Blue Ridge Country

by Jean Thomas

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.