Chapter 10

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!"