some rose petals or dirt in his hand, says: “We therefore commend his soul to God and commit his body to the ground: earth to earth [here the rose petals or dirt is dropped into the grave], dust to dust, looking for the general resurrection in the last day, and life in the world to come.” That concludes the ceremony, but it is customary for the friends and relatives of the deceased to remain until the grave is filled with dirt and banked with flowers by sympathetic neighbors.
John Higgins was emphatic in defense of the customs and traditions of his people. He was “to the manor born” and might have been a famous educator, but he preferred the simple life in the hills.
“My heart goes out to the common man,” he said. “Call him the dung of the social strata, if you wish, harpoon him with criticism, rob him of his solitude, but leave him free to worship his God and bury his dead as his own conscience and traditions dictate.”1
The Church at Hog Scald
If you like an old dirt road that winds through the hills like a misty dream in a world of make-believe,
turn off Arkansas State Highway 23 a few miles south of Eureka Springs and head toward Hog Scald. No signs mark the way and traffic is noted for its absence. The erosion of time has stamped out the ruts and hoofprints of other years, but the spirit of the old trail remains. It is a byway to an undiscovered country, as far as tourists are concerned, but for riches of tradition and excellence of scenic beauty, it cannot be surpassed in the Ozark highlands. It is a land of clear gushing springs, laughing brooks, and tumbling waterfalls—water everywhere, spilling over rocky ledges and twisting through granite-lined canyons. It is a land of massive oak, stately pine, and verdant cedar, of purple grapes that cling to broad-leafed vines and red berries that tinge the cheeks of the hills with crimson blushes. It seems a land of divine favor and it is indeed fitting that the early pioneers of the thirties and forties found here, in a temple not made with hands, an ideal place to worship their God. Under a giant ledge overlooking Hog Scald Creek they held religious services for more than three-quarters of a century.
The sturdy pioneers who trekked to these hills from Kentucky and Tennessee were the salt of the earth in character. Religion was the bulwark of their natures. The person who loiters for a season in their Promised Land will realize, a little, the influence of such an environment upon a people whose feet were deeply set in the soil of mediocrity, so far as learning was concerned, but who saw divine imprints in every work of nature.
The spacious rock shelter below Auger Falls on Hog Scald Creek attracted these settlers as a suitable place for a church. A natural auditorium stood on one side of the stream with a rock pulpit for the preacher. In a convenient shelter opposite were choir stalls for the singers. Between audience and preacher was an immersion pool where the rites of baptism could be administered without leaving the sanctuary. The drone of falling water from Auger Falls was just loud enough to be the pipe organ divine, never out of tune, always doing its part to make the service effective. When the preacher prayed, these musical waters seemed to echo: “Ho, everyone that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money, come buy and eat—without money and without price.”