Blue Ridge Country

by Jean Thomas

Legend

THE ROBIN’S RED BREAST

Through the southern mountains the Robin is often called the “Christ Bird” because of this legend. It is also called “Love Bird.”

The Savior hung upon the cross, His body racked with mortal pain; The blood flowed from His precious wounds And sweat dropped from His brow like rain. A crown of thorns was on His head, The bitter cup He meekly sips; His life is ebbing fast away, A prayer upon His blessed lips. No mercy found He anywhere, He said, “My Father knoweth best.” A little bird came fluttering down And hovered near his bleeding breast. It fanned His brow with gentle wings, Into the cup it dipped its beak; And gazed in pity while He hung And bore His pain so calm and meek. At last the bird it flew away And sought the shelter of its nest; Its feathers dyed with crimson stain, The Savior’s blood upon its breast. The lowly robin, so ’tis said, That comes to us in early spring, Is that which hovered near the cross And wears for aye that crimson stain. —Martha Creech

JENNIE WYLIE

Thomas Wiley, husband of Jennie Sellards Wylie, was a native of Ireland. They lived on Walker’s Creek in what is now Tazewell County, Virginia. She was captured by the Indians in 1790. Her son Adam was sometimes called Adam Pre Vard Wiley.

Among the hills of old Kentucky, When homes were scarce and settlers few, There lived a man named Thomas Wylie, His wife and little children two. They left their home in old Virginia, This youthful pair so brave and strong. And built a cabin in the valley Where fair Big Sandy flows along. Poor Thomas left his home one morning, He kissed his wife and children dear; He little knew that prowling Indians Around his home were lurking near. They waited in the silent woodland Till came the early shades of night; Poor Jennie and her young brother Were seated by the fireside bright. They peeped inside the little cabin And saw the children sleeping there. These helpless ones were unprotected And Jennie looked so white and fair. They came with tomahawks uplifted And gave the war whoop fierce and wild; Poor Jennie snatched her nursing baby; They killed her brother—her oldest child. They took poor Jennie through the forest And while they laughed in fiendish glee, A redskin took the baby from her And dashed out its brains against a tree. They traveled down the Sandy valley Until they reached Ohio’s shore; They told poor Jennie she would never See home or husband any more. For two long years they kept her captive, And one dark night she stole away, And many miles she put behind her Before the dawning of the day. Straight for home the brave woman headed As on her trail the redskins came; The creek down which she fled before them To this day bears poor Jennie’s name. She reached the waters of Big Sandy And plunged within the swollen tide. The thriving little town of Auxier Now stands upon the other side. Her husband welcomed her, though bearing A child sired by an Indian bold; He proudly claimed the stalwart Adam, Whose blood descendants are untold. —Luke Burchett

MOUNTAIN PREACHER

When the Sabbath day is dawning in the mountains, And the air is filled with bird song sweet and clear, Once again I think of him who lives in spirit, Though his voice has silent been for many a year. And the music of the simple prayer he uttered Seems to echo from the highest mountain peak, And the people still respect the holy teaching Of that mountain preacher, Zepheniah Meek. I can see him there upon the wooded hillside, While between two giant Trees of Heaven he stood, And the blue skies formed a canopy above them, As befitting one so humble, wise and good. And he reads of how the Tree of Life is blooming, From the thumbworn leaves of God’s own book of love, While the wind sweeps gently through the Trees of Heaven And they seem to whisper softly up above. Oh, your name still lives among Big Sandy’s people, Though your earthly form is molding ’neath the sod; May your memory linger in their hearts forever, While your spirit rests in peace at home with God. —D. Preston

CHURCH IN THE MOUNTAINS

This was composed by a little girl in Rowan County, Kentucky, after she had been to church in the mountains on Christy Creek in that county in 1939.

Have you been to church in the mountains? ’Tis a wonderful place to go, Out beneath the spreading branches Where the grass and violets grow. Hats hang around on the trunks, Coats lay across the limbs, No roof above but heaven, They sing the good old hymns. So they pray and preach together And sing in one accord, My heart within rejoices To hear them praise the Lord. Though seats are rough, uneven, And they lay upon the sod, There can be no fault in the building, For the Architect is God. Through years—it’s been a custom That prayer should first be made, And then the others follow, Their praises ring in wood and glade. There in the temple of temples, They tell of the glory land, While they beg the many sinners To take a better stand. They beg the sinners to listen As they explain God’s love, Telling of home that’s waiting In the mansions up above. Still praising God, the Father, Who gave His only Son, The meeting service closes Just as it had begun. —Jessie Stewart

MOUNTAIN DOCTOR

This ballad was composed and set to tune by Jilson Setters, the Singin’ Fiddler of Lost Hope Hollow, who can neither read nor write, yet who has composed and set to tune more than one hundred ballads, some of which the late Dr. Kittredge of Harvard declared “will live as classics.”

A very kindly doctor, a friend, I quite well know, He owned a mighty scope of land, some eighty year ago. The doctor had an old-time house, built from logs and clay, A double crib of roughhewn logs, it was built to stay. The doctor he would fish and hunt, He would bring in bear and deer; He was content and happy in his home with his loved ones always near. The doctor owned a faithful horse, He rode him night and day; He had nothing but a bridle path To guide him on his way. The panther was his dreadful foe, It often lingered near; The doctor always went well armed, He seemed to have no fear. He made himself a nice warm coat From the pelt of a brown woolly bear; Often I loved to trace its length With eager hands through shaggy hair. The forepaws fitted round his wrists, The hind parts reached to his thighs, And of the head he made a cap That sheltered both his ears and eyes. The doctor dearly loved the woods, He was raised there from a child; He was very fond of old-time ways, If you scoffed them, he would chide. He was good and sympathetic, He traveled night and day; He doctored many people, Regardless of the pay. Nels Tatum Rice was his name, He was known for miles around; Far beyond the county seat, ’Long the Big Sandy up and down. His mother wove his winter clothes, As a boy he’d case their furs; With them to the county seat, But once a year he’d go. The merchant he would buy the fur, It gladdened the boy’s heart. He had money in his jeans, When for home he did start. Boys, them days was full of glee, Both husky, fat and strong. Nels very soon retraced his steps, It didn’t take him long. Safely, of home once more in sight, The boy quite glad did feel. For he could hear old Shep dog bark, Hear the hum of the spinning wheel. —Jilson Setters

MOUNTAIN WOMAN

’Tain’t no use a-sittin’ here And peerin’ at the sun, A-wishin’ I had purty things, Afore my work is done. I best had bug the taters And fetch water from the run And save my time fer wishin’ When all my work is done. Paw heerd the squirrels a-barkin’ This morning on the hill, And taken him his rifle-gun And tonic fer his chill. Menfolks ain’t got no larnin’ And have no time to fill; Paw spends his days in huntin’ Or putterin’ round his still. “’Tain’t no use complainin’” Is the song the wood thrush sings, And I don’t know of nothin’ That’s as sweet as what he brings. But I best had comb my honey And churn that sour cream, And listen to the wood thrush When I ketch time to dream. Sometimes I feel so happy As I hoe the sproutin’ corn; To hear, far off upon the ridge, The call of Paw’s cow horn. Then I know it’s time for milkin’ And my long day’s work is through, And I kin sit upon the stoop And make my dreams come true. I’ll dream me a wish fer a shiney new hoe, And some dishes, an ax and a saw: And a calico shroud with a ribbon and bow And a new houn’ dawg fer Paw. —John W. Preble, Jr.

WOMAN’S WAY

You like this Circle Star quilt, Miss, you say: I have a favorance for this Flower Bed bright and fair; I made it when my heart was light and gay. Like me, it’s much the worse for time and wear. I used it first upon my marriage bed— And last, when Thomas, my poor man, lay dead. This Nine Patch that is spread across my bed, My Emmy made it in her thirteenth year; I meant for her to claim it when she wed— Excuse me, Miss, I couldn’t help that tear. She sewed her wedding dress so fine and proud— Before the day, we used it for her shroud. That Double Wedding Ring? poor Granny Day, Before I married Tom, made that for me. A thrifty wife, I used to hear her say, Has kiverlids that all who come may see. She rests there on the knoll f’nenst the rise— The little grave is where my youngest lies. Dove at the Window was my mother’s make, Toad in a Puddle is the oldest one, Old Maid’s Ramble and The Lady of the Lake I made for Ned, my oldest son. Hearts and Gizzards make me think of Grandpap Day. “Like Joseph’s coat of many colors, Ma,” he’d say. The Snow Ball and the Rose are sister’s make, She lived in Lost Hope Hollow acrost yon hill, Poor Jane, she might have had her pick of beaux, She sits alone because it was her will. A wife she never would consent to be, For Jane, she loved the man that favored me. —Martha Creech

MOUNTAIN SINGERS

What song is this across the mountain side, Where every leaf bears elements of Him Who is all music? Silences abide With rock and stone. A conscious seraphim Directs the measure, when the need of song Arrives to set the spirit free again. The Mountain Singers, traipsin’ along To woody trail and a cabin in the rain, Bring native music fit to cut apart Old enemies with gunshot for the heart. With Singin’ Gatherin’ and Infare still intact, The Mountain Singers make of ghost, a fact. —Rachel Mack Wilson