GIFT OF 
 Glass of 1907 
 
 &_ 
 
CAROLINA FOLK-PLAYS 
 
THE PLAYMAKERS AIM 
 
 FIRST: To promote and encourage dramatic art, 
 especially by the production and publishing of plays. 
 
 SECOND: To serve as an experimental theatre for 
 the development of plays representing the traditions 
 and various phases of present-day life of the people. 
 
 THIRD: To extend its influences in the establish 
 ment of a native theatre in other communities. 
 
A PLAY MAKER OF NORTH CAROLINA 
 Harold Williamson as JED in his own play, Peggy, a tragedy of the 
 tenant farmer. 
 
CAROLINA 
 FOLK-PLAYS 
 
 Edited 
 With an Introduction on FOLK-PLAY MAKING 
 
 By 
 
 FREDERICK H. KOCH 
 Founder and Director of The Carolina Playmakers 
 
 Illustrated from photographs of the original productions of 
 the plays 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 1922" 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1922 
 
 BY 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 All of these plays have been successfully produced. 
 
 No royalty is asked for performing rights when no ad 
 mission is charged. Otherwise there is a charge of five dol 
 lars for each performance by amateurs. Professional actors 
 must make special arrangements. 
 
 No performance of these plays may be given without full 
 acknowledgment to The Carolina Playmakers, Inc., and to 
 the publishers. Acknowledgment should be made to read 
 as follows: "From the Carolina Folk-Plays edited by FRED 
 ERICK H. KOCH, Director. Produced by arrangement with 
 The Carolina Playmakers, Inc., and the publishers." 
 
 For permission to produce any of the plays address FRED 
 ERICK H. KOCH, Director, The Carolina Playmakers, Inc., 
 Chapel Hill, North Carolina. 
 
 The plays in this volume are not printed so as to indicate 
 pronunciation, and can be read or played anywhere, upon 
 the terms given on the back of the title page. While it would 
 be well, if not too much trouble, for the actors to study the 
 hints on pronunciation in the Appendix, still, outside of the 
 Carolinas, the parts can be effectively played by actors speak 
 ing more or less in the manner of the country folk in what 
 ever state the play is being presented. 
 
 First Printing, Nov. 1922 
 Second Printing, Feb. 1923 
 Third Printing, April, 1924 
 
 PRINTED IN U. S. A. 
 
TO 
 
 "THE ONLIE BEGETTER" 
 E- G. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 AIMS OF THE CAROLINA PLAYMAKERS . . ii 
 FOLK-PLAY MAKING xi 
 
 By Frederick H. Koch. 
 
 WHEN WITCHES RIDE, a Play of Carolina Folk 
 
 Superstition 3 
 
 By Elizabeth A. Lay. 
 
 PEGGY, a Tragedy of the Tenant Farmer . . 29 
 By Harold Williamson; 
 
 "DoD CAST YE BOTH !" a Comedy of Mountain 
 
 Moonshiners 61 
 
 By Hubert Heffner. 
 
 OFF NAGS HEAD or THE BELL BUOY, a Trag 
 edy of the North Carolina Coast ... 91 
 By Dougald MacMillan. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 117 
 
 By Paul Greene. 
 
 A Play of the Croatan Outlaws of Robeson County, 
 North Carolina. 
 
 APPENDIX: The Language of the Plays . . 149 
 By Tom Peete Cross. 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 A PLAYMAKER OF NORTH CAROLINA . Frontispiece 
 Harold Williamson in his own play of PEGGY. 
 
 From photograph by Wooton-Moulton 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Program Heading-Picture xi 
 
 By Julius J. Lankes 
 
 Scene from WHEN WITCHES RIDE . Facing 18 
 
 From photograph by Wooton-Moulton 
 
 Scene from PEGGY Facing 54 
 
 From photograph by Ellington 
 
 The last episode in "DoD GAST YE BOTH !" 
 
 Facing 84 
 
 From photograph by Wooton-Moulton 
 
 The Old Woman in OFF NAGS HEAD or 
 
 THE BELL BUOY Facing 96 
 
 From photograph by Wooton-M.ov.ltan 
 
 Scene from LAST OF THE LOWRIES . Facing 140 
 
 From photograph by Wooton-Moulton 
 
FOLK-PLAY MAKING 
 
 BY FREDERICK H. KOCH 
 
 Founder of The Dakota Playmakers and The 
 Carolina Playmakers 
 
 The Carolina Folk-Plays suggest the beginnings of 
 a new native theatre. They are pioneer plays of 
 North Carolina life. The stories and characters are 
 drawn by the writers from their own tradition, and 
 from their observation of the lives of their own 
 people. 
 
 They are wholly native simple plays of the locality, 
 of common experience and of common interest. North 
 Carolina is rich in legends and in historical incident; 
 she is rich too in the variety and virility of her present- 
 day life. There is in these plays something of the tang 
 of the Carolina soil. There is something of the isola 
 tion of her mountains and their sheltering coves; 
 something of the sun and the wind of the farm lands ; 
 of the shadowy thickets of Scuffletown Swamp ; some 
 thing, too, of the loneliness of the lives of the fisher- 
 folk on the shifting banks of Nags Head or Cape 
 Lookout. 
 
xii f, FOLK-PLAY MAKING 
 
 They were written by sons and daughters of Caro 
 lina, at Chapel Hill, the seat of the state university. 
 They have been produced with enthusiasm and success 
 by The Carolina Playmakers in their own town and 
 in many towns all over the state. The Carolina Play- 
 makers is a group of amateurs amateurs in the original 
 and full sense of the word devoted to the establish 
 ment of a theatre of cooperative folk-arts. Not a single 
 cloth has been painted by an outsider. Everything has 
 been designed and made in the home town in a truly 
 communal way. 
 
 To be sure they are plays of a single section, of a 
 single state, North Carolina. But they have a wider 
 significance. We know that if we speak for the human 
 nature in our own neighborhood we shall be expressing 
 for all. The locality, if it be truly interpreted, is the 
 only universal. It has been so in all lasting literature. 
 And in every locality all over America, as here in North 
 Carolina to-day, there is the need and the striving for a 
 fresh expression of our common folk life. 
 
 THE BEGINNINGS IN NORTH DAKOTA 
 
 The North Carolina plays represent the cumulation 
 of years of experiment. The beginnings at the Uni 
 versity of North Dakota, located at Grand Forks, were 
 simple enough. It is now sixteen j^ears since the writer 
 made the first "barn-storming" tour, in 1906, over the 
 treeless levels of Dakota with a company of University 
 players. The play was Richard Brinsley Sheridan s 
 admirable comedy, The Rivals, to be followed in sue- 
 
FOLK-PLAY MAKING xiii 
 
 ceeding tours with such old favorites as Goldsmith s 
 She Stoops to Conquer, Dickens Tom Pinch, and 
 Sheridan Knowles The Love Chase. In this way the 
 ground was cleared and made ready for a people s 
 drama of sound foundations. 
 
 A remarkable development of dramatic interest fol 
 lowed, and an enthusiastic fellowship of players was 
 formed. It grew, and became in good time a flourish 
 ing society of play-makers The Dakota Playmakers 
 pledged to the production of native plays of their prairie 
 country. 
 
 Two different types of drama developed naturally 
 the pageant, a distinctly communal form enlisting 
 actively all the people; and the folk-play, an intimate 
 portrayal of the life and character of the people of 
 the plains. 
 
 DAKOTA COMMUNAL DRAMA 
 
 In the Dakota pageantry a new form of creative 
 literary work was evolved communal authorship. 
 The historical Pageant of the North-West in 1914, and 
 the tercentenary masque, Shakespeare, The Playmaker, 
 in 1916, were designed and written entirely dialogue, 
 poetry, and music by a group of these amateur Play- 
 makers in collaboration, eighteen in the first case and 
 twenty in the second. And the published play-books 
 proved that the people themselves, when rightly 
 directed, could create their own dramatic forms, in 
 phrases "filled with liveliness and humor, and with no 
 little imagination" in a cooperative native drama 
 
xiv FOLK-PLAY MAKING 
 
 "never amateurish and sometimes reaching a high lit 
 erary level." l 
 
 Such production required a theatre in the open. 
 There was no hill-slope and, by the necessity of the 
 prairie land, a new type of native theatre was dis 
 covered. So the Bankside Theatre came to be "the 
 first open-air theatre to make use of the natural curve 
 of a stream to separate the stage from the amphi 
 theatre," 1 and a contribution was made of permanent 
 value in the history of the out-door stage. 
 
 In succeeding years of this renaissance for such 
 indeed it proved to be The Dakota Playmakers car 
 ried out over the state their new-found means of 
 dramatic expression, directing the country people in 
 many parts of North Dakota in the writing and staging 
 of pageants and plays of their own local traditions. 
 
 DAKOTA FOLK-PLAYS 
 
 At the same time The Playmakers at the university 
 were busy writing for their improvised "Play-Stage" 
 a variety of simple folk-plays portraying scenes of ranch 
 and farm life, adventures of the frontier settlers, inci 
 dents of the cowboy trails. 
 
 Then they toured the state with their new-made 
 Prairie Plays using a simple portable stage of their own 
 devising. And the people in the towns visited received 
 them with wonder and enthusiasm. They knew them 
 for their own, and were honestly proud and happy 
 about it. Everybody said, "Come again, and we ll give 
 
 i "Dakotan Discoveries in Dual Dramaturgy," by Hiram K. Moder- 
 in The Boston Evening Transcript, September 30, 1916. 
 
FOLK-PLAY MAKING xv 
 
 you a bigger audience next time!" The little folk- 
 play had found its own. 
 
 Typical of these prairie plays perhaps is Barley 
 Beards by Howard DeLong, who was born of French 
 homesteaders in a sod shanty forty miles from the rail 
 road. Barley Beards deals with an I. W. W. riot in 
 a North Dakota threshing crew and is based on young 
 DeLong s experiences on a Dakota wheat farm at 
 harvest time. The author himself designed and painted 
 the scenery, and acted a leading part in his play. 
 
 Other one-act pieces of this type are : Back on the 
 Old Farm by Arthur Cloetingh, suggesting the futility 
 of the "high-brow" education when it goes back to the 
 country home at Long Prairie ; Dakota Dick, by Harold 
 Wylie, a comedy of the Bad Lands of the frontier days ; 
 and Me an Bill, by Ben Sherman of Judith Basin, 
 Montana, a tragedy of the "loony" sheep-herder, well- 
 known to the playwright, and his love of the lonely 
 shepherd s life on the great plains: 
 
 "You are out there on the plains, under the blue 
 sky, with the soft winds a-singin songs to you. Free 
 God, but you re free! You get up in the morning to 
 meet the sun; you throw out your arms, breathe into 
 your lungs life; and it makes you live it makes you 
 live! It is the same feelin He had. He wanted to 
 live for his sheep. (Then addressing his spectral dog 
 he chuckles to himself.) Did you catch him, Shep?" 
 
 Full of the poetry of the North-West country are 
 the words of Tim Nolan in the romance of the old 
 Irish pioneer in For the Colleen by Agnes O Connor : 
 
xvi FOLK-PLAY MAKING 
 
 "Hers was the face that Vd haunt the heart and 
 the dreams of such a lonely Irish lad as Tim Nolan 
 was, on the big prairie. And I began to work my 
 claim as I d never done before dreamin all the time 
 of a little home. Just a wee house with a white picket 
 fence around it with wild roses growin everywhere. 
 Just Mary and me, and the green of the grass, and the 
 spring winds blowin fresh, and the meadow-lark 
 singinV 
 
 Such are the country folk-plays of Dakota simple 
 plays, sometimes crude, but always near to the good, 
 strong, wind-swept soil. They tell of the long bitter 
 winters in the little sod shanty. But they sing too of 
 the springtime of unflecked sunshine, of the wilder 
 ness gay with wild roses, of the fenceless fields welling 
 over with lark song! They are plays of the travail 
 and the achievement of a pioneer people. 
 
 THE CAROLINA PLAYMAKERS 
 
 The work of The Dakota Playmakers was noted in 
 various parts of the country. In North Carolina, Dr. 
 Edwin Greenlaw, Head of the Department of Eng 
 lish in the state university, saw a rich field for the 
 making of a native folk drama. His insight and con 
 tinuing loyalty have made possible the remarkable 
 growth of the idea there. 
 
 North Carolina extends more than five hundred 
 miles from the Great Smoky Mountains on the western 
 border to the treacherous shoals of Hatteras. In the 
 backlands of these mountains and among the dunes of 
 
FOLK-PLAY MAKING xvii 
 
 the shifting coast line may be found "neighborhoods" 
 where the customs of the first English settlers still pre 
 vail, where folk-tales still survive in words and phrase 
 long since obsolete to us, handed down by word of 
 mouth from one generation to another through all the 
 years of their isolation. 
 
 And in North Carolina, too, we have the ballads 
 and the lore of an outlived past side by side with the 
 new life of the present day. Here are still the fine old 
 families of the first Cavaliers and the children of the 
 plantation days of the Old South. In contrast with 
 these is the dreary "one-horse" farm of the poor white 
 tenant and the shiftless negro. In greater contrast, per 
 haps, is the toil of the thousands of workers at the roar 
 ing mills. 
 
 North Carolina is still without large cities, and a 
 strong folk-consciousness persists. The State is still 
 regarded by the people as a family of "folks," due to 
 the fact that the population is almost pure Anglo Saxon 
 and still remarkably homogeneous. For all the changing 
 industrial conditions less than two per cent of the 
 inhabitants of the State are of foreign birth or par 
 entage. Here the home talents are still cherished as 
 a means of genuine enjoyment. The people have not 
 broken their connections with the big family of the 
 country folks. They have retained their birthright of 
 pleasure in simple things. It is not strange that from 
 such a spirit of neighborliness a native drama should 
 spring. 
 
 A new fellowship of Playmakers came naturally in 
 
xviii FOLK-PLAY MAKING 
 
 the fall of 1918. There was no formal organization 
 at first. Membership in The Carolina Playmakers was 
 open to all. Anyone who did anything toward the 
 making of a play was counted a Playmaker. It was 
 truly a society of amateurs in cooperative folk-arts. 
 
 Already a wide range of original folk-plays have 
 come. They were written in the University course in 
 Dramatic Composition, and produced by The Play- 
 makers on a home-made stage, constructed by them 
 for the purpose, in the auditorium of the Public School 
 building at Chapel Hill. 
 
 The initial program consisted of What Will Barbara 
 Say? a romance of Chapel Hill by Minnie Shepherd 
 Sparrow who essayed the leading part; The Return of 
 Buck Gavin, a tragedy of a mountain outlaw, by 
 Thomas C. Wolfe, of Asheville, who made his debut 
 as a player in the title role of this his first play; and 
 When Witches Ride, a play of North Carolina folk- 
 superstition drawn largely by the young author, 
 Elizabeth A. Lay, from her own experiences while 
 teaching in a country school in Northampton County. 
 The prologue, Our Heritage, written by Miss Lay 
 for the occasion, expresses beautifully The Playmakers 
 faith : 
 
 We mock with facts the Southern folk-belief, 
 And so forget the eternal quest that strove 
 With signs and tales to symbolize the awe 
 Of powers in heaven and earth still undefined. 
 Yet we may catch the child-like wondering 
 Of our old negroes and the country folk, 
 And live again in simple times of faith 
 
FOLK-PLAY MAKING xix 
 
 And fear and wonder if we stage their life. 
 Then witches ride the stormy, thundering sky, 
 And signs and omens fill believing minds ; 
 Then old traditions live in simple speech 
 And ours the heritage of wondering! 
 
 The production was entirely home-made; the 
 scenery as well as the settings, costumes, and make-up 
 all done in the little home town. Miss Lay tells how 
 she scoured the countryside to find a log cabin to serve 
 as a model for the scene in her initial play, When 
 Witches Ride, how she "sketched the details and drew 
 in the logs on the big canvases," and how after 
 "weeks of experiment with the new kind of paint 
 weeks in which the scene resembled a layer cake or a 
 striped flag more than anything else" finally the 
 medium was mastered and a really creditable log cabin 
 set achieved. 
 
 The first performance of new plays is an event long 
 to be remembered. There is a feeling of intimate 
 interest, an almost childlike excitement on the part of 
 everyone townspeople, students and professors alike. 
 This is their play, written by one of their own number. 
 These are their players, and all are Playmakers to 
 gether. 
 
 It is an interesting experience to participate with 
 the audience in such a performance. "If the log cabin 
 used in a play of fisher-people contains logs larger than 
 the trees in that section," Miss Lay remarked one day, 
 "if the rocks in the fireplace could not have existed, in 
 that locality, if there is a flaw in the dialect, the author 
 
xx FOLK-PLAY MAKING 
 
 and producer will be sure to hear about it." For the 
 audience is genuinely interested in the reality of the 
 play and the stage picture must be true to the life, even 
 in the least details. 
 
 The play is Peggy, perhaps. The curtain discloses 
 the shabby interior of a tenant cabin. It is a familiar 
 sight just such a drab-looking cabin in the red fields 
 as each person present has passed by many times with 
 out thought or interest. Mag, the jaded farm woman 
 with snuff-stick protruding from the corner of her 
 mouth, is getting supper, singing snatches of an old 
 ballad as she works. She is a commonplace figure. But 
 in the play she becomes a character of new and com 
 pelling interest. Spontaneous guffaws of laughter 
 greet this actual appearance upon their stage of the 
 "sorry-looking," snuff-spitting character so familiar to 
 them. But presently all are moved to feel with the 
 actors the tragic fact of her hard-won existence. Then, 
 it seemed to me, that the dividing footlights were gone 
 that the audience had actually joined with the actors 
 and become a part of the play itself. It had become 
 a living truth to them. 
 
 The author, Harold Williamson, is playing the part 
 of Jed, the stolid, good-hearted farmhand, with a 
 homely sincerity and naturalness which recalls the 
 work of the Irish Players. Sympathy, simplicity, the 
 abandonment of self in the reality of the scene these 
 qualities in the acting serve to unite the people in the 
 audience with the players on the stage. It is life itself 
 before them "that moves and feels." 
 
FOLK-PLAY MAKING xxi 
 
 The plays produced in these first years have revealed 
 a remarkable variety of materials and forms. 
 
 Representative of the farm plays are such tragedies 
 of revolt as Peggy, The Miser and The Lord s Will. 
 Thesecondof these centresinthecharacterof old Wash 
 Lucas, "the stingiest man living in Harnett County," 
 who hoards his wealth in a steel box and starves the 
 lives of his children. After seeing this piece when it 
 was presented in Raleigh on The Playmakers State 
 Tour last season, one remarked, "I know every member 
 of that family. It is every bit true !" The Lord s Will 
 has the same poignant reality. It tells the story of a 
 country preacher, Lem Adams, the itinerant revivalist 
 of the "tent-meetings," well known in the rural dis 
 tricts of North Carolina. It is the tragedy of a de- 
 feated dreamer. In contrast with these are Dogwood 
 Bushes and In Dixons Kitchen, comedies of the Caro 
 lina springtime, of the dogwoods and the peach trees 
 all in bloom, and the old, old story of a country court 
 ship. 
 
 There are plays of daring outlaws, the Croatan gang 
 in The Last of the Lowries from the southern part of 
 the State; and mountain plays of moonshiners and 
 adventurers such as Dod Cast Ye Both!, Reward 
 Offered, The Return of Buck Gavin, and the ghost-tale 
 of The Third Night. There are colorful themes from 
 Colonial times the strange legend of The Old Alan of 
 Edenton, the wistful fantasy of Trista, the haunting 
 mystery of Theodosia Burr in Off Nags Head; plays 
 of the folk-belief in the supernatural as in The Hag 
 
xxii FOLK-PLAY MAKING 
 
 and in the brave sea-play Blackbeard, Pirate of the 
 Carolina Coast, with the gallant song of Bloody Ed, 
 the buccaneer : 
 
 In a winding shroud of green seaweed 
 
 There many a dead man lies 
 And the waves above them glitter at night 
 
 With the stare of the dead men s eyes. 
 No rest, no sleep, ten-fathom deep 
 
 They watch with their glittering eyes. 
 
 Forever washed by the deep sea-tides 
 
 With the changing coral sands, 
 For their treasured gold in their own deep graves 
 
 They search with their bony hands. 
 No rest, no sleep, ten-fathom deep 
 
 They dig with their bony hands. 
 
 There are also plays of North Carolina to-day 
 serious pieces like Who Pays, suggested by an incident 
 which occurred during a strike in a southern city, and 
 The Reaping, dealing with a social problem based on 
 the Doctor s Report, side by side with the amusing 
 sketches of college life like The Vamp and The Chat 
 ham Rabbit done in the picturesque phrase of our 
 student vernacular ; and Waffles for Breakfast, a happy 
 satire of newly married life. 
 
 Not the least significant are the plays written for a 
 negro theatre, such as the realistic Granny Doling, The 
 Fighting Corporal, a rollicking comedy of the undoing 
 of a braggart soldier just back from "de big war in 
 France," and White Dresses, the story of Old Aunt 
 Candace and her niece, Mary McLean, a pretty quad- 
 
FOLK-PLAY MAKING xxiii 
 
 roon girl. Aunt Candace becomes the embodiment of 
 her race, and her words to Mary conclude the stark 
 tragedy of the race problem: "I knows yo se got 
 feelin s, chile. But yo se got to smother em in. Yo se 
 got to smother em in." 
 
 In preparing the texts of the plays the aim has been 
 to preserve the naturalness of the speech. The spell 
 ing of the dialect has been simplified as much as possi 
 ble without destroying the distinguishing local char 
 acteristics of the language as spoken in North Caro 
 lina. The Southern dialect is hard to represent in 
 print. In the task of editing the dialect of the plays 
 The Playmakers are indebted to the expert and de 
 voted services of Professor Tom Peete Cross, formerly 
 of the University of North Carolina, now of the Uni 
 versity of Chicago. The results of his scholarly zeal 
 in this difficult field are admirably summarized in his 
 article on "The Language of the Plays" prepared for 
 the appendix to this volume. It will serve as an 
 invaluable guide to the player in the pronunciation 
 of the vernacular as spoken in the South. 
 
 A brief statement of the sources of the plays 
 included in this volume will suggest to the reader the 
 nature and the variety of our Carolina materials. 
 
 WHEN WITCHES RIDE 
 
 The characters and the superstition in this play 
 were drawn largely from the author s observation as a 
 country school teacher in Northampton County, North 
 
xxiv FOLK-PLAY MAKING 
 
 Carolina. The idea of the plot is based on the fol 
 lowing account of the actual character, Phoebe Ward, 
 given in an article by Professor Tom Peete Cross of the 
 University of Chicago on "Folk-Lore from the South 
 ern States," published in The Journal of American 
 Folk-Lore, Volume XXII (1909). 
 
 "The early years of Phoebe Ward, witch, are 
 shrouded in mystery. . . . She lived here and there, 
 first at one place and then at another in Northampton 
 County, North Carolina. She stayed in a hut or any 
 shelter whatsoever that was granted her. 
 
 "She made her living begging from place to place. 
 Most people were afraid to refuse her, lest she should 
 apply her witchcraft to them. . . . Hence the people 
 resorted to a number of methods to keep her away. 
 For instance, when they saw her coming, they would 
 stick pins point-up in the chair bottoms, and then offer 
 her one of these chairs. It is said that she could always 
 tell when the chair was thus fixed, and would never 
 sit in it. Also they would throw red pepper into the 
 fire, and Phoebe would leave as soon as she smelled 
 it burning. . . . 
 
 "Among her arts it is said that she could ride per 
 sons at night (the same as nightmares), that she could 
 ride horses at night, and that when the mane was 
 tangled in the morning it was because the witch had 
 made stirrups of the plaits. She was said to be able 
 to go through key-holes. . . . She was credited with 
 possessing a sort of grease which she could apply and 
 
FOLK-PLAY MAKING xxv 
 
 then slip out of her skin and go out on her night ram 
 bles, and on her return get back again." 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 The characters in this play were drawn from life. 
 "Although far from typical of North Carolina, such 
 conditions as are here portrayed are not uncommon in 
 some localities," the author writes. "The action of the 
 play is a true transcript of the family life of the charac 
 ters in the play, as I have known them in real life." 
 
 "DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 
 
 This is a play dealing with moonshiners of west 
 ern North Carolina. It is a comedy of folk char 
 acters lifted out of contemporary life and portrayed 
 through the medium of drama. 
 
 A group of mountaineers, lounging around a block 
 ade still which nestled in a thicket of rhododendron 
 and laurel on the side of Grandfather Mountain, one 
 summer day not long ago decided to play a trick on old 
 Noah Setzer, a moonshiner and boss of the Ridge, by 
 telling him that his daughter Mary had "fell" for a 
 certain suspicious stranger who had come into those 
 parts and who was believed to be a "revenooer." Out 
 of this prank and the results that came from it, the 
 plot was developed. 
 
 After writing the play, the author took it back to 
 the Hills and read it to Noah one winter evening by 
 his still. To find himself in a play and to hear his very 
 words spoken again quite amazed and delighted the old 
 man. He laughed as he heard again how he had been 
 
xxvi FOLK-PLAY MAKING 
 
 fooled into getting a "revenooer" for a son-in-law. As 
 he got up to stir his mash, he said, "But hit was a kind 
 o unnad ral joke to pull on me atter all !" 
 
 Last summer on the occasion of another visit to the 
 scene of his play, Mr. Heffner, the author, found old 
 Sank, the boot-legger for old Noah (whose part he 
 himself played in the original cast) in jail for moon- 
 shining. 
 
 OFF NAGS HEAD, or THE BELL BUOY 
 
 In the winter of 1812, according to the legend, a 
 pilot boat drifted ashore at Kitty Hawk, near Nags 
 Head, on the coast of North Carolina. In the cabin, 
 among other evidences of the presence on the boat of a 
 woman of wealth and refinement, was found a portrait 
 of a lady. The "bankers," the rough, half barbarous 
 inhabitants of the islands along the North Carolina 
 coast, cut off from the moderating influences of main 
 land civilization, were in the habit of regarding all 
 driftwood, regardless of its size or condition, as their 
 own property. They fell upon deserted vessels and 
 demolished them. This small pilot boat was treated 
 in the customary manner. The portrait fell into the 
 hands of a fisherman, on whose walls it hung for many 
 years. 
 
 In 1869, Dr. William G. Pool was called in to 
 see, near Nags Head, an old fisherwoman, who was 
 sick. He found the portrait, secured possession of it 
 and its story, and later identified the subject as Theo- 
 dosia Burr, daughter of Aaron Burr. 
 
FOLK-PLAY MAKING xxvii 
 
 In a small pilot boat, The Patriot, on December 30, 
 1812, Mrs. Theodosia Burr Alston sailed from 
 Georgetown, South Carolina, for New York, where 
 she expected to join her father who had just returned 
 from exile. The Patriot did not reach New York; 
 neither it nor any of its crew or passengers was ever 
 heard of again. The commonly accepted story is that 
 the boat was taken by pirates and the persons on board 
 forced to walk the plank. 
 
 These are the two stories. 
 
 The "bankers" of the North Carolina coast are 
 known, at this time, not to have confined their wreck 
 ing activities to the victims that chance threw in their 
 way. They evolved a scheme by which vessels were 
 lured upon the sandy beach by a light fastened to a 
 horse s head, which from a distance looked like a ship 
 at anchor, or moving slowly. When the deluded ship 
 came aground, these land pirates boarded it and, 
 killing the persons on board, plundered the vessel. 
 
 These things, told by Miss Pool in The Eyrie* and 
 a suggestion made by her furnish the basis for Off 
 Nags Head. Miss Pool says, "It is not improbable 
 that The Patriot during a night of storm was lured 
 ashore by a decoy light at Nags Head, and that pas 
 sengers and crew fell into the hands of the land 
 pirates in waiting, who possessed themselves of the boat 
 and everything of value it contained. 
 
 * The Eyrie and Other Southern Stories by Bettie Freshwater Pool. 
 New York. 1905. 
 
xxviii FOLK-PLAY MAKING 
 
 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 This play is based on the account given by Mrs. 
 Mary C. Norment in The Lowrle History (Daily 
 Journal Print, Wilmington, N. C., 1875). Part of 
 the action is not historical. In reality Steve Lowrie 
 and not Henry Berry was the last of the gang. 
 
 The Lowries were a famous band of outlaws of 
 mixed blood, part Croatan Indian. In the latter part 
 of the Civil War many of the Croatans in Robeson 
 County were opposed to the conscription of men by 
 the Confederate Government for work on the fortifi 
 cations along Cape Fear. Among these were the 
 Lowrie boys, who killed an officer sent to arrest them 
 for evading the law. After this, the Lowries con 
 cealed themselves in Scuffletown Swamp where they 
 were supplied with food by their sympathizers. As the 
 gang grew in size it began to act on the offensive 
 instead of the defensive, and soon it spread terror 
 throughout the county, robbing, plundering, and kill 
 ing when necessary. For more than ten years the 
 gang held out against the officers of the law and only 
 in 1874 was the l ast Lowrie killed. 
 
 No particular effort is made to follow the intricacies 
 of the Croatan dialect. But the following charac 
 teristics of pronunciation will be of aid in giving the 
 play local color. 
 
 The typical Croatan of 1874 spoke with a peculiar 
 drawl in his voice, most often pronouncing his / like 
 d f as "better," bedder; c or ck was pronounced like g, 
 as "back," bag; short a like short o, as "man," mon. 
 
FOLK-PLAY MAKING xxix 
 
 Sometimes g was sounded as d, as "loving," lovind. 
 Even now there is little change in the dialect of the 
 uneducated Croatans. 
 
 In the woodcut at the beginning of this article, 
 designed by Mr. Julius J. Lankes as a program- 
 heading for The Carolina Playmakers, a mountaineer 
 on one side and a pirate on the other draw the curtains 
 on a Carolina Folk-Play, The Last of the Lowries, 
 suggesting the wide range of materials from which 
 these plays are drawn. 
 
 Such are the Carolina Folk-Plays. 
 
 They have been welcomed in towns and cities all 
 over North Carolina. It is the hope of our Playmakers 
 that they will have something of real human interest 
 for the big family of our American folk beyond the 
 borders of Carolina. 
 
 There is everywhere an awakening of the folk-con 
 sciousness, which should be cherished in a new republic 
 of active literature. As did the Greeks and our far- 
 seeing Eliabethan forebears, so should we, the people 
 of this new Renaissance, find fresh dramatic forms to 
 express our America of to-day our larger conception 
 of the kingdom of humanity. 
 
 Toward this The Carolina Playmakers are hoping 
 to contribute something of lasting value in the making 
 of a new folk theatre and a new folk literature. 
 
 Chapel Hill, North Carolina. 
 September 30, IQ22. 
 
WHEN WITCHES RIDE 
 
CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 As originally produced at The Play-House, Chapel 
 Hill, North Carolina, March 14 and IS, 
 
 UNCLE BENNY, owner of the crossroads store, 
 
 George McF. McKic 
 
 ED, his son, Walter H. Williamson 
 
 JAKE, formerly a railroad engineer, George Denny 
 PHOEBE WARD, witch Alga E. Leavitt 
 
 SCENE: The storehouse of a cross-roads store. The 
 action takes place in the back country of North 
 Carolina, near the Roanoke River, at a time when 
 the people of Northampton County still believed 
 in witches. A stormy night. 
 
SCENE 
 
 ^ m ^J HE storehouse of a cross-roads store. 
 
 t The room is a typical log cabin, roughly 
 
 built. Red peppers , herbs, and dried vegetables 
 hang from the low rafters. Boxes and bales are piled 
 in disorder among farm implements, kitchen utensils, 
 and miscellaneous articles from the stock of a cross 
 roads general store. Dust and cobwebs are everywhere. 
 In the back wall at the right a small opening cut in the 
 logs serves as a window, with a rough shutter hinged 
 loosely at the right side. The door in the back wall 
 at the left is hidden by a dirty sheet, hung over it to 
 keep out the cold air. In the right side-wall is a huge 
 stone fireplace in which a hot fire blazes, the opening 
 being nearly filled with logs. A large supply of wood 
 is piled beside the fireplace at the right. A big jug of 
 liquor stands on a box in that corner. There is a rough 
 bench in front of the fire. In the front at the left is a 
 table. Three lighted candles, a small straw-covered 
 jug, mugs of liquor, and coins are on the table. 
 
 ED, JAKE, and UNCLE BENNY are seated around 
 the table, playing cards and drinking. Outside the 
 storm is gathering. 
 
 UNCLE BENNY is very old. His face is wrinkled 
 and weather-beaten. He has no teeth and is nearly 
 bald. He wears an old shirt and rusty trousers. 
 
 3 
 
4 WHEN WITCHES RIDE 
 
 ED is middle-aged, red of face, very tall and lank. 
 His shoulders droop and his whole appearance is that 
 of slouchiness. He wears a dirty shirt with sleeves 
 rolled up, and ragged overalls. 
 
 JAKE is older than ED. He is burly and strong, com 
 manding respect from the others who fear his bad 
 temper. He is something of a bully. He wears a 
 dark coat over his overalls. An old engineer s cap is 
 on his head. 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 (Speaking in a high, nervous voice) 
 This here s mighty good liquor, ain t it so, Jake? 
 
 JAKE 
 
 (Pours himself another glass) 
 Uh-huh. (Gruffly.) It s your play, Ed. 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 I reckon you might s well pour me some more, too, 
 while you re bout it. 
 
 (JAKE pours while UNCLE BENNY holds his 
 cup. Suddenly a loud crash of thunder is 
 heard. UNCLE BENNY starts up and jerks his 
 hand away, nearly spilling the contents of the 
 
 JAKE 
 
 (Grabs the jug and sets it down with a bang) 
 Drat your hide, ol man ! Do you want to waste all 
 this good whiskey? What s the matter with you? 
 Hey? 
 
WHEN WITCHES RIDE 5 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 Thar now, Jake, I didn t mean no harm. 
 
 JAKE 
 I reckon you nigh about wasted all this here liquor! 
 
 ED 
 
 (Drawling , testily) 
 Well, tain t none of your liquor, is it? 
 
 JAKE 
 
 (Turning on him) 
 
 An what re you jumpin in about? You re both 
 bout to jump out n your skins! What you feared of? 
 Tain t nothin but thunderin a mite. 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 But it s an awful night, Jake. It s witch weather 
 thunder an lightnin on a cold night like this here 
 jest the night for witches to be ridin an sperits to be 
 walkin an I can t leave off from feelin that bad luck s 
 a-comin to us here. (A very loud thunder clap is 
 heard as the storm grows more fierce.) Oh, lordy! 
 lordy! 
 
 ED 
 
 Hit s one powerful queer storm, sure, but brace up, 
 Pop, n have another drink. 
 
 ( The mugs are filled again) 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 Mighty strange things has happened on a night like 
 this here, an right nigh the Roanoke River here, too. 
 
6 WHEN WITCHES RIDE 
 
 I mind as how twas jest sech a storm as this when a 
 oF witch rid my ol woman to death. Yes, suh, when 
 she woke up in the mornin they was dirt in between 
 her fingers, an* her hair was all tangled up whar the 
 witch had done made stirrups of it for to ride her 
 through the briars. She was nigh about wore out, an 
 all she could do was to stare an gape an* mumble 
 bout goin through the key-hole. . . . 
 
 JAKE 
 (Scornfully) 
 
 Aw, shucks! Your ol woman drunk herself to 
 death an I reckon it didn t take much ridin to finish 
 her, neither. If you d been drivin a railroad engine 
 nigh about all over Carolina an into Virginia like I 
 have, you d a seen so many sights that it d take more n 
 any ol hag to give you the shakes. Any ol back- 
 country witch like Phoebe Ward can t scare me off 
 from a good dram like this here, let me tell you all 
 that! 
 
 ED 
 
 They do say ol Phoebe herself is prowlin round in 
 this neighborhood, her n that durned ol toad she carries 
 round. She slept cross the river last night an Jeff 
 Bailey seen her cuttin through the low-grounds bout 
 dawn. 
 
 JAKE 
 
 Wai, I d jest like to see ol witch Phoebe one more 
 time an I d finish for her. Clare to goodness the last 
 time she come roun to my house I fixed her good an 
 purty. (Laughing loudly.) I chucked the fire right 
 
WHEN WITCHES RIDE 7 
 
 full of red pepper pods an she nigh about sneezed her 
 head off. It didn t take ol Phoebe long to pick up 
 that toad of hers an clear out of there, damned if it 
 did! I reckon she won t come soon again to stay 
 with me! 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 (Fearfully. Rolling thunder is heard) 
 They do say as how she was married to the Devil 
 hisself once. I ve heared em say he s comin hisself 
 an carry her off one of these days when her time s 
 come. 
 
 JAKE 
 
 I reckon he ll get us all when our times comes, for 
 all that. (Laughing coarsely.) Aw, brace up, Benny! 
 I d like to get my hands on that ol toad. 
 
 (UNCLE BENNY looks around fearfully\ as 
 though dreading her appearance. He gets up 
 and shuffles slowly to the fireplace^ speaking as 
 he goes.) 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 I ve heared tell it was her toad that s her sperit. 
 The varmint leads her to a place an then sets on the 
 hearth stones twell it s time for her to move. She 
 won t stir from that place twell her ol Gibbie com 
 mences to hop off first. 
 
 JAKE 
 
 She didn t wait for her toad to hop last time she 
 visited me, let me tell you-all that! 
 
8 WHEN WITCHES RIDE 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 You d best to mind how you rile oP Phoebe, Jake. 
 They do say as him what angers her will be witched. 
 They say her spell ll pass on him, an Gibbie ll be his 
 sperit. He ll have to move when that toad commences 
 to hop jest the same as ol Phoebe. 
 
 JAKE 
 
 Aw, I d like to see any oP toad-frog make me move 
 on. A good jug of liquor s the only thing d put a spell 
 on me ! 
 
 ED 
 (Rises and speaks to UNCLE BENNY who is warming 
 
 his hands at the fire) 
 Let s have another dram, Pop. 
 
 (As they stoop over the big jug in the corner 
 to the right, a terrific thunder crash is heard. 
 They drop the jug with a bang and JAKE 
 strides over to them in a rage. 
 
 The witch has entered unseen, having slipped 
 through the curtain over the door. PHOEBE 
 WARD is very old, and bent, and wrinkled. 
 Her dress is wrapped around her in rags and 
 on her head she wears an old bonnet which does 
 not hide her wizened face. There are two 
 pockets in her skirt. She stands rubbing her 
 hands, pinched and blue with the cold.) 
 
 JAKE 
 
 (With his back to the door. He has not seen PHOEBE) 
 Damn you, give me that jug, you two ol fools! Are 
 
WHEN WITCHES RIDE 9 
 
 you goin to waste all the liquor yet? (The others art 
 bending over the jug, paralyzed by the sight of PHOEBE, 
 who advances slowly into the room.) What re you 
 starin at? (He ivheels around, sees PHOEBE, and 
 starts back in amazement.} The witch! 
 
 (There is a dead silence while PHOEBE shivers 
 
 toward the fire.) 
 
 ED 
 
 (Hoarsely) 
 Good Lord! How d she get in? 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 (Cowering in fear) 
 Sure s you re born she s done come through the 
 
 latch-hole ! 
 
 JAKE 
 
 (Hesitating) 
 What you doin here? 
 
 PHOEBE 
 
 (She ignores JAKE and comes down centre. ED 
 and UNCLE BENNY cross to the left as she ad 
 vances, and retreat behind the table in fear. 
 She speaks to an object concealed in her 
 pocket.) 
 
 Sh, now, Gibbie, quit your hoppin . (She takes the 
 toad out of her pocket, shuffles slowly to the right and 
 puts the toad on the end of the bench.) Sh, now, this 
 here s whar you ll leave me rest a bit now, ain t it? 
 Thar now, toad-frog. (She crosses to the right of 
 the table.) Uncle Benny, I se powerful tired. I se 
 
io WHEN WITCHES RIDE 
 
 done come nigh onto ten mile from the river. Leave 
 me rest a spell, me n Gibbie? 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 Sure, now . . . 
 
 JAKE 
 
 (Takes a step forward, menacingly) 
 Get out of here, you damned witch ! 
 
 (Eo and UNCLE BENNY regard his boldness 
 with alarm.) 
 
 PHOEBE 
 
 (Slowly turns to JAKE, watching the effect of 
 her words, which make even JAKE draw back.) 
 Tain t no good luck it ll bring to you, Jake, if you 
 drives me out again into the storm. My spell ll pass 
 on him at harms me, an the sperits ll be drivin him 
 like they drive ol Phoebe. For it s my oP man, the 
 Devil, you ll be reckonin with this time. It s the 
 demons what re ridin in the storm. Them an* Gibbie, 
 they ll be drivin , ain t it so, Gibbie? Drivin , 
 drivin , an never restin twell Gibbie rests! Won t 
 you leave me warm myself a bit, poor ol Phoebe 
 what the sperits has been drivin ? 
 
 ED 
 Don t rile her, Jake, don t rile her. 
 
 JAKE 
 
 (Grudgingly, as he goes to the back of the room) 
 Wai, set down, Phoebe, an warm yourself (Turns 
 
WHEN WITCHES RIDE n 
 
 on her) but you got to ride yourself off presently, you 
 hear me? 
 
 (He comes down toward the table. PHOEBE 
 sits down on the bench, looking very helpless 
 and old.) 
 
 PHOEBE 
 
 Tain t as if I ll ever warm myself again, Jake. 
 Tain t as if I ll ever set again an watch the flames 
 a-snappin an* the sap a-sizzlin in the hickory logs! 
 When my Gibbie starts to hoppin off from me this 
 time, poor ol Phoebe s bliged to go. She ll be gone 
 for good, Jake, an this here s the last time you ll lay 
 your eyes on this poor ol woman, Jake, this here s 
 the last time . . . this here s the last time . . . 
 (Mumbling.) 
 
 JAKE 
 
 What re you talkin about, Phoebe? Are you 
 studyin for to ride off home to hell with your Ol 
 Man, the Devil? 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 (Hoarsely) 
 
 She s goin to ride us all to death, Jake. Don t make 
 her witch us. Leave her be ! 
 
 PHOEBE 
 
 (A loud crash and roll of thunder is heard as 
 the storm increases. The shutter and door 
 rattle loudly in the wind. PHOEBE looks around 
 wildly.) 
 I done hyeard the Black Uns callin in the thunder. 
 
12 WHEN WITCHES RIDE 
 
 (She rises and goes to the window.) The Devil s 
 ridin on the fiery blaze o lightnin an the Black Uns 
 are a-screechin in the wind. (Frenzied.) Oh, 
 they re straddlin on the storm clouds an they re leanin 
 down an stretchin out an callin for ol Phoebe. 
 Don t you hear em, Jake, don t you hear them voices 
 shriekin ? (The wind blows loudly.) Don t you 
 hear them demon claws a-scratchin at the door? 
 They re callin me, ain t they, Gibbie? An when my 
 time s done up, I ll go ridin through the storm clouds 
 an this here s the last time you ll be seein me on this 
 earth. This here s the last time, ain t it, Gibbie? 
 (She mumbles to herself.) 
 
 ED 
 
 Aw, what s she mumblin bout? 
 
 (The candles flare in the draft.) 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 Look ! Look, Jake, we ve got three candles a-burnin 
 an it s a sure sign of death in this place. (Quavering.) 
 Don t let her curse us all by dyin in this place ! 
 
 (He goes to JAKE and seizes him appealingly.) 
 
 JAKE 
 Avr, I ain t no witch doctor ! 
 
 PHOEBE 
 
 Be you feared I ll leave this here ol corpse behind 
 me when I go ? Oh, the Black Uns ll be callin when 
 my time s done over here an 1 the Devil hisself ll take 
 me to be ridin by his side. I ll be ridin on the storm 
 
WHEN WITCHES RIDE 13 
 
 clouds as they thunders through the sky! I ll be ridin 
 off in lightnin an you won t see no trace o Phoebe 
 left behin . . . . Jest a little while . . . jest a little 
 while. . . . 
 
 ED 
 
 (Less frightened) 
 
 Aw, stay an* warm yourself, Phoebe, an* don t mind 
 Jake. He s sort of queer hisself, I reckon. 
 
 ( They watch as PHOEBE pulls the bench nearer 
 to the fire and settles herself, crouched over the 
 warmth. They sit down as far away from her 
 as possible but ED and UNCLE BENNY are still 
 uneasy. Thunder is heard.) 
 
 PHOEBE 
 
 Gibbie, you been a-wrigglin round an hoppin . 
 Don t be signin me to go right yet. Jest leave me set 
 a spell an get a rest an warmin . Set still, Gibbie, 
 set still, set still. . . . 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 (Staring fascinated at the toad) 
 I don t like these here goin s-on, I don t. I don t 
 like that varmint of hers! 
 
 ED 
 
 I sure wish that ol toad would hop off from here 
 an sign the hag she s got to move on. I hope to God 
 this here is the last time for ol Phoebe ! 
 
14 WHEN WITCHES RIDE 
 
 PHOEBE 
 
 (Lies down on the bench) 
 Set still, Gibbie, set still. 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 (Quavering) 
 
 I I don t like to stay in this place, Jake. Tain t 
 no good luck comin from three lights in a room an* 
 I m feared of that varmint. It s a demon, sure. One 
 of us ll be witched if we stays ! Let s us go ! 
 
 JAKE 
 (Shaking off any fears and speaking with studied gruff - 
 
 ness. Rolling thunder is heard.) 
 An* let the screechin devils get you from the clouds I 
 
 ED 
 
 That ol toad makes my flesh crawl. Somethin s 
 goin to happen! 
 
 JAKE 
 
 Aw, come on, boys. I ain t goin to let this here 
 hag an her dirty ol toad spoil my good liquor. I m 
 goin to have a drink. (He fills the jug and pours 
 more whiskey in the mugs. As he goes to the corner 
 to the big jug he looks defiantly at PHOEBE.) She s 
 done gone to sleep as peaceful as you please. (He sits 
 down to drink and the others recover a little.) I ain t 
 goin to let ol Phoebe witch me. I ain t feared of her. 
 
 ED 
 
 (Looking intently at JAKE) 
 They do say as how witches cain t harm them as is 
 
WHEN WITCHES RIDE 15 
 
 like themselves. (Insinuating.) They do say they s 
 men witches, too. 
 
 JAKE 
 
 (Begins to show drunken bravado. He speaks sar 
 castically.) 
 
 Well, now, mebbe I am a witch. I ain t never 
 thought about it before. I never did know jest how to 
 call myself, but mebbe that s jest what I am, a witch. 
 (Laughing, with a swagger at UNCLE BENNY.) You d 
 better look out for me, Benny ! 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 Aw, now, Jake, I ain t never done nothin* agin* you, 
 Jake. Now you know I ain t, Jake. 
 
 ED 
 
 (Half maliciously) 
 
 They do say there s somethin queer when a man 
 ain t a-feared of a witch an her demon. 
 
 JAKE 
 
 Naw, I ain t feared of her. (He takes another drink. 
 All show the effects of the liquor.) An I ll tell you- 
 all what I ll do. I ll go right up to the old hag an 
 snatch that cap right ofFn her head, I will ! 
 (He rises.) 
 
 ED 
 
 They do say she keeps a heap of money in that ol* 
 bonnet o* hers. 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 (He rises) 
 Don t tech her, Jake. Don t rile her. Leave her 
 
16 WHEN WITCHES RIDE 
 
 be. (As JAKE advances to the bench where PHOEBE 
 lies.) Aw, Jake! 
 
 JAKE 
 
 I ll see if this here ol bundle is full o demon witch- 
 spells or jest good money. 
 
 (He puts out his hand toward the cap.) 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 (Jumps up, trembling with horror, as a crash of thun 
 der is heard outside.) 
 
 Don t, Jake! Look at that witch! Look thar! 
 That ain t nothin but her skin layin thar. See how 
 shrivelled tis. Oh, lordy, Jake. She s done already 
 slipped out n her hide an she s ridin through the sky. 
 She left her skin behind ! (With despair.) Oh, lordy, 
 lordy, 
 
 JAKE 
 
 Aw, drat you, Benny. Quit your shriekin*. You ll 
 jump out n your own skin next. This here s Phoebe 
 Ward an all of her, too, (With a swagger} an 
 I ll show you! (Before UNCLE BENNY can stop him 
 he reaches out and lays a finger on PHOEBE S hand. 
 He draws back, awestruck.) Wai, I ll be damned! 
 (Touches her again.) My God, Benny, if she ain t 
 dead! Get a lookin glass, Ed. (ED brings a cracked 
 glass from the mantel shelf. JAKE holds it before 
 PHOEBE S mouth.) Yes, sir, sure s you re born, Phoebe 
 Ward s done blew out. She s had her last ride for 
 sure. 
 
WHEN WITCHES RIDE 17 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 (Wildly entreating) 
 
 Cover her up, Jake. Cover her up! I don t want 
 to see her no more. Them three lights was a sign. 
 Oh, lordy, lordy! 
 
 JAKE 
 (Goes to the door and pulls down the old sheet t throws 
 
 it over PHOEBE) 
 
 Thar, now, that ll do. (He goes to the table and 
 drains his glass.) Here, brace up, all, an have a 
 drink. 
 
 (They drink in silence.) 
 
 ED 
 
 Wai, she s gone. 
 
 JAKE 
 
 Say, you-all, oP Phoebe s dead an I reckon we 
 
 might s well drink her wake right now. Fill up, all. 
 
 (D pours the whiskey while JAKE takes the 
 
 candles from the table and places two at the 
 
 head and one at the feet of the "corpse" 
 
 ED 
 
 (Gulping) 
 Here s you, Jake ! 
 (He drinks.) 
 
 JAKE 
 Here s to ol Phoebe. 
 
 (He drinks, laughing coarsely.) 
 
i8 WHEN WITCHES RIDE 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 Oh, Lord, help us. 
 (He drinks.) 
 
 ED 
 
 This place s gettin cold needs some more wood on 
 the fire. 
 
 (The fire has burned low and the light is dim.) 
 
 JAKE 
 
 Wai, you put it on. 
 
 ED 
 
 (Solemnly) 
 
 I wouldn t go nigh that there witch s corpse, not if 
 her ol cap was plumb full of gold! 
 
 JAKE 
 
 Aw, I d shake hands with her ol man, the Devil 
 hisself, to-night. 
 
 (JAKE gets up and goes around the bench to the 
 woodpile, with his back to the "corpse." 
 PHOEBE sits up, very slowly, and feebly pushes 
 aside the shroud. The thunder is heard above 
 the storm outside. The shutter bangs and the 
 candles are puffed out. JAKE drops his load 
 of wood into the fire and turns toward the 
 bench as he hears the sound behind him. He 
 leans against the side of the fireplace. All 
 stand spellbound, aazing at the witch.) 
 
& c 
 
 .HP -o 
 
 OS 
 
 O, 
 
 CQ 
 
WHEN WITCHES RIDE 19 
 
 PHOEBE 
 
 Uncle Benny, gimme a drap o liquor. It s mighty 
 cold over here. (Shivering, she gets up and shuffles 
 toward the table. ED and UNCLE BENNY retreat in 
 horror.) I m done frizzed clean through . . . jest 
 one little drap . . . before I go! This here s my last 
 time! (She picks up a cup and gulps hurriedly as if 
 fearful that she will be forced to go before it is fin 
 ished.) This here s my last time! 
 
 JAKE 
 
 (Infuriated) 
 
 This here s your last time, is it ? Warn t you dead ? 
 Ain t we done drunk your wake? Ain t it time to 
 bury you now ? You git yourself out n that thar door, 
 Phoebe Ward! You re dead for sure an I m going to 
 bury you now. 
 
 (The storm outside grows fiercer, with the 
 heavy sound of thunder. Flashes of lightning 
 are seen through the window as the shutter 
 swings in the ivind.) 
 
 PHOEBE 
 
 (Menacingly to JAKE) 
 
 You d best to leave me be, Jake! Tain t in your 
 hands to dig a grave whar Phoebe ll lie. Twon t be 
 no good that ll follow him as sees me ride the clouds 
 to-night ! 
 
 JAKE 
 
 (Frenzied, he dashes her aside and strides to the door) 
 You won t ride the clouds no more n I will, you 
 
20 WHEN WITCHES RIDE 
 
 damned witch! You re dead an* it s time you re 
 buried! (He stumbles through the door.) Come on 
 out, or I ll come back an drag you out when I get your 
 grave dug. 
 
 (Vivid lightning is seen through the door as 
 JAKE strides out. Loud crashes of thunder 
 sound near by.) 
 
 PHOEBE 
 
 (Exalted, listening as she moves to the door) 
 Oh, I hear the Black Uns thunderin down the path 
 ways of the sky! I hear em whirlin through the 
 clouds an dartin flames of fire! It s all of hell is 
 risin up to carry me away! (Strong wind and rolling 
 thunder are heard.) Oh, they re screamin out for 
 Phoebe an they re wild to sweep her through the storm 
 with the Devil at her side! Tis the Devil hisself is 
 waitin an he s scorchin up the blackness with the 
 lightnin s of his eyes! (As though in answer to a call 
 from without.) I m comin , I m comin ! I ll be 
 ridin ! I llberidin ! 
 
 (She stands in the open door, facing the room, 
 and a terrific flash of lightning throws her 
 figure into dark silhouette. Then she retreats 
 backward and the door bangs behind her. 
 UNCLE BENNY and ED are left crouching by 
 the table.) 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 She s gone. She ll get Jake. 
 
WHEN WITCHES RIDE 21 
 
 ED 
 
 Oh, Lord, where s her toad ? Where s her sperit ? 
 (There is a wild crack and crash of thunder, 
 the door bangs open and there is another blind 
 ing flash of lightning. JAKE stumbles through 
 the door in terrible fright. His hands are over 
 his eyes, as if he is blinded. He gropes, stum 
 bling, to the table and falls into a seat.) 
 
 JAKE 
 (Stunned) 
 I seen im ! I seen im ! 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 My Lord! 
 
 ED 
 What What was it, Jake? 
 
 JAKE 
 (Wildly) 
 
 I m witched! Oh, I seen all the Black Uns in Hell, 
 I seen the Devil hisself! I seen im, I seen the Ol 
 Man ! The heavens done opened like a blazin , roarin 
 furnace an the storm clouds wrapped ol Phoebe round 
 an snatched her up in fire! An all the clawin 
 demons out n Hell rid roarin past my ears. Oh, 
 they ve blinded me with balls of fire an knocked me to 
 the ground. An the Devil hisself done carried off ol 
 Phoebe for to ride among the witches. I seen im, I 
 done seen im ! 
 
22 WHEN WITCHES RIDE 
 
 ED 
 My God, he seen the Devil! He s witched sure. 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 (Moves back trembling and steps against the toad, 
 which has moved near to the table. He jumps 
 in fright and stares at it in horror. 
 Oh, good Lord, the spell s here I 
 
 ED 
 
 What do you see ? 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 The toad! 
 
 JAKE 
 
 My God! She left her toad ! 
 
 ED 
 It s done moved! It s moved from where she put it. 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 Her spell s passed on Jake. Her demon s witched 
 him! Oh, lordy! 
 
 JAKE 
 
 It s moved, it s moved! (Struggling as with a 
 spell.) Oh, I got to go too. The witch s toad s done 
 got me an I got to go. (Retreating from the toad with 
 his hands to his eyes as before.) I m goin , Gibbie, I m 
 goin , I m goin . . . . 
 
WHEN WITCHES RIDE 23 
 
 (He turns at the door and stumbles out into the 
 night. The door remains open on blackness and 
 a roaring wind blows through the room, leav 
 ing it nearly in darkness as ED and UNCLE 
 BENNY stare at the toad and retreat in horror.) 
 
 ED 
 It done got him ! 
 
 UNCLE BENNY 
 
 The Devil took him! Oh, Lord, help us. Oh, 
 lordy, lordy! 
 
 (Eo and UNCLE BENNY fall on their knees and 
 crouch in abject terror. The sound of thunder 
 is heard rolling in the distance.) 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
PEGGY 1 
 
 A Tragedy of the Tenant Farmer 
 
 BY 
 HAROLD WILLIAMSON 
 
 1 Copyright, 1922, by The Carolina Playmakers, Inc. All rights 
 reserved. Permission to produce this play may be secured by address 
 ing Frederick H. Koch, Director, The Carolina Playmakers, Inc., 
 Chapel Hill, North Carolina. 
 
PEGGY 
 
CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 As originally produced at The Play-House, Chapel 
 Hill, North Carolina, May 30 and 31, 1919. 
 
 WILL WARREN, a tenant farmer, George McF. McKie 
 MAG WARREN, his wife, Elizabeth Taylor 
 
 PEGGY, their daughter, aged 18, Virginia McFadyen 
 HERMAN, their son, aged 6, Nat Henry 
 
 JED, a farm hand, in love with Peggy, 
 
 Harold Williamson 
 
 JOHN McDoNALD, the landowner, George Denny 
 WESLEY McDoNALD, his son, a University student 
 
 George Crawford 
 
 SCENE: A tenant farm in North Carolina. The bare 
 
 living-room of a two-room cabin. 
 TIME: The present. An April evening, about seven 
 
 o clock. 
 
SCENE 
 
 r-rmHE scene is laid in one of the two rooms of a 
 i tenant shack. In the centre of the room is 
 * a square eating-table with an oil-cloth cover. 
 On each side of the table is a straw-bottom chair. A 
 small, worn cook-stove is in the left corner and 
 beside it a wood-box. At the right of the store is a 
 rectangular table on which are a dishpan and other 
 cooking utensils. Against the back wall is a cup 
 board which holds the meagre supply of tableware. 
 On top of it are several paper sacks and pasteboard 
 boxes containing cooking materials. A door in the right 
 side leads from the eating-room into the only other 
 room of the shack, used as a sleeping-room. A door at 
 the back on the left leads outdoors. Through this 
 doorway can be seen a crude string lattice-work partly 
 covered by a growing vine, and a shelf supporting a 
 bucket and gourd. A small window is at the right in 
 the back wall. The floor and walls are bare. Every 
 thing has a fairly neat appearance but suggests the 
 struggle against a degrading poverty. 
 
 As the curtain rises MAG WARREN is busily pre 
 paring supper, singing as she works. HERMAN is sit 
 ting on the floor tying a piece of rope to the end of a 
 broom handle. 
 
30 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 MAG WARREN is a thin, bent, overworked woman of 
 forty-two. Her face reveals the strain of years of 
 drudgery. Her thin hair is drawn tightly into a knot 
 on the back of her head. She wears a cheap calico dress 
 and a faded checkered apron. In the pocket of her 
 apron is a large snuff can. A protruding snuff-brush 
 claims the right corner of her mouth?- . She beats up a 
 
 Mag s Song 
 
 &{-;. 1 . 
 
 
 fEfigB L^ 
 
 A rich 
 Three years 
 
 -ICT -4 a 1 
 
 man lay on his 
 rolled by and the 
 
 -t -i u n L f j f 
 
 vel . vet couch, He ate from plates _ of 
 rich man died, He de . scend - ed to fiery 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 gold; 
 
 A 
 
 poor 
 
 girl 
 
 stood 
 
 on 
 
 the 
 
 
 hell, 
 
 The 
 
 poor 
 
 girl 
 
 lay 
 
 ia 
 
 the 
 
 
 
 > 
 
 mar. ble steps, And said, "So cold, so cold"_ 
 an- gel s arms, And sighed, U A1& well, alls welL L. 
 
 1 The habit of "dipping snuff" is common among the poor whites 
 m all sections of North Carolina. A twig is chewed into shreds at 
 one end and is known as a snuff-stick or "tooth-brush." This is dipped 
 
PEGGY 31 
 
 batter of cornbread, pours It into a pan on the stove, 
 and after pouring some water into a large coffee-pot, 
 she begins to slice some "fatback" * 
 
 Herman is an under-sized boy of six years with a 
 vacant expression on his pinched face. He wears a 
 faded shirt, and a lone suspender over his right shoulder 
 gives scanty support for his patched pants, which strike 
 him midway between the knee and the ankle. He is 
 barefooted. When he finishes fixing his "horse" he 
 gets up, straddles the stick, and trots over all the unoc 
 cupied part of the room. 
 
 HERMAN 
 
 Git up, Kit ... whoa ... ha. (Whipping the 
 stick.) What s the matter? Cain t you plow 
 straight ? 
 
 (In his trotting he runs into MAG at the stove. 
 She turns on him angrily.) 
 
 MAG 
 
 Git out n my way an git over thar in the corner. 
 (Utterly subdued, HERMAN goes and sits in the corner 
 while MAG goes on with her work. Presently she 
 turns to him.) Go git me a turn o wood, an don t 
 you take all day about it neither. 
 
 (HERMAN goes out. MAG continues to sing, 
 moving about between the table, stove, and cup- 
 
 into the powdered snuff and then rubbed over the gums and teeth. 
 The women seem to get much satisfaction from this practice. 
 
 i "Fatback" is fat salt pork which, together with cornbread, forms 
 the main part of the diet of "hog and hominy" eaten by poor whites 
 the year round. 
 
32 PEGGY 
 
 board as she prepares the meal. JED SMITH 
 enters. He is a tall, lanky, uncanny-looking 
 fellow of twenty-four. He is dressed in the 
 shabby shirt and faded blue overalls of an 
 ordinary poor farm-labortr. He walks in 
 slowly and lazily and says nothing. As he 
 goes to the table MAG looks up at him from her 
 work.) 
 
 MAG 
 
 I thought you was Will, Jed. (She continues her 
 work.) Seen anything o Pegg? Hit s a-gittin 
 mighty high time she s back here. 
 
 JED 
 (Pulls out a chair from the table, flops down in it, and 
 
 begins whittling on a stick) 
 That s what I come to see you about, Mag. 
 
 MAG 
 
 (Stopping her work and looking around at JED) 
 Ain t nothin happened, air there, Jed? 
 
 JED 
 
 Nothin to git skeered about, but ol man McDon 
 ald s boy come in from one o them air colleges th 
 other day an I jest seen Pegg down yonder a-talkin 
 to him an a-lookin at him mighty sweet-like. Tain t 
 the fust time neither. 
 
PEGGY 33 
 
 MAG 
 
 (Goes up nearer to JED) 
 So that s what s been a-keepin her ? 
 
 JED 
 
 Yeah, an if you don t watch out, Mag, there s a 
 tale goin to git out an ol man McDonald ll drive you 
 off n the place. 
 
 MAG 
 
 You re right, Jed. Jest wait till me an her pa gits 
 through with her. We ll put a stop to it. 
 
 JED 
 
 (Nervously) 
 Now don t go an tell her I told you, Mag. 
 
 MAG 
 
 You needn t be skeered. I been a-thinkin as much 
 myself. She s been powerful uppity lately, but I didn t 
 know what about. Her pa s allus said that perty face 
 o hern would be the ruinin of her. Don t you know 
 Wes McDonald wouldn t be a-havin* nothin* to do 
 with Pegg lessen she was perty? 
 
 JED 
 
 Naw. 
 
 MAG 
 
 She s clear out n his class an ain t got sense enough 
 to know it. (She turns the corn cake in the pan.) An 
 it s a perty way she s a-doin you, Jed. 
 
34 PEGGY 
 
 JED 
 
 (Drearily) 
 Yeah, I reckon she ain t likin* me no more. 
 
 (HERMAN returns with the wood and throws 
 it in the box.) 
 
 MAG 
 Ain t she said she d marry you ? 
 
 JED 
 
 Aw, she did onc t. 
 
 MAG 
 
 An* you re a good match for her, too. Will s a-been 
 a-sayin how good you are at the plow. 
 
 JED 
 I d shore like to have her, Mag. 
 
 MAG 
 
 Well, if you want her you can git her, Jed. She s 
 done a right smart o washin an a-cookin an* a-hoein* 
 in her day an I reckon she ll make you a good woman. 
 
 JED 
 I ain t a-worryin* about that. 
 
 MAG 
 
 (Looking out of the window) 
 Yonder she comes now. Ain t no tellin what fool 
 notions that boy has been a-puttin in her head, but 
 you jest wait till me an her pa gits through with her. 
 
PEGGY 35 
 
 JED 
 
 (Rising nervously) 
 Reckon I ll be a-goin now, Mag. 
 
 MAG 
 
 Ain t you goin* to wait an see Pegg? Pears like 
 you d be a-pushin yourself. 
 
 JED 
 Naw, I . . .I ll come back after I eat. 
 
 MAG 
 
 Well, you come back. Me an her pa ll have her in 
 a notion then. 
 
 HERMAN 
 
 (Stops JED as he is going out) 
 Gimme some terbaccer, Jed. 
 
 JED 
 
 (Feels in his pockets) 
 I ain t got none, Herman. 
 (He goes out.) 
 
 MAG 
 
 What d I tell you about axin folks for terbaccer? 
 When you want terbaccer ax your pa for it. 
 
 HERMAN 
 He won t gimme none. 
 
 MAG 
 
 Well, it don t make no odds. You don t do nothin 
 but waste it nohow. 
 
36 PEGGY 
 
 (HERMAN sits down on the floor to the front 
 and begins to play aimlessly. 
 
 PEGGY comes in, flushed and happy. She is a 
 pretty girl of eighteen years. She has attractive 
 features, is of medium height, slim and lively. 
 Her hair is light and becomingly disheveled. 
 Her dress is extremely simple but shows signs 
 of care.) 
 
 PEGGY 
 Supper ready, ma? 
 
 MAG 
 
 Cain t you see it ain t? Why ain t you been here 
 long ago a-helpin me to git supper ? 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 (Putting the milk bucket she has brought in 
 with her on the table, she goes over to the left 
 to hang up her bonnet.) 
 I couldn t finish milkin no sooner. 
 
 MAG 
 
 You needn t tell me you been a-milkin all this time. 
 Where you been anyhow? 
 
 PEGGY 
 I stopped to help Lizzie Taylor hang out her wash. 
 
 MAG 
 Been anywheres else? 
 
PEGGY 37 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 No m. 
 
 MAG 
 
 Well, git busy a-fixin that table, an tell me what 
 fool notions Wes McDonald s been a-puttin into your 
 head. 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 (She tries to look surprised) 
 I don t know nothin bout Wes McDonald, ma. 
 
 MAG 
 
 Don t you lie to your ma like that, Pegg. You think 
 I don t know nothin bout it, but you cain t fool your 
 ma. He s been a-settin up to you, ain t he ? 
 
 PEGGY 
 No, ma, he ain t said nothin to me, he ... 
 
 MAG 
 
 Now be keerf ul. 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 He jest spoke to me, an I jest axed him how he 
 liked to go off to school an he said he liked it an he 
 axed me why I wasn t goin to school an I told him 
 I had to work. 
 
 MAG 
 Didn t he say nothin bout your bein perty? 
 
38 PEGGY 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 (Proudly) 
 
 Yes, he said I was perty. Said if I had book-learnin 
 an* lived uptown I d be the pick o the whole bunch. 
 
 MAG 
 
 That s what I was a-thinkin he d be a-puttin into 
 your head. You keep out n Wes McDonald s way. 
 He ain t a-keerin nothin for you and besides he ll git 
 you into trouble. Wait till your pa hears o this. 
 
 (There is a silence while MAG goes on with 
 her work.) 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 (Looking out of the window, wistfully) 
 I reckon it d be nice to go to school. 
 
 MAG 
 
 Mebbe it is. If you d a-been rich, schoolin might 
 a-done you some good, but you ain t rich an schoolin s 
 only for them as is rich. Me an your pa never had no 
 schoolin , and I reckon you can git along thout any 
 yourself. (She goes to the door and looks off anxiously 
 across the fields.) Hit s high time your pa was a-gittin 
 home. 
 
 HERMAN 
 
 I d like to see pa myself. Want some terbaccer. 
 
 MAG 
 
 (Comes to the front. Solemnly) 
 I been mighty skeered bout your pa ever since the 
 doctor told him he had that air misery round his heart. 
 
PEGGY 39 
 
 PEGGY 
 Did he say twas dangerous? 
 
 MAG 
 
 (Going back to the stove) 
 
 Well, he said your pa was liable to keel over most 
 any time if he ain t mighty keerful. Ol man McDon 
 ald s got him down yonder in that air new ground 
 a-bustin roots an it ain t a-doin* your pa no good 
 neither. 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 I jest seen pa an Mr. McDonald a-talkin together 
 an 1 both of em was mighty mad about somethin . 
 
 MAG 
 
 I reckon your pa struck him for a raise, an he ought 
 to have it. A dollar an a quarter a day ain t enough, 
 workin like your pa does, but oP man McDonald d 
 see your pa clear to hell afore he d pay him a cent 
 more. (She goes to the door, takes the snuff-brush 
 from her mouth and spits out the snuff. She puts the 
 snuff-brush in her pocket, takes a drink of water from 
 the gourd and washes her mouth out with it, spitting 
 out the water. She speaks to PEGGY as she turns back 
 to the stove.) There s them cabbages your pa told you 
 to hoe an you ain t done it, have you? 
 
 PEGGY 
 No, ma, I ain t had time. 
 
40 PEGGY 
 
 MAO 
 
 You had a-plenty o time to let Wes McDonald put 
 a lot o fool notions in your head. You ll have a 
 perty time a-tellin your pa you ain t had time. ( There 
 is a pause.) Jed said as how he might come around 
 after he s eat. Hit s a perty way you been a-treatin 
 Jed an he ain t a-likin it neither. 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 I don t care if he likes it or not. Tain t none o 
 his business. 
 
 MAG 
 
 Hit ain t? Ain t you done told him you was a-goin 
 to marry him ? 
 
 PEGGY 
 I might have onc t, but I ve changed my mind. 
 
 MAG 
 
 (Angrily) 
 What s come over you anyhow? 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 Nothin , ma. 
 
 MAG 
 
 Well, I d like to know what you think you re a-goin 
 to do? Tain t every man a woman can git, an you 
 ought to thank the Lord Jed s given you the chanct. 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 I ain t a-wantin it. I ain t a-goin to marry Jed an 
 have to work like a dog all my life besides, I got to 
 love the man I marr?. 
 
PEGGY 41 
 
 MAG 
 
 (Scornfully) 
 
 Love? What s love got to do with your bread an 
 meat? You been a-readin some o them magazines as 
 they git down at the house. I d like to know what 
 you think you re goin to do? 
 
 PEGGY 
 (Resolved) 
 I m goin to git me a job up town an be somebody ! 
 
 MAG 
 
 There ain t nothin you could do there. You was 
 raised on a farm, an I reckon that s jest about the 
 place for you. You don t think you re better n your 
 ma, do you ? 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 No, ma, but I could git me a job in the Five an 
 Ten Cent Store. Mary Cameron s got her a job there, 
 an she s a-wearin fine clothes an got a lot o fellows. 
 
 MAG 
 
 Yes, an there s a lot a-bein said as to how she got 
 them clothes. I tell you, me an your pa ain t a-goin to 
 have nothin like that. 
 
 PEGGY 
 But, ma, I 
 
 MAG 
 
 Shet up. You behave yourself like you ought to. 
 before Jed. If you don t, you better. 
 
42 PEGGY 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 I ll treat him all right but I ain t a-goin* to marry 
 him. 
 
 MAG 
 Me an your pa ll say if you will or not, an* 
 
 PEGGY 
 The bread s a-burnin , ma! 
 
 MAG 
 
 (Running quickly across the room she jerks the bread 
 off the stove and dumps it into a pan on the table) 
 Good Lord, now don t that beat you? An 1 there 
 
 ain t no more meal. (She looks out of the door.) 
 
 Yonder comes your pa, too. Hurry up an* git that 
 
 table laid while I git a bucket o* water. 
 
 (She takes the pail and hurries off. 
 
 WILL WARREN comes in heavily. He is a 
 slouchy, hump-shouldered man of fifty years. 
 His hair is long and his face unshaven. He 
 wears an old, dirty, sweat-ridden black hat with 
 a shaggy brim; a faded blue denim shirt; brown 
 corduroy pants, worn slick, attached to a large 
 pair of suspenders by nails; and brogan shoes 
 with heavy gray socks falling over the top. He 
 drags himself in and stands propped against the 
 side of the door. His face is white and he 
 appears entirely exhausted.) 
 
PEGGY 43 
 
 HERMAN 
 
 (Going up to WILL) 
 
 Gimme some terbaccer, pa. (WiLL pays no atten 
 tion to him.) Pa, gimme some terbaccer. 
 
 WILL 
 ( Giving HERMAN a slap on the face that sends him to 
 
 the floor) 
 Git to hell away from me. 
 
 (He comes into the room slowly and unsteadily^ 
 pulls off his hat and throws it into the corner, 
 and falls into a chair by the table, breathing 
 heavily and staring blankly. He says nothing.) 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 (She notices WILL S heavy breathing and is alarmed.) 
 What s the matter, pa, ain t you feelin well? 
 
 WILL 
 
 (Struggling for breath) 
 Gimme . . . some coffee . "~. . quick! 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 (Quickly pouring a cup of coffee and giving it to him. 
 He gulps it down and appears considerably relieved) 
 You ain t sick, air you, pa? 
 
 WILL 
 
 Naw. . . . It s another one o* them durned 
 miseries round my heart. (He gulps the coffee.) I 
 ain t a-goin to work another day in that durned new 
 
44 PEGGY 
 
 ground. I told McDonald I wouldn t an damned if 
 I do. 
 
 MAG 
 
 (Who has now come back, and has overheard his 
 
 words) 
 
 I don t blame you for sayin so, but there ain t no use 
 in flyin ofFn the handle like that. 
 
 WILL 
 
 Well, I said it an I ll do it. These here money men 
 like McDonald think as how they can work a poor 
 man like me to death an pay me nothin for it neither, 
 but durned if I don t show him. 
 
 MAG 
 
 What d he say when you axed him for a raise? 
 
 WILL 
 
 Aw, he said he was a-losin money every year. He 
 allus says that. Says he ain t a-raisin enough to pay 
 for the growin of it, but don t you reckon I know how 
 much he s a raisin ? He s a-gittin thirty cents a pound 
 for his cotton an two dollars a bushel for his corn, an 
 then he says he ain t a-makin nothin . He cain t lie 
 to me, he s a-gittin rich. 
 
 MAG 
 
 Course he is. Ain t he jest bought another one o* 
 them automobiles th other day? 
 
PEGGY 45 
 
 WILL 
 
 Yeah, an while him an that no count boy o* his n 
 are a-ridin around in it I m down yonder in that air 
 new ground a-gittin a dollar an a quarter a day for 
 killin myself over them durned roots. Jest afore 
 quittin time I come mighty nigh givin out. 
 
 MAG 
 
 (She brings the cornbread and "jatback" and puts It on 
 the table. PEGGY busies herself at the 
 
 table and cupboard) 
 
 You better take keer o yourself. You know what 
 the doctor told you. 
 
 WILL 
 
 Yeah, but how in the devil can I help it like things 
 are now? I told him what s what a while ago, an 
 damned if I don t stick to it too. (He looks over the 
 table.) What you got for supper? (Seeing the burnt 
 bread, he picks it up and hurls it to the floor.) What 
 kind o durned cookin do you call this you re doin , 
 anyway ? 
 
 MAG 
 
 It wouldn t a-happened if Pegg hadn t been a-pes- 
 
 WILL 
 
 (Angrily to PEGGY) 
 Well, what you been a-doin ? 
 
 PEGGY 
 Nothin , pa. 
 
46 PEGGY 
 
 MAG 
 
 In the fust place, you told her to hoe them cabbages. 
 
 WILL 
 Ain t you done it? 
 
 MAG 
 
 No, she ain t done it, but she s been down yonder 
 a-lettin Wes McDonald put a lot o fool notions into 
 her head about her bein perty, an now she says she 
 ain t a-going to marry Jed. 
 
 WILL 
 
 (Savagely to PEGGY) 
 You ain t, air you ? 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 (Half crying but defiant) 
 
 No, pa, I ain t. I ve seen you an ma a-workin* from 
 sun-up to sun-down like niggers an* jest a-makin 
 enough to keep us out n the poor house, an I ain t 
 a-going to live no sich life with Jed. He couldn t do 
 no better. 
 
 WILL 
 Well, durn your hide . , . 
 
 MAG 
 
 An* she says she ll git her a job up-town like Mary 
 Cameron s got. You know what s a-bein said about 
 Mary! (To PEGGY.) Don t you know we ain t 
 a-goin* to have nothin like that? 
 
 (She shakes her finger at PEGGY.) 
 
PEGGY 47 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 But, ma, I ... 
 
 WILL 
 
 Shet up. We ve raised you up here an* it s us as ll 
 say what you ll do. Jed axed you to marry him an 
 durn it, you ll do it, too. 
 
 PEGGY 
 I won t. 
 
 WILL 
 
 (Rising from the chair) 
 
 You won t? Don t you let me hear you say that 
 agin. 
 
 PEGGY 
 (Wildly) 
 I won t, I won t, I won t! 
 
 WILL 
 
 (In uncontrolled rage) 
 
 Then, damn you, you can git right out n this house 
 right now an ... 
 
 MAO 
 
 Hush, Will, hush. 
 
 WILL 
 
 (Breathing heavily and struggling in his speech) 
 An* don t you ... let ... me ever . . . see you 
 . . . agin . . . 
 
 (Clutching his hands to his heart, he gasps, 
 staggers backward, then falls heavily to the 
 
48 PEGGY 
 
 floor. The women stand stunned for a moment, 
 then MAG rushes over, kneels by him, and 
 shakes him.) 
 
 MAG 
 
 Will, Will, . . . answer me, Will, . . . say some- 
 thin . (Turning to PEGGY, who has not moved, and 
 speaking dully.) Lord, Pegg, he s dead, . . . your 
 pa s dead . . . he s gone. Send for somebody . . . 
 quick ! 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 (Excitedly to HERMAN) 
 
 Run tell Mister McDonald to come here quick. 
 He s down at the house. Go git him quick.! (HER 
 MAN runs out. MAG, shaking with sobs, crouches over 
 the body. Her head is buried in her apron. PEGGY 
 tries to comfort her mother.) Don t carry on like that, 
 ma. It ain t a-doin no good. (Hopefully.) Mebbe 
 he ain t dead. 
 
 MAG 
 
 Yes, he is. He s gone. . . . Oh, Lord ... I 
 knowed it d git him. 
 
 (JED appears at the door and stands stupefied 
 for a moment.) 
 
 JED 
 
 (Coming into the room) 
 
 What s the matter? (Going nearer to the body.) 
 What s the matter with Will ? 
 
PEGGY 49 
 
 MAG 
 He s gone, Jed, he s gone. O Lord! 
 
 JED 
 He ain t dead, is he? Who done it? 
 
 (JED kneels over the body and examines it for 
 signs of life. MAG rises slowly, shuffles to a 
 chair on the other side of the table and sits 
 sobbing.) 
 
 PEGGY 
 (Appealing) 
 Is he dead, Jed, is he dead? 
 
 JED 
 
 I don t know. Git some camphor, quick. 
 
 (PEGGY runs into the other room for the 
 camphor bottle. 
 
 JOHN McDoNALD enters, followed by his 
 son, WESLEY. The farm-owner is a tall, pros 
 perous-looking man of forty-eight. He has a 
 hard face and stern, overbearing manner. 
 
 WESLEY is a rather handsome young fellow 
 of twenty-one, a typical well-dressed college 
 boy.) 
 
 McDoNALD 
 
 (To JED, taking in the scene at a glance) 
 What s the matter? Is he dead? 
 
50 PEGGY 
 
 JED 
 (Rising) 
 
 I believe he is, Mister McDonald. 
 
 MCDONALD 
 How did it happen ? 
 
 JED 
 
 I don t know. 
 
 MAG 
 (Sobbing) 
 
 He s gone, Mister McDonald, he s gone. ... He 
 had another one of them fits with his heart jest like 
 the doctor said he would, an* he went all of a sudden 
 afore I knowed it. 
 
 MCDONALD 
 
 (Examining the body) 
 
 Well, he s dead all right, sure. (Peggy runs in 
 with the camphor bottle.) That s no use, he s dead. 
 Jed, let s put him on the bed in the other room. 
 
 (They carry the body off the stage, MAG 
 following. ) 
 
 WESLEY 
 
 I m awfully sorry, Peggy. Tell me how it hap 
 pened. 
 
 PEGGY 
 (Crying) 
 
 He got mad with me because I said I wouldn t marry 
 Jed, an he jest got madder an madder an told me to 
 
PEGGY 51 
 
 leave an* never come back. An 1 then he put his hands 
 up to his heart like this, an fell over. 
 
 WESLEY 
 Did he have heart trouble? 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 Yeah, I reckon so. He s been a-havin pains in his 
 side, an a-chokin for wind, an the doctor said he d 
 have to be keerful. 
 
 WESLEY 
 And he wanted you to marry Jed ? 
 
 PEGGY 
 Yeah, he said I d have to. 
 
 WESLEY 
 
 ( Under standingly ) 
 And you didn t want to? 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 No, if I married him I d have to work like a dog 
 all my life, an I ain t a-goin to do it. 
 
 WESLEY 
 
 I don t blame you, Peggy, but what are you going 
 to do? 
 
 PEGGY 
 I m goin to git me a job up-town. 
 
52 PEGGY 
 
 WESLEY 
 
 You mustn t go there, Peggy. You couldn t get 
 along there. 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 (Looking to him wistfully) 
 Well, what can I do ? 
 
 WESLEY 
 (Thoughtfully) 
 
 I don t know. ... I guess you d better marry Jed. 
 ( There is a pause. PEGGY goes over to the window 
 and looks out hopelessly.) If everything was dif 
 ferent I d ... Oh, I didn t mean that. You see such 
 a thing would be impossible. 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 (Turning to him, hopefully) 
 But I could . . . 
 
 WESLEY 
 
 Stop, Peggy. ... I think a lot of you but don t 
 you see I couldn t do more? It s impossible. Don t 
 cry that way, Peggy. I m sorry I said what I did this 
 afternoon. I didn t mean to upset you like this. Go 
 on and marry Jed. He s all right and I ll see that he 
 gets a good showing. 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 (Desperately) 
 
 But I don t want to. I know how it ll turn out. 
 (McDoNALD and JED return, followed by 
 MAG.) 
 
PEGGY 53 
 
 MAG 
 
 (Without hope) 
 What s a-goin to come of us now ? 
 
 MCDONALD 
 (Brusquely) 
 I don t know, Mag. 
 
 MAG 
 
 You ain t a-goin to make us leave, air you? 
 
 McDONALD 
 
 Let s not talk about that now. 
 
 MAG 
 
 But tell me, Mister McDonald, will we have to 
 leave ? 
 
 McDONALD 
 
 (Impatient) 
 
 Well, if you just must know right now, Mag, I m 
 sorry to say it, but I don t see how I can keep you here. 
 
 MAG 
 
 (Imploring him) 
 For God s sake don t make us leave the place! 
 
 McDONALD 
 
 Now don t get foolish, Mag. You see it s a busi 
 ness proposition with me. With Will gone there s 
 nothing you and your family could do on the farm that 
 
54 PEGGY 
 
 would pay me to keep you here. It s the man I need, 
 especially now when .there is so much plowing to be 
 done, and as soon as I can I will have to get another 
 man to take Will s place. Of course he will have to 
 live in this house. 
 
 MAG 
 
 (Resentful) 
 
 After Will has worked for you steady for sixteen 
 year you ain t a-goin to turn me out now, air you ? 
 
 Me DONALD 
 
 I m sorry if you look at it in that way, Mag, but 
 business is business, and I can t afford to keep you here. 
 
 MAG 
 
 But, Mister McDonald, we ain t got nowhere else 
 to go ... an we d starve to death. 
 (She turns away sobbing.) 
 
 MCDONALD 
 
 You ought to be thankful for what I ve done for 
 Will. He was about the sorriest hand I ever had. 
 There s absolutely nothing you can do. I can t keep 
 you. 
 
 WESLEY 
 But, father, you can t turn them away like this. 
 
 MCDONALD 
 
 It s time you were learning that business is not a 
 charitable institution, Wesley. I m trying to run a 
 farm, not a hard-luck asylum. 
 
PEGGY 55 
 
 JED 
 Mister McDonald, let me see you a minute. 
 
 (He goes over and whispers to McDoNALD.) 
 
 McDoNALD 
 
 (To JED) 
 
 Well, if you do that everything will be all right! 
 (PEGGY looks up hopefully. He turns to MAG.) Jed 
 has just said that if Peggy would marry him he will 
 let you and the boy stay here in the house with them. 
 If you want to do that it will be all right with me. 
 
 (PEGGY, disheartened, sits down by the table 
 and buries her head in her arms, crying.} 
 
 MAG 
 
 You ll marry Jed, won t you, Pegg? You ll do it 
 for your ma, won t you ? 
 
 McDoNALD 
 
 Well, I ll leave that for you to decide. You can let 
 me know later. (Going to the door.) Come, Wesley. 
 I ll send to town for something to put him in, and Jed 
 can get help to dig the grave. If you want anything, 
 let me know. 
 
 (McDoNALD and WESLEY go out. WESLEY 
 hesitates in the door a moment, looking with 
 sympathy at PEGGY). 
 
 JED 
 
 (He goes slowly and uneasily over to PEGGY) 
 You ain t a-goin to turn me down, air you, Peggy? 
 
56 PEGGY 
 
 MAG 
 
 {Imploring) 
 
 You ll marry Jed, won t you, Pegg? You ain t 
 a-goin to see your ol ma go to the poorhouse, air you, 
 Pegg? 
 
 PEGGY 
 
 (After a moment of silence she raises her head and 
 
 speaks in broken sobs) 
 I reckon . . . it s the only way ... for me. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
DOD CAST YE BOTH! 
 
 A Comedy of Mountain Moonshiners 
 
 BY 
 HUBERT C. HEFFNER 
 
 i Copyright, 1922, by The Carolina Playmakers, Inc. All rights 
 reserved. Permission to produce this play may be secured by address 
 ing Frederick H. Koch, Director, The Carolina Playmakers, Inc., 
 Chapel Hill, North Carolina. 
 
"DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 
 
CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 As originally produced at The Play-House, Chapel 
 Hill, North Carolina, April 30 and May I, 1920. 
 
 NOAH SETZER, a mountain moonshiner, George Denny 
 WALT, his son, an ex-member of the A.E.F., 
 
 Wilbur Stout 
 
 MARY, his daughter, lone Markham 
 
 BILL SPIVINS, a rough mountaineer, Bergin Lohr 
 
 MosE,l frequenters of the still and ( Chester Burton 
 SANK,J bootleggers for Noah 1 Hubert Heffner 
 LAURENCE ABNER, a "revenoor," George Crawford 
 
 SCENE: A dense thicket in the mountains of North 
 Carolina. 
 
 TIME: Four o clock in the morning. The spring 
 of 1919. 
 
SCENE 
 
 A TYPICAL mountain moonshiner s retreat in 
 
 m a remote cove in the mountains of western 
 "* North Carolina. 
 
 The whole scene is hedged in on all sides by a thicket 
 of tall rhododendron. At the back runs a small, trick 
 ling brook which supplies the water for distilling pur 
 poses. On the left is the still proper, to the right at 
 the rear, the mash tub. Boards are nailed between 
 some of the trees to form rough benches. Near the 
 front of the stage three modern, high-powered rifles 
 are stacked against a tree. The ground immediately 
 around the still shows signs of much tramping. 
 
 When the curtain rises WALT is discovered, stand 
 ing by the mash tub, leaning idly on his paddle and 
 smoking a cigarette. SANK is stretched out on a bench 
 at the right, fast asleep and snoring loudly. MOSE 
 sprawls on the ground near the still, smoking an old 
 cob pipe. 
 
 MOSE is a heavy-set, rough mountaineer. He is 
 dressed in a blue shirt, patched coat, and dirty khaki 
 pants, stuffed into heavy laced boots. There is almost 
 a week s growth of stubby beard on his face. 
 
 SANK is a thin, shriveled old man of about sixty 
 years, so bent as to appear little. He is dressed in 
 dirty khaki trousers, blue shirt, worn coat and heavy 
 shoes, with blue knit socks hanging down over his shoe- 
 tops. His beard is very scant thin as is his shrill 
 effeminate voice. 
 
 61 
 
62 "DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 
 
 WALT is a lank, lazy-looking fellow of about 
 twenty-two. An ex-member of the A. E. F. f he still 
 wears his overseas cap and military breeches. 
 
 WALT 
 
 (Looking at his heavy turnip watch) 
 Bout four o clock. Soon be through. So the cops 
 give ye a hard run of it, did they, Mose ? 
 (He stirs the mash.) 
 
 MOSE 
 
 Yeah, since that thar pro-ser-ser-bition . . . they re 
 gittin tighter n a rum jug. I used to could take a run 
 o brandy to Lenore an measure hit out right on the 
 streets, but ye can t do it no more. 
 
 WALT 
 
 Guess ye took the preachers their half o gallon per, 
 all right, did ye? 
 
 MOSE 
 (Speaking with a drawl, between the puffs of his pipe) 
 
 Yeah, ever sanctified one of em. They can t 
 preach their hell fire and brimstone sermonts if they 
 ain t got their fiery spirits. Hit s about time th 
 ol man was comin back. He s had time to send in 
 the watchers, an he seemed to be so anxious to finish up 
 an go home. Ye d better git to stirrin that mash. 
 
 WALT 
 
 (Smoking idly) 
 
 Oh, well. Mary ll meet th ol man if she went by 
 the back way. What ye reckon she came fer, anyway, 
 
"DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 63 
 
 Mose? Tain t nothin here she wanted this time o 
 night, an* she didn t git nothin . 
 
 MOSE 
 
 Dunno. (He puffs his pipe a moment.) Walt, 
 since that revenoor is come in these parts, I don t like 
 fer yer oP man to send in the watchers like he allus 
 does afore we git the run off. 
 
 WALT 
 
 Oh, well, but I don t reckon thar s any danger. 
 He s been at it fer bout forty year an hain t got took 
 yit. I ll say sumpin to him about it afore long. 
 
 MOSE 
 
 Ye d better not to-night. Th oP man s mad as a 
 hornet to-night. Ever thing s gone wrong an he s 
 a-bilin over. 
 
 WALT 
 
 Ye needn t worry. I know th oP man better n 
 that. (There is a sound of heavy footsteps outside as 
 NOAH stumbles in the thicket and mutters an oath.) 
 That s him comin now. Don t ye say a word bout 
 Mary s bein here, hear? 
 
 MOSE 
 
 Yeah, but some o these nights he s goin* t send in 
 his watchers too early fer th last time. 
 
 WALT 
 
 Don t reckon so, but if n he does then au re-war! 
 (The sound of tramping draws nearer and 
 
64 "DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 
 
 NOAH stamps heavily in. He is a stocky moun 
 taineer, sixty-five years of age heavy-set, ac 
 tive and muscular. He wears dirty breeches, 
 stained with mash, rough laced boots, a worn 
 hunter s coat and blue shirt. His bushy gray 
 hair sticks through the torn crown of the old 
 hat which he wears jammed down on his head. 
 His face is covered with a stubby gray beard. 
 He looks crabbed and sullen. 
 
 SANK snores on. MOSE smokes in silence. 
 As NOAH enters, WALT stirs the mash indus 
 triously, but he stops and leans lazily on his 
 paddle as the old man goes to the still and 
 begins fussing with the fire, muttering to him 
 self. NOAH glares at him several times, then 
 bursts out.) 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Walt, durn yer lazy hide! Stir that mash an git 
 a move on ye. 
 
 WALT 
 
 Oui, oui, mess-sure. But, pa, what ye want t rush 
 so fer? I ll git this mash ready toot-sweet, fore ye re 
 ready fer it. 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Stop yer durn toot-sweetin an* git t work. How 
 the devil d ye spect to git this run done fore mornin 
 if ye ain t a-goin to work! 
 
 (NoAH continues to work at the still. WALT 
 stirs the mash for a few moments and then 
 leans idly on his paddle once more. 
 
"DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 65 
 
 MOSE 
 
 (Still sprawling on the ground) 
 T other night, like I was a-tellin ye, Walt, when I 
 was comin back from takin that run o brandy down 
 to Lenore, I heared that man Abner had been kind o 
 hangin roun yer sis Mary. 
 
 WALT 
 
 Who tol ye that? (He pokes his mash paddle at 
 SANK S nose.) Wake up thar, Sank! Fall out! 
 
 (WALT laughs. SANK sleepily strikes at the 
 paddle and begins to yawn and stretch.) 
 
 MOSE 
 
 I heared it down to Patterson when I was a-comin* 
 back, but I disrecollec who tol it. 
 
 WALT 
 Pertite madamerzelle! D ye hear that, pa? 
 
 (NoAH works on, sullenly refusing to answer. 
 SANK is now sufficiently awake to catch the last 
 remark.) 
 
 SANK 
 Hear what, Walt? Hear what, ye say? 
 
 MOSE 
 
 Hear that Mary s been a-carryin on with that 
 Abner. Ye hyeard it. 
 
 SANK 
 
 Yes, Walt, that s right, so tis, so tis. I heared 
 Jinkins, the Post Office man, down to Patterson say, 
 
66 "DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 
 
 says he, that this here Abner was a revenooer fer he got 
 letters from the givermint, so he did an that he s 
 a carryin on with Mary, so he was. 
 
 NOAH 
 (Unable to remain silent any longer, turns and glares 
 
 at SANK) 
 That s a ding-busted lie! 
 
 WALT 
 No, tain t, pa. I seed Mary talkin to im. 
 
 NOAH 
 Then why in hell didn t ye ... 
 
 WALT 
 
 Twon t do, pa. I thought about it, but I larned 
 when they took me to camp that it was beaucoo hell to 
 pay fer gittin one o his kind. Then over thar in 
 France one time . . . 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Dad-durn France! Hit don t make a dang what ye 
 larned in France. Hit s a-goin down the Ridge thar 
 that this here Abner is a revenooer. 
 
 WALT 
 
 Parlay voo! How d ye git like that, pa? (NoAH 
 again turns to his work in surly silence.) Say, pa, 
 air ye sure o that? (NoAH refuses to answer and 
 WALT points to him, laughing.) That mess-sure no 
 parlay Fransay. 
 
 (He picks up a can of liquor near him and 
 
"DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 67 
 
 drinks from it, then offers it to MOSE and 
 SANK. Both refuse.) 
 
 MOSE 
 
 Too early in the mornin to drink. Want my liquor 
 in the daytime or in the fore part o the night. Bout 
 time Bill was comin fer his liquor. 
 
 SANK 
 Yes, it be, an it be. He ought to soon be here. 
 
 MOSE 
 
 Bill s ol oman said that Mary was purty well took 
 with that Abner feller. 
 
 SANK 
 
 She must be, yes she be. My ol oman said that 
 Bill s ol oman said that Mary sees a right smart o 
 that feller. 
 
 WALT 
 How d ye know Mary sees im ? 
 
 MOSE 
 
 I beared said that Mary meets him in the day time 
 while ye re sleepin , Noah. 
 
 SANK 
 Yes, she do, an she do. 
 
 WALT 
 Pa, d ye hear that? 
 
68 "DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 
 
 NOAH 
 (Unable to hold in any longer, now bursts out in 
 
 a rage) 
 
 Dod gast her divilish soul, a gal o mine carryin on 
 with a revenooer! She ain t been the same since she 
 came back from that thar ding-busted school over thar 
 to Boone. Dod-burn her durned hide ! I s allus agin 
 her goin over thar, but her ma sent her, an then layed 
 down an died on me, an left her fer me to ten to. 
 
 WALT 
 
 You ain t tended to her, much, pa. Ye been tendin 
 to this here most o yer time. 
 
 NOAH 
 (Furiously) 
 
 Who in hell axed ye to speak? Stir that mash, damn 
 ye, stir that mash. (WALT goes to work as NOAH 
 fumes on.) So ye think I d let a gal o mine marry 
 one o them danged revenooers, do ye ? 
 
 WALT 
 No, pa, but . . . 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Shet up, durn ye, shet up! (Stamping about in a 
 rage.) I d see her in hell first! I d . . . 
 
 SANK 
 
 That s right, Noah. So tis, so tis. I don t blame 
 ye, so I don t, so I ... 
 
"DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 69 
 
 NOAH 
 
 (Turning on him) 
 Shet up! Who axed ye t speak? 
 
 SANK 
 
 (Fawningly) 
 Well, Noah, I ... 
 
 NOAH 
 Shet up, I said. What re ye doin here anyhow? 
 
 SANK 
 
 Ye tol us to come an git this run o liquor to take 
 to Patterson, so ye did. 
 
 NOAH 
 
 How ye goin to spect me to git this run off an ye 
 an Mose settin aroun runnin yer mouths. Git that 
 thar bucket an go fotch some water. If n I s as ding- 
 busted lazy as the rest o ye, I never would git nough 
 juice made fer them thar judges an lawyers, not to 
 say nothin bout them preachers. 
 
 (MosE and SANK hurry off with a bucket. 
 NOAH continues to fume arowid the still.) 
 
 WALT 
 
 Pa, tother day when we s a-talkin bout that thar 
 man, Abner, bein a revenooer, Mary comes in an 
 says that he wa n t no revenooer, an that he s some 
 
70 "DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 
 
 kind o magerzine scribbler, or somethin , an we axed 
 er how she knowed it, an she said she jes knowed he 
 wa n t. 
 
 (NoAH pays no attention to him. MOSE and 
 
 SANK enter with the water.) 
 
 SANK 
 
 Yeah, that s so, so tis, fer Mary tol* my oP oman 
 that you all was tellin lies bout that thar man Abner, 
 she did, so she did. An she said that Abner s a better 
 man than any of us uns, she did, so she did . . . 
 
 NOAH 
 
 (Breaking out) 
 
 Consarn ye! Bring that thar water here. (He 
 grabs the bucket.) What ye standin thar fer? (He 
 goes to pour the water into the still, but in his anger 
 he spills it on the fire, almost putting it out. He turns 
 on SANK furiously.) Dod-limb ye, Sank! Dod gast 
 ye> ye goozle-necked ol fool ye! What ye a-goin an 
 puttin that thar fire out fer ? Ding-bust ye, yer . . . 
 
 SANK 
 (Cringing) 
 I didn t put it out, Noah, so I ... 
 
 NOAH 
 
 (Sputtering) 
 Ye ... ye ... ye hum-duzzled . . . 
 
"DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 71 
 
 SANK 
 
 (Shrinking from him) 
 
 Leastwise I didn t go fer to do it, Noah, so I 
 didn t. 
 
 WALT 
 Pa, ye put the fire out yerself, an* 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Shet up, ye whing-duzzled yaller boomer ye! Ye 
 ain t no better n yer sis! Both o ye be a bunch o 
 cowards, an ye ... 
 
 WALT 
 Oo la-la! Sweet pa-pa! 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Dod gast ye! Stop that thar la-la-in an pa-pa-in* 
 or I ll wring yer neck! 
 
 WALT 
 Aw, pa, I didn t go fer to 
 
 NOAH 
 Shet up them jaws o yer n! D ye hear me? 
 
 MOSE 
 
 Noah, my ol oman said that that thar gal o yer n 
 went plum down to the rock to meet that thar Abner, 
 an 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Ding-dang her! I m a-goin home right now an 
 see if n she ll . 
 
72 "DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 
 
 (He starts off right just as three owl hoots ring 
 out in the distance, followed by a shrill "Bob- 
 white/ NOAH hesitates a moment*) 
 
 MOSE 
 
 Thar comes Bill fer his brandy. That s his call. 
 I ll give him the come-on. 
 
 (He returns the call.) 
 
 BILL 
 
 (Singing drunkenly as he approaches from the left) 
 
 Way up on Clinch Moun.tain I 
 
 5 
 
 
 
 n 
 
 wan-der a . lone. lin as drunk as the 
 
 Dev . 11 Oh> let me a . lone. 
 
 Banjo Accompaniment 
 
"DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 73 
 
 I ll eat when I m hungry, 
 
 En drink when I m dry; 
 En if whiskey don t kill me, 
 
 I ll live till I die. 
 
 O Lulu, O Lulu! 
 
 Lulu, my dear! 
 
 I d give this whole world 
 Ef my Lulu was hyer. 
 
 Jack o diamonds, jack o diamonds, 
 
 1 know you of oP 
 You rob my pore pockets 
 
 O silver an goP. 
 
 SANK 
 Ah-hah. Drunk agin ! 
 
 BILL 
 
 (He enters from the left. BILL SPIVINS is a 
 rough, careless mountaineer. He wears clothes 
 of the same drab tone as those of the other men. 
 His big, bloated face marks him as a heavy 
 drinker and he shows in his singing and in his 
 speech the effects of his liquor. He calls after 
 NOAH.) 
 
 Hey, thar, Noah . . . whar be ye a-goin ? . . . I 
 wanna git my brandy afore ye leave ... Ye done 
 an sint yer watchers in, ain t ye? Whar be ye 
 a-goin ? . . . 
 
74 "DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 
 
 NOAH 
 
 (Coming back) 
 
 That dod-gasted gal o mine s been carryin on with 
 that thar damned revenooer, Abner, an I jes started to 
 give her hell, an make her stop it. A gal o mine 
 carryin on with a revenooer ! 
 
 BILL 
 
 Hit must be so then ... I been down the Ridge 
 ... an 5 when I come back my ol oman said that 
 yer gal, Mary . . . was a-carryin on with him . . . 
 
 WALT 
 
 What else did she say, Bill? Mary allus tells yer 
 ol oman ever thing. 
 
 BILL 
 
 Wai, she said that Mary said that . . . this here 
 Abner wasn t no revenooer ... an that she had met 
 him over thar to Boone . . . 
 
 NOAH 
 
 She s a-lyin ! That Abner gits letters from the 
 givermint. 
 
 SANK 
 
 An he ain t never been to Boone. He s a furriner 
 in these parts, an he s a ding-busted revenooer. 
 
 BILL 
 
 My el oman says Mary wants to run off with 
 him . . . but she s skeered to, fer she knows what ye d 
 do, Noah. . . . An she says he ain t no revenooer an* 
 
"DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 75 
 
 she s goin t show us he ain t ... an* that she s a-goin 
 t marry him. 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Dod gast her! I ll be the one to say about that. 
 My gal run off with a revenooer! No, by the holy 
 damn, I ll see her in hell first! 
 
 BILL 
 
 My ol oman said that Mary was jes like her ma 
 ... an that she s up to somethin now ... an 1 if n 
 ye didn t watch out she d marry that revenooer yit. 
 
 SANK 
 
 Yes, she will, Noah, so she will. Ye d better watch 
 her, so ye had. 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Shet up, Sank, ye ding-busted ol jay-hawk ye, shet 
 up! 
 
 BILL 
 
 My ol oman said . . . that yer ol oman allus had 
 her way fore she died ... an that she didn t listen to 
 ye when she didn t want . . . 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Dod gast yer ol oman ! She s allus sayin too much. 
 Gimme yer jug. (He takes the jug, fills it, and hands 
 it back to BILL.) Don t ye fergit to bring me them 
 taters to pay fer this. Ye owe me two bushels now. 
 
76 "DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 
 
 BILL 
 
 My ol oman said that that man Abner s up in 
 these parts to-day . . . an thet yer gal met him over 
 to the rock, an that she believed they s up to somethin ! 
 Mary ain t been home to-day. . . . Ye d better watch 
 her, Noah. . . . She ll git ye yit. 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Dad burn ye, git out o here! A gal o mine an a 
 revenooer git me! Ye ding-busted yaller-livered fool, 
 git out ! Ain t I the best man on this side o the Ridge ? 
 Ain t I boss here? 
 
 SANK 
 Yes, ye be, Noah, so ye be. 
 
 (BiLL reels out with his jug.) 
 
 MOSE 
 
 Noah, tother night down to Curtis s store I heared 
 that Abner was sent here by the givermint to git ye 
 fer killin that other revenooer a few years ago. 
 
 NOAH 
 (Startled) 
 
 What s that? What re ye sayin , Mose? Ye re a 
 liar! That s what ye are. Ye re a liar, I say! 
 Ye re . . . 
 
 MOSE 
 
 Stop that, Noah. I s givin ye straight talk, an ye 
 ain t to be callin me a liar. I don t have to work fer 
 ye, an I ain t a-goin to. ... 
 
"DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 77 
 
 NOAH 
 
 (More calmly) 
 
 I didn t mean it zactly like that, Mose, but ... 
 but ... 
 
 MOSE 
 
 That s the truth, Noah. Ol man Jinkins tol hit 
 hisself. 
 
 SANK 
 Yes it be, so it be. I heared him myself, so I did. 
 
 WALT 
 Pa, that s why he s been hangin roun Mary. He s 
 
 tryin to pick it out o her, so he c n git us, an he s 
 
 caught her. That s hit. 
 
 (At this moment MARY SETZER carefully peers 
 through the rhododendron branches at the right. 
 She is a pretty mountain girl, simply dressed in 
 a plain but becoming pink gingham. Without 
 having been seen, she withdraws noiselessly into 
 the bushes again.) 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Gol ding her, she ain t got no more sense n to iet 
 him ketch her an then let him be hangin roun to spy 
 an larn all he can. 
 
 WALT 
 Pa, hadn t we better skip an git out n this? 
 
 NOAH 
 
 An leave all this an be skeered to come back to git 
 it? No, I ain t goin t let no revenooer run me. 
 They ain t never done it yit an they ain t never goin 
 
78 "DOD CAST YE BOTH !" 
 
 t do hit. I ll go down thar to Patterson to-morrow, 
 an I ll take ol Beck over thar (pointing to his rifle), 
 an I ll fix this here dod-gasted, ding-fuzzled reve- 
 nooer like I did tother n. An then I ll take that gal 
 o mine . . . 
 
 (NoAH is interrupted by LAURENCE ABNER, 
 who breaks through the thicket at the right, 
 followed by MARY SETZER, who keeps a safe 
 distance in the rear, yet is on the alert, ready to 
 assist him if necessary. ABNER is a good-look 
 ing young man, trimly dressed in clothes suit 
 able for mountain wear.) 
 
 ABNER 
 (Firing a shot and then covering the moonshiners with 
 
 a pistol) 
 
 Hands up, gents! (They turn, startled. WALT 
 and MOSE spring toward the rifles but ABNER stops 
 them.) None of that, gents. It ll mean death if you 
 try it again. 
 
 NOAH 
 Dod gast ye ! 
 
 ABNER 
 
 First time a revenuer ever had the ups on you, isn t 
 it? Now, gents, kindly move over to this side and 
 remove your coats so that I may see that you are not 
 armed. (The men obey his orders as he motions them 
 over to the left with his pistols.) No tricks, remem 
 ber ! I learned to shoot pretty straight in the army. 
 
"DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 79 
 
 WALT 
 
 Larned to shoot in the army, huh ? Wai, that hain t 
 nothin . While I s over thar in France I captured 
 bout forty Bochers, three big rumble-bumble guns, an 
 a dozen or more rifles an . . . 
 
 MARY 
 
 (Advancing) 
 
 Aw, now, Walt, ye wa n t never up at the shootin 
 line. Ye said ye peeled taters all the time. 
 
 WALT 
 
 Parlay whippay dally doodle doo ! Air ye here, Sis ? 
 Wai, ye jes watch the ol man. 
 
 NOAH 
 
 (Seeing MARY) 
 
 Dod gast ye, gal! Ding-damn ye! Here s that 
 damned ol jay-pipin horn frog what ye been a-hangin 
 aroun with ye see now if he ain t a revenooer, don t 
 ye? Dad-burn yer hum-duzzled soul! Consarn the 
 dod-limbed hide o ye! Ye see whar yer pa is, do ye? 
 Damn ye, I ll fix ye. ... 
 
 (He starts toward MARY, but ABNER motions 
 him back with his pistol.) 
 
 ABNER 
 
 Hold on there! You want to be careful and not 
 forget that I ve got you at present, and the law doesn t 
 deal any too lightly with your kind, especially since 
 prohibition. 
 
8o "DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 
 
 (WALT slinks around behind the mash tub and 
 picks up a club. The "revenooer" is occupied 
 watching NOAH, and WALT steals closer to 
 him, while the old man rages.) 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Damn ye, ye yaller-back tater bug ye! Ye got me 
 now, but ye jes wait. What ye goin t do with us? 
 
 ABNER 
 What would you give me to let you off? 
 
 NOAH 
 
 (Surprised) 
 What! What s that ye say? 
 
 (WALT has now crept up close behind ABNER. 
 He raises his club and springs forward, but 
 MARY seizes his arm.) 
 
 MARY 
 Don t try nothin like that, Walt. Hit won t work. 
 
 NOAH 
 (Regaining his voice, he sputters in his uncontrolled 
 
 rage) 
 
 Ding-damn ye ! Dod gast ye ... ye ... ye ... 
 consarn ye ... ye ... damn ye . . . ye be helping 
 this here revenooer to take yer own pa. So that s what 
 ye come here fer, ye durn yaller boomer ye! Ye 
 divilish dog! Ye allus was jes like yer ma. Ye said 
 he wa n t no revenooer, so ye did. Well, ye lied, gal, 
 ye lied, an I ll git ye. ... 
 
"DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 81 
 
 ABNER 
 
 Hold on a minute. You seem to forget that I ve 
 got you all just at present, and I m likely to keep you. 
 But just for the fun of knowing what would you give 
 me to let you go ? 
 
 NOAH 
 Ding-bust ye! By that rotten mash over thar . . . 
 
 ABNER 
 Don t swear by the mash, I ve captured it, too. 
 
 SANK 
 So he has, Noah, so he has. 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Dad durn ye, Sank! Damn ye Walt if ye d do 
 somethin if ye d drag him off he wouldn t be 
 standin there with his gun drawed on us. But ye 
 stand thar a-runnin yer clop-trop mouths an doin 
 nothin . Why don t ye ... 
 
 WALT 
 
 Holy scents of sweet smellin asserfiditty ! Why 
 don t ye do hit yerself, pa? 
 
 ABNER 
 
 Here now, let s come to business. If you re not 
 going to make me an offer, I ll make you one. If you ll 
 let me marry your daughter, we ll call this off. What 
 do you say? 
 
82 "DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 
 
 NOAH 
 (Amazed) 
 
 What s that? (Beginning to understand, he stamps 
 the ground in a rage and advances toward ABNER, who 
 motions him back with his pistols.) Marry my gal, a 
 revenooer marry my gal! Ye dod gasted pole-cat ye! 
 Ye ding-busted stinkin possum skunk ! Ye bow-legged 
 tater-bug ye! I ll see ye in Heck s ol pine field 
 twenty miles tother side o hell first. I ll . . . 
 I ll . . . 
 
 ABNER 
 
 Just a minute before you go on. Listen to this 
 if I take you down the Ridge, as I certainly will if you 
 don t do as I say, think of the days in prison. You re 
 an old man and you would probably die there between 
 the walls, behind the bars. People would come to see 
 you, and point their fingers through the bars at you 
 as they do the animals at the circus, and they d say, 
 "There s Noah Setzer. He used to be the leader on 
 this side of the ridge, but a revenuer gets them all, and 
 one got him." Then there ll be your son and all these 
 other fellows in cages beside you. . . . 
 
 SANK 
 
 That s right, Noah, so tis, so tis. He ll take us all, 
 so he will, an ... 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Shet up, ye ... 
 
"DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 83 
 
 ABNER 
 
 And then there s another thing I want to tell you 
 before I take you. I have the proof that you and your 
 son were the men who killed the revenue officers four 
 years ago. At your trial I shall turn the evidence 
 against you both. That means death for you. 
 
 NOAH 
 Wh-wh-what s that . . . 
 
 ABNER 
 
 Just think ! They ll lead you, the boss of the Ridge, 
 in like a cow, and sit you down in a chair. And then 
 they ll turn on just enough juice to burn you, and let 
 you know how it feels. Then gradually they ll turn 
 it on full force and your bones will snap and it ll cook 
 the flesh off your live body! 
 
 SANK 
 Give him yer gal, Noah, give him yer gal ! 
 
 MARY 
 
 (Glancing at ABNER with a smile) 
 Pa, he s got ye, so ye d better give in. If ye don t, 
 jes think what the Ridge ll say when he takes ye to 
 jail. Ye ll be the only Setzer they ve ever got yet! 
 I m willin to marry him, an if you ll let me, it ll save 
 us all. I m goin t marry him, anyhow. 
 
 NOAH 
 Well, marry him an ... damn ye both! 
 
84 "DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 
 
 ABNER 
 
 (Lowering his pistol, and laughing) 
 Thank you, Mr. Setzer. 
 
 NOAH 
 
 Damn ye ... don t "Mister" me! An I don t 
 want none o yer thanks. . . . ( To MARY and ABNER, 
 who are now both convulsed with laughter.) What re 
 ye laughin at? 
 
 ABNER 
 
 Well, you see I m not a revenue officer after all. 
 I m just a magazine writer up in these mountains 
 collecting materials and incidentally (Smiling at 
 M AR Y) a wife. This has been the first real fun I ve 
 had since the Boston Police Riot. 
 
 NOAH 
 Ye re not a ... a ... dod gasted . . . 
 
 MARY 
 (Who has been standing by ABNER S side, now steps 
 
 forward) 
 
 No, he ain t, pa. We wanted to git married, but I 
 couldn t think of runnin away like Laurence wanted 
 me to, an the whole Ridge a-thinkin that me, a 
 Setzer, had run away with a revenooer. An then, I 
 couldn t a never come back, fer ye d a got us. 
 
 SANK 
 Yes, he would- a, so he would- a. 
 
s 
 
 
"DOD GAST YE BOTH!" 85 
 
 MARY 
 
 An we wanted to be married right away, but we 
 couldn t think o no way to prove that Laurence wa n t 
 no revenooer, so we 
 
 ABNER 
 (Breaking in) 
 
 Mary happened to remember a hold-up like this 
 which she told me about when we were over at Boone, 
 and then 
 
 WALT 
 
 (Interrupting, with a loud guffaw) 
 And then ye planned all this jes to git us? 
 
 (MARY and ABNER nod a smiling assent.) 
 
 ABNER 
 
 Yes, and I m going to get a corking good story out 
 of it, too. 
 
 WALT 
 
 Pa, ye said a revenooer wa n t never goin t git ye! 
 Why he ain t even a revenooer s picter an he s got ye ! 
 
 NOAH 
 
 (Unable to restrain his rage) 
 
 Dad burn ye ! Ding dang ye, ... an ye hain t no 
 revenooer . . . ! If I d a knowed that . . . dad burn 
 ye ... by jumpin Jupiter s horn snake, I ll not stand 
 fer hit. . . . I ll . . . 
 
 MARY 
 
 Hold on, thar, pa, ye ve done give yer promise, an 
 Walt an Mosc an Sank all beared ye. 
 
86 "DOD CAST YE BOTH!" 
 
 SANK 
 Yes, ye did, Noah, an ye did! 
 
 MARY 
 
 We got ye, pa, an ye can t go back on yer promise. 
 So we re goin to git married an stay on right here. 
 
 NOAH 
 (Violently) 
 
 Damn ye ! Dod-limb ye . . .ye hum-duzzled . . . 
 (He recovers his composure, takes a quart bottle, 
 goes to the still and fills it from the worm.) I ll git 
 even wid ye. Jes wait, I ll git ye, durn ye! (He 
 hands the bottle to ABNER.) Here, take this here 
 quart, an clear out o here, an stay out, an (He 
 stands, shaking his fists at them as they go off laughing. 
 There is just the trace of a grin on his face) an dod- 
 gast ye both ! 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
OFF NAGS HEAD 1 
 OR THE BELL BUOY 
 
 A Tragedy of the North Carolina Coast 
 BY 
 
 DOUGALD MACMlLLAN 
 
 O " -.*-^".**^, j.x. AWVU A-/ 
 
 Chapel Hill, North Carolina. 
 
OFF NAGS HEAD 
 OR THE BELL BUOY 
 
CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 As originally produced at The Play-House, Chapel 
 Hill, North Carolina, April 30 and May I, 1920. 
 
 AN OLD FISHERMAN, Jonathan Daniels 
 
 THE GAL," his daughter, Mildred Sherrill 
 
 THE SICK WOMAN, the fisherman s wife, 
 
 Aline Hughes 
 
 THE DOCTOR, David Reid Hodgin 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN, Elizabeth Taylor 
 
 SCENE : A fisherman s hut on the sand dunes of Nags 
 
 Head on the North Carolina Coast. 
 TIME: September, 1869. A stormy night. 
 
OFF NAGS HEAD 
 SCENE 
 
 V FISHERMAN S hut on the North Carolina sand 
 j^-M banks, at Nags Head. 
 
 "** Jjt The roar of the surf and the distant clang- 
 
 ing of the bell buoy can be heard before the curtain 
 rises on a room furnished meagrely and not very neat 
 in appearance. There is a door at the back to the left, 
 opening out on the beach; to the right a small window, 
 closed by a rough shutter. Between the door and the 
 window, on the back wall, hangs an old portrait in a 
 tarnished gilded frame. It is a handsome painting of 
 a young woman. At the beginning of the play it is 
 covered by a coarse woolen cloth. 
 
 There is a fireplace in the left side wall and in that 
 corner a table with a water bucket. On the right a 
 door opens into the adjoining room. A lantern, hung 
 on a nail by the fireplace, gives a flickering light. 
 
 It is nearly dark on an evening in September and a 
 storm is piling up mountains of spray in the surf, some 
 distance across the beach. Throughout the entire 
 action the roar of the surf and the ringing of the bell 
 buoy can be heard. It is far away, but you could hear 
 it at any time; only, when some one is talking, you do 
 not notice the distant clanging. From time to time the 
 wind howls around the house, and every now and then 
 
 91 
 
92 OFF NAGS HEAD 
 
 the smoke blows out of the fireplace, in which a fire 
 of driftwood is struggling to overcome the .draft down 
 the chimney. 
 
 A woman is lying on a low bed in the corner of the 
 room to the right. She is moaning as if she were suf 
 fering acutely. The old FISHERMAN is standing by 
 the bed with a conch-shell of water in his hand. He 
 touches the woman on the shoulder. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 Here, want a drink o water? 
 
 (The woman moans and raises her head slightly. 
 The FISHERMAN holds the shell to her lips. 
 She drinks a swallow and sinks back on the 
 bed. The FISHERMAN puts the shell on top of 
 the water bucket and, crossing to the fireplace, 
 begins to mend a shrimp seine lying across a 
 chair. He sits down with the seine in his lap. 
 The SICK WOMAN moans again and moves 
 restlessly. He turns toward her.) 
 Doctor Wright ll be here purty soon. The gal s 
 been gone long enough to be back. 
 
 (After a moment of silence the door at the back 
 opens and the GIRL comes in with an apron full 
 of driftwood that she has picked up on the 
 beach. She has a shawl drawn tightly around 
 her shoulders and her colorless hair has been 
 blown into wisps about her freckled face. She 
 whines in a nasal drawl when she talks. 
 Dragging her heels, she shuffles over to the fire 
 place and drops the wood in a pile on the hearth. 
 
OFF NAGS HEAD 93 
 
 The FISHERMAN turns to the door as she comes 
 in, speaking anxiously.) 
 Is he comin ? 
 
 GIRL 
 
 Doctor Wright s gone over to Jug Neck an won t 
 be back till to-morrow. I foun a docto at oP man 
 Stokes s though. He come thar to-day from Raleigh. 
 He s comin . (She hangs her shawl on a hook behind 
 the door and goes to the SICK WOMAN.) Is it bad? 
 (The SICK WOMAN groans.) 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 Did you see the ol oman ? 
 
 GIRL 
 
 Naw. Is she gone? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 Been gone bout an hour. 
 
 GIRL 
 Which way d she go ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 Toward the inlet. 
 
 GIRL 
 (She rises from bending over the SICK WOMAN and 
 
 goes to the door for her shawl.) 
 M . . . hm. Time she was back. I ll go hunt er. 
 
94 OFF NAGS HEAD 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Wait. Maybe she ll come in in a minute. I ll go 
 hunt. How high is the tide now ? 
 
 GIRL 
 
 (Hangs up her shawl again but speaks anxiously) 
 Them stakes fo Jones s shack is covered an it s 
 washin up under the seine racks. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 M . . . hm. Purty bad. 
 
 GIRL 
 An it s so misty you can t see the Topsail Light. 
 
 (She goes to the fireplace and crouches there, 
 warming her hands.) 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Huh. This is a worse storm n we ve had in a long 
 time. 
 
 (He goes to the door and looks out. The bell 
 buoy clangs.) 
 
 GIRL 
 
 Listen to that bell buoy. It makes me feel so quar. 
 (She shivers.) 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Don you take on like that. The ol* oman s bad 
 enough. 
 
OFF NAGS HEAD 95 
 
 GIRL 
 (She takes an old, round, iron kettle and fills it with 
 
 water from the bucket by the door} 
 She s been bad all day like she was las storm we 
 had when she tried to jump ofFn the landin ! She 
 might try again. We better look for er. 
 
 (She hangs the kettle over the fire and crosses 
 to the SICK WOMAN.) 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 I reckon so. You look out for yo ma. 
 
 GIRL 
 
 The oF oman s been a-doin like she done that day 
 when she tried to run in the surf with the picter. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Has she? (As though he doesn t quite understand 
 why.) She sets a lot o store by that picter. 
 
 GIRL 
 
 Fm kind o skeered she ll do somethin bad some 
 day. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 She ain t gonna jump in the surf no more. Not on 
 a col night like this un. You take care o yo ma thar. 
 I ll hunt th other un. (He starts toward the door 
 and opens it. The OLD WOMAN is seen outside just 
 coming in. She has been tall and might have been 
 imperious. She speaks with a more refined accent than 
 the others. She is demented and they humor her. The 
 FISHERMAN speaks to her from the doorway.) Well, , 
 
96 OFF NAGS HEAD 
 
 we was jest a-cornin to look fo you! Thought you 
 
 might a fallen overboard or sumpthin . 
 
 (He sits down again by the fire. The GIRL 
 takes the OLD WOMAN S shawl from her shoul 
 ders and hangs it by the fireplace to dry. The 
 OLD WOMAN does not seem to notice the others 
 but speaks as though to herself.) 
 
 OLD WOMAN 
 I ve had so much to do. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Well, now that s bad. You mustn t work too hard. 
 It s bad for you. 
 
 OLD WOMAN 
 
 It s better to work than to think. (She smiles in a 
 vague sort of way. Her eyes are expressionless.) 
 There are times when I think and I hear things. They 
 keep calling me on the boat and the bell buoy rings 
 
 GIRL 
 
 (To the FISHERMAN) 
 Ain t it time the doctor was comin ? 
 
 OLD WOMAN 
 
 I see many things. There is the cheery crowd on 
 the boat and they keep calling, for all is dark and 
 everything reels the light comes close and all is dark 
 again. Listen! my baby boy calls the water roars 
 and we all get wet. . . . But I still have my work. 
 I must not jg ve up I still have my child and my pic- 
 
Elizabeth Taylor as THE OLD WOMAN in Off A ag s Head or The Bell uoy y a 
 tragedy of the North Carolina Coast, by Dougald MacMillan. 
 THE OLD WOMAN: There are times when I think and I hear things. They 
 keep calling me on the boat and the bell buoy rings .... but I still 
 have my work. I must not give up. I still have my child and my picture 
 
 to work for. 
 
OFF NAGS HEAD 97 
 
 ture to work for. (She goes toward the curtained por 
 trait.) My dead boy and you (She pulls the curtain 
 aside, displaying the beautiful old painting. Her voice 
 is more cheerful and less troubled as she speaks to the 
 FISHERMAN.) It is a picture of me! Don t you think 
 it is good ? It was done by the best artist. I am taking 
 it to my father in New York. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 (Humoring her) 
 Yes, yes. You done tol us that a lot o times. 
 
 GIRL 
 
 (To the FISHERMAN) 
 I wonder why the doctor ain t come. 
 
 OLD WOMAN 
 
 (Interrupting and still speaking to the FISHERMAN) 
 So I have so I have. Well, I must keep on work 
 ing. I ve had a message from my father. (More 
 brightly.) I m going to leave soon. (She starts 
 toward the room at the right, then turns to the FISHER 
 MAN, speaking anxiously.) Take care of her. Don t 
 let anyone get her. (Speaking to the portrait.) I am 
 going to take you with me when I go to New York to 
 see my father. (She goes out, glancing back from the 
 door at the portrait.) I m coming back soon. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 She s so scared someun s gonna steal her picter. . . . 
 Is the lamp lit in thar? 
 
98 OFF NAGS HEAD 
 
 GIRL 
 
 Yeah. I lit it. (There is a knock on the door.) It 
 must be the new doctor. 
 
 (She opens the door and the DOCTOR comes in. 
 He is an elderly man, wearing a long cloak and 
 carrying a satchel. His manner is brisk and 
 cheerful and he is rather talkative t the old fam 
 ily doctor type. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 Come in. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 Thank you. I had some trouble finding the house. 
 There is so much mist you can t see very well. I 
 believe this is the worst storm I ever saw. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Yeah. It s bad. You can t even see the Topsail 
 Light. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 (Taking off his hat and cloak and laying them on a 
 
 chair by the fire) 
 
 Do you often have storms like this one ? This is my 
 first trip down here. Mr. Stokes asked me down to go 
 fishing with him. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 This un is right bad. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 Now, where is the sick woman? 
 
OFF NAGS HEAD 99 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 (Pointing to the bed) 
 Here. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 Oh, yes! Your wife? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 Yes, suh. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 (Sitting by the bed) 
 How do you feel? 
 
 (The SICK WOMAN moans.) 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 She don say nothin . She s got a misery in her 
 chist. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 I see. How long has she been this way? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 Since this mornin . 
 
 DOCTOR 
 (To the GIRL, who stands by the door to the next 
 
 room) 
 Will you bring me some water, please. 
 
 (She goes out. He opens his satchel and takes 
 out a bottle, pouring some medicine into the 
 cup which the GiRL brings him, and gives it to 
 the sick woman to drink. The FISHERMAN and 
 
ioo OFF NAGS HEAD 
 
 the GIRL look on in silence. He speaks reas 
 suringly.) 
 
 She ll be comfortable in a few minutes. It is not 
 serious this time, but she must not work too hard. 
 
 (He rises and crosses to the fireplace for his 
 cloak.) 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Will you set down an rest yourself an git dry? It s 
 a long walk back to Stokes s. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 Why, thank you, I believe I will. 
 
 (They sit before the fire and light their pipes. 
 The GIRL goes out.) 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 You ain t been here befo , Doctor? 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 No. This is my first trip. I ve always wanted to 
 come but never had a chance before. There are lots 
 of interestin tales told about your beaches and islands 
 around here. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 Yeah. I reckon thar s a lot o* tales. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 Captain Kidd is said to have buried money on every 
 island on the coast. 
 
OFF NAGS HEAD 101 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Yes, suh. Right over thar on Haw s Hammock my 
 pa dug up a chist. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 Was there anything in it? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 No. 
 
 (He smiles.) 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 That s often the way. (He laughs, then stops to 
 listen to the wind, which is increasing in volume and 
 intensity.) Listen to that! This would be a good 
 night for the land pirates that used to be around here. 
 Did you know any of them ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 I don know what you mean. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 Oh, is that so? Why, they say there used to be a 
 band of men around here that hung lights on a horse s 
 head and drove the horse down the beach. From a 
 distance it looked like a ship. Ships at sea were often 
 fooled by it and ran aground. When they did, the men 
 on shore plundered them and killed the crew. That s 
 how Nags Head got its name. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 (Showing some confusion) 
 Is that right? 
 
102 OFF NAGS HEAD 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 Why, you are old enough to know about that. I m 
 surprised that you didn t know some of those old 
 rascals. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 (Turning away) 
 We don t talk much in these parts. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 (Becoming interested in his tale) 
 A very famous case, I remember one that has been 
 talked about for a long time. I heard it from my 
 mother, was that of a boat named the ... The 
 Patriot. She was bound for New York from George 
 town, I believe. An illustrious lady, Theodosia Burr, 
 was on board the daughter of Aaron Burr. The 
 boat disappeared somewhere along this coast. That 
 was about fifty years ago, and none of the crew has 
 been heard of since. (The FISHERMAN is silent, look- 
 in? into the fire. The DOCTOR rises.) Well, let s 
 have another look at the patient. I ll have to get back 
 pretty soon. Stokes gets me out early these days to 
 get the blue fish on the right time o the tide. 
 
 (He knocks out his pipe against the chimney 
 and turns toward the bed. The FISHERMAN 
 rises. The OLD WOMAN enters unnoticed, 
 crosses to the fireplace and stands there watch 
 ing the others. The DOCTOR starts to the bed 
 but stops suddenly, astonished. He has seen 
 the portrait!) 
 Why, hello, what s that? 
 
OFF NAGS HEAD 103 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 What? 
 
 DOCTOR 
 The portrait. Where did it come from ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Oh, we found it on a derelict that drifted in one 
 day. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 (Becoming excited) 
 
 Why that looks like the picture that was on The 
 Patriot. I remember distinctly, I once saw a copy of 
 the lost portrait. It must be the portrait of Theodosia 
 Burr! 
 
 (The OLD WOMAN watches them intently.) 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 Who s she? 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 The woman that was lost. Where were the crew 
 and passengers on the boat? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 I don* recollect no people on *er. I reckon thar 
 wan t no people on er. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 Where were they? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 I don know. 
 
104 OFF NAGS HEAD 
 
 DOCTOR 
 Was the boat named The Patriot f 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 I can t say, cause I don exactly know. She might a 
 been The Patriot or she might a been the Mary Ann 
 I can t say. 
 
 (He has become sullen.) 
 
 DOCTOR 
 Come, now. Tell me about it. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 I don know no more. We jest found it. 
 (He turns away.) 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 Then I must have the portrait. I m sure it s the key 
 to the Theodosia Burr mystery. Will you sell it? 
 
 (The OLD WOMAN watches him, frightened.) 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 (Looking at her) 
 
 I dunno as how we would. We sets a lot o* store by 
 that picter. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 I ll pay you for it. How much do you want? 
 
 (He starts to take the picture from the wall. 
 The OLD WOMAN, who has been moving 
 toward it, seizes his arm, excitedly.) 
 
OFF NAGS HEAD 105 
 
 OLD WOMAN 
 
 Sell her ! Sell my picture ! She is one of the things 
 I work for my dead boy and my picture. You shall 
 not take them from me. (She lifts the portrait from 
 its place and holds it tightly in her arms, talking to it.) 
 I am taking you to my father in New York. He 
 wants it. (More wildly, speaking to the DOCTOR.) 
 You shan t have it. ... They shan t take you from 
 me. ... It is all that I have. I ve been cruelly 
 treated. My baby boy died. He is out there. . . . 
 (She points to the sea.) He often calls me to come to 
 him but I must stay here, for I still have my picture 
 to work for. 
 
 (She turns away.) 
 
 DOCTOR 
 Who are you ? 
 
 OLD WOMAN 
 
 (Smiling. She seems to look at something far away) 
 Ah. ... 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 Who are you? What do you know about the pic 
 ture? It must be a portrait of Theodosia Burr! 
 
 OLD WOMAN 
 
 Burr? Theodosia Burr? (Almost frenzied as she 
 suddenly remembers her identity.) Why, she s the 
 person that I stand for ! I ve been thinking she keeps 
 talking to me. That s who I stand for ! 
 
106 OFF NAGS HEAD 
 
 DOCTOR 
 What? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 (With a significant nod) 
 Don* mind her. She ain t right. 
 
 OLD WOMAN 
 
 I must be going now. They are tired of waiting. 
 I ve stayed here long enough. . . . I m coming, 
 father. 
 
 (She starts to go into the next room.) 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 (Stepping in front of the door, he speaks gently) 
 Where are you going? 
 
 OLD WOMAN 
 
 (Turning back into the room) 
 
 Maybe the boat s fixed now. I wonder where the 
 others are. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 (Persuasively) 
 Yes, tell us where the others are. 
 
 OLD WOMAN 
 
 Oh, I remember. They re gone. They were killed. 
 Hush, don t you hear them . . . listen! . . . They 
 took all the things on the boat, but I have saved you. 
 (She clasps the picture closer and stares before her.) 
 It was an awful storm like this one. A false light, we 
 ran on the beach. It was horrible! Yes . . . yes, 
 they were there they, they killed them all ! 
 
OFF NAGS HEAD 107 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 Yes, yes! Don t get excited. We ll fix everything 
 all right. Don t let it worry you. Sit down and tell 
 us all about it. 
 
 OLD WOMAN 
 
 (Moving to the right of the room) 
 I am going away very soon now. ... I saw a 
 sign to-day. I have been sent for. They have sent for 
 me to come to see my father in New York. He has 
 
 been waiting so long. I must go 
 
 (She goes out into the adjoining room, mutter 
 ing. The DOCTOR turns to the FISHERMAN.) 
 
 DOCTOR 
 What do you know about this? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 Nothin , I tol* you. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 How did she get here ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 We took er in one time. 
 (He speaks sullenly.) 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 Yes, but where did she come from? You know 
 more about this, and you re going to tell me. If you 
 don t, I ll have you arrested on suspicion. You ll be 
 tried and maybe you ll be hanged. Now, tell me what 
 you know. 
 
io8 OFF NAGS HEAD 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Wait (He is beginning to be afraid) I don t 
 know nothin , I tol you. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 ( Threateningly ) 
 Yes, you do. Do you want to get into court? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 No! No! 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 (Raising his voice) 
 Then tell me what you know about it. I ll 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 (Interrupting) 
 
 Be quiet, I ll tell you. Don make no noise . . . 
 I was a boy . . . they used to hang a lantern on a 
 horse . . . then when the ship run aground they got 
 all the stuff ofFn er . . . 
 
 DOCTOR 
 Land pirates! I thought you knew! Go on. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 That s all. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 What became of the people on these boats ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 They got drownded. 
 
OFF NAGS HEAD 109 
 
 DOCTOR 
 How ? Don t take so long. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 Jes drownded. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 Did you kill them ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 No. They was jes drownded. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 And where did the old woman and the portrait 
 come from? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 They was on one o the boats an we took em in. 
 She ain t been right in er head sence. Her baby boy 
 died that night. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 
 Where did she go? I want to talk to her again. 
 (He goes toward the door.) 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 You ain t a-goin t 
 
 DOCTOR 
 (Interrupting) 
 
 No, I won t send you to jail. Go get the old 
 woman. 
 
 (He moves to the fireplace.) 
 
no OFF NAGS HEAD 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 She went in thar. (He goes to the door and looks 
 into the next room.) She ain t in thar now. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 Then where could she be? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 I dunno. 
 
 (The GIRL comes in, very much excited and 
 frightened. She enters by the door at the back 
 and as she opens it the roar of the surf and the 
 ringing of the bell buoy may be heard mort 
 distinctly.) 
 
 GIRL 
 
 I tried to stop er, but she jest went on! I can t 
 do nothin with er. 
 
 DOCTOR 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 GIRL 
 
 She run out a-huggin that picter. I couldn t stop 
 er. She said she was goin away! 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 Where did she go ? 
 
 GIRL 
 
 I dunno. She s been so bad all day, a-talkin bout 
 the bell buoy a-ringin for er (She goes to the 
 FISHERMAN.) I m skeered o what she ll do! 
 
OFF NAGS HEAD in 
 
 (Above the roar of the surf can be heard 
 faintly but clearly, a high-pitched, distant cry.) 
 
 DOCTOR 
 What s that? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 I dunno . . . 
 
 GIRL 
 
 I wonder if it s . . . 
 
 (The DOCTOR and FISHERMAN go to the door at 
 the back) 
 
 DOCTOR 
 We d better go look for her. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 (As they run out into the darkness across the beach) 
 I hope she ain t . . . 
 
 (The GIRL stands in the open door watching 
 them. The SICK WOMAN moans. The roar of 
 the surf and the ringing of the bell buoy are 
 heard more distinctly. After a moment the 
 FISHERMAN comes in, breathless and wild- 
 eyed.) 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Gi* me the lantern! She s run in the surf an it 
 a-bilin . 
 
ii2 OFF NAGS HEAD 
 
 GIRL 
 (Taking the lighted lantern from a nail by the 
 
 fireplace) 
 
 She said the bell was a-ringin for er. ... Is 
 she ... 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 (Takes the lantern, pausing a moment in the doorway) 
 She s drownded ! She done washed ashore ! 
 
 (The FISHERMAN goes out and the light from 
 his lantern disappears in the night. As the 
 GlR L stands in the doorway looking toward the 
 sea, the bell buoy can still be heard above the 
 storm.) 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 1 
 
 A Play of the Croatan Outlaws of Robeson County, 
 North Carolina. 
 
 BY 
 PAUL GREENE 
 
 i Copyright, 1922, by The Carolina Playmakers, Inc. All rights 
 reserved. Permission to produce this play may be secured by address 
 ing Frederick H. Koch, Director, The Carolina Playmakers, Inc., 
 Chapel Hill, North Carolina. 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 As originally produced at The Play-House, Chapel 
 Hill, North Carolina, April 30 and May I, 1920. 
 
 CUMBA LOWRIE, the aged mother of the Lowries, 
 
 Elizabeth Taylor 
 
 JANE, her daughter, Ruth Penny 
 
 MAYNO, Cumba s daughter-in-law, Rachel Freeman 
 HENRY BERRY LOWRIE, last of the outlaw gang, 
 
 Ernest Nieman 
 SCENE: The rough home of the Lowrie gang in 
 
 Scuffletown, a swampy region of Robeson County, 
 
 North Carolina. 
 TIME : A night in the winter of the year 1874. 
 
SCENE 
 
 f^TJHE kitchen of the Lowrie home. 
 
 i The interior is that of a rude dwelling built 
 -*- of rough-hewn timbers. At the right front is 
 a fireplace in which a fire is burning. Pots and pans 
 are hung around the fireplace. A rocking chair ..is 
 drawn up in front of the fire. At the right rear is a 
 cupboard. At the centre rear a door leads outside. 
 Above it are several fishing poles and a net resting on 
 pegs fitted into the joists. To the rear at the left is a 
 loom with a piece of half-finished cloth in it. A door 
 in the centre of the left wall leads into an adjoining 
 room. To the right of it is a window. At the front on 
 that side is a chest. In the centre of the room is a 
 rough, oblong eating-table and several home-made 
 chairs with cowhide bottoms. A spinning-wheel stands 
 at the front left. On the table is an unlighted candle 
 in a tin holder. 
 
 The play opens with MAYNO LOWRIE spinning at 
 the wheel. She stops, folds her hands aimlessly across 
 her lap, and stares idly into the fire. She is a full- 
 blooded Croatan, about twenty-five years old, of 
 medium height with skin a tan color, almost copper, 
 prominent cheek bones, short flat nose, and black shifty 
 eyes. Her coarse raven hair is wound into a knot at 
 the back of her head. She is dressed in a polka-dot 
 calico. Her shoes are somewhat heavy but comfortable 
 117 
 
u8 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 looking. Around her neck she wears a string of shiny 
 glass beads. Several cheap rings adorn her hands. 
 
 For a moment she sits idle, and then begins to spin 
 lazily, at almost every revolution of the wheel stop 
 ping to glance at the rear door, then at the door to the 
 left, as if expecting someone to enter. She listens. 
 From afar off comes the lone hoot of an owl. She shakes 
 her head and starts the wheel going again. Then she 
 goes to the fireplace, turns the bread in the spider and 
 with a long-handled spoon stirs the peas in the pot. 
 After this she goes back to her chair at the wheel. 
 
 Three knocks are heard at the rear door. MAYNO 
 hurries to remove the bar. JANE LOWRIE enters with 
 a bundle under her arm. She throws the bundle on 
 the table, takes off her bonnet and cape and hangs them 
 on a peg near the door at the left. MAYNO goes to the 
 bundle, stares at it half curiously and fearfully. JANE 
 comes to the fire without speaking. She is a tall 
 Croatan girl, dressed more plainly than MAYNO in a 
 dress of homespun, with no ornaments. Her shoes are 
 covered with mud. She is about twenty years old, with 
 heavy black hair, light tan-colored skin, and regular 
 features. Her face is more open and intelligent than 
 MAYNO S. Her whole figure expresses weariness. She 
 looks anxoiusly at the door of the adjoining room, then 
 turns to MAYNO. 
 
 JANB 
 
 Has she asked for me ? 
 
 MAYNO 
 Not but once. I tol her you d stepped over to 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 119 
 
 Pate s for a little flour, and she seemed to pearten up 
 at that. Said mebbe they d be a letter from the boys 
 way yander. 
 
 (She smiles scornfully. Still standing at the 
 table, she looks at the package. CUMBA s voice 
 is heard calling from the room at the left.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 Jane, Jane, is that ye? 
 
 JANE 
 
 (Going to the door at the left) 
 Yes, muh, I m jes back from Pate s with the flour. 
 
 CUMBA 
 All right, honey. 
 
 (JANE goes into the room. Their voices can 
 be heard indistinctly. MAYNO looks at the 
 package, reaches and touches it. Then she tears 
 a hole in the paper, peers at it intently and 
 draws away. JANE comes back.) 
 
 JANE 
 
 Mayno, they re . . . his n! 
 
 MAYNO 
 Whose ? . . . Yes, they must he his n. 
 
 JANE 
 
 (Lighting a candle and placing it on the table) 
 Yes, Mayno, they s Steve s all right. 
 
120 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 MAYNO 
 How d you git em, chile? 
 
 JANE 
 
 I got em from the sheriff. 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 And I thought you were goin to see Henry Berry 
 bout Steve s money and find where they put im. 
 
 (She opens the package and takes out a coat, a 
 pair of trousers, and a black felt hat. The gar- 
 ments are slashed and stiff with blood.) 
 
 JANE 
 
 I did two hours proguing down through the black 
 swamps an the bramble br ars, and when I foun Henry 
 Berry he said them sher frs what killed Steve got his 
 money, and as for where they put im, nobody knows. 
 (CuMBA is heard groaning as she turns in her bed. 
 JANE lowers her voice.) And then I went to the 
 sheriff for his clothes. I knowed that some day when 
 she (Nodding to the room at the left) finds it out 
 she ll be wantin his clothes, them she made with her 
 own hands like th others. And the sheriff wouldn t 
 tell me where they buried im. 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 Took his money, did they? That s the way with 
 them white folks. They do all they kin agin us poor 
 Croatons, cause we s jes injuns, they says though we 
 knows better. 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 121 
 
 JANE 
 
 They don t hold nothin agin us; hit s agin the 
 boys. 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 They killed yo* daddy and William and Tom and 
 Steve for being robbers and cut-throats and they rob 
 bers and cut-throats theyselves. (Fiercely.) And me 
 needing new dresses and the like. But they s one left 
 they won t git, the last an best of em all. The day 
 they lays Henry Berry cold they ll be more of em 
 got than has been. 
 
 JANE 
 
 (Wearily) 
 
 Hush, Mayno; with your jawing you d wake the 
 dead. She ll hear you. 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 (Throwing down the clothes and coming to the fire) 
 Well, why you want to keep pushing trouble from 
 her? What s the good o it? She ll find it out some 
 how. She s suffered now til you cain t hurt her no 
 more. And ain t I suffered too, with my man dead on 
 me ? What call has she got to ... 
 
 JANE 
 
 No, we ain t a-goin to tell her now. She ain t got 
 much longer, and let her keep on b lieving Steve and 
 Henry Berry s safe in Georgy. No, they ain t no use 
 o letting her on to it now. 
 
 (JANE sits at the spinning-wheel.) 
 
122 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 (Vehemently) 
 
 Ain t Henry Berry going to try to git them sher fEs 
 back for killing Steve? If I s a outlaw like him I d 
 a done paid em. And he ll pay em, too! He s the 
 best o the Lowries and he ll venge them that s been 
 murdered in cold blood like Steve and the rest. 
 
 JANE 
 
 No, Mayno, he won t nuther. His time s drawin 
 nigh. He knows it. They re settin for him every 
 where. They s men watchin this house to-night. I 
 seen it in his face to-day that he s layin down. He 
 was wrong from the first. He knows it now. 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 What s that! 
 
 JANE 
 
 Yes, he s a-quittin , but if them sheriffs hadn t agged 
 him on ten years ago when he wanted to quit and be 
 quiet he d a been livin in peace here to-night. But 
 it s too late now. Too many men s been killed. And 
 he s putting up his guns at the last. They ll git him 
 fore many days. ... He tol me so. 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 You re a-lyin , gal. You know he s goin to scorch 
 em with his spite and bring em down for Steve, him 
 as was the strappingest man o the gang. It ain t his 
 way to be a-backing down and not pay em. 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 123 
 
 JANE 
 
 No, he ain t. He s a-puttin it by, I tell you. 
 They ll ketch him fore long. 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 Then what you goin* to do bout her in there ? You 
 cain t keep on a-foolin her forever with your letters 
 and money and mess from Georgy. 
 
 JANE 
 
 Well, we c n fool er till she gits better, cain t we? 
 And if she don t git better, then she ll go out happier, 
 won t she ... believin Steve and Henry Berry s safe 
 and livin as they ought (She rises and goes to the 
 cupboard) she so old and fearful at the door hinge 
 skreaking and the red rooster crowing a- fore the glim 
 o dawn, you know, Mayno. 
 
 (She brings some butter and the molasses pot 
 from the cupboard, takes the spider from the 
 fire and puts supper on the table.) 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 Well, go on if you will, but you cain t keep it up 
 much longer. It ll be jes like I said. Henry Berry ll 
 come broozin* around some night. Sposcn so? 
 
 JANE 
 
 (Frightened) 
 
 You reckon he d do that. . . . No he couldn t. I 
 tol him about how it was with her, and besides he 
 knows the house is watched. 
 
124 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 (Shaking her head) 
 
 I dunno. He mought. You know the time he 
 slipped through a whole passel o them sher ffs jes to 
 come here and git a shirt she d made im? And by 
 this time he must be a-wantin to see her powerful bad. 
 
 JANE 
 
 ( Terrified) 
 
 You reckon he will? No, he won t! He couldn t 
 do that. (Old CUMBA is heard calling JANE.) Put 
 them things in the sack with th others, Mayno, and 
 put em in the bottom, too. You c n be fixin her sup 
 per while I ten to er. (She goes into the rear room. 
 MAYNO takes up the clothes, opens the chest at the 
 left, pulls out a bulky burlap sack and crams the 
 trousers, shirt and hat into it. Shutting the chest, she 
 goes to the cupboard, takes out three plates and some 
 knives and forks and lays them on the table. Then 
 she begins preparing CUMBA S supper on a plate. JANE 
 comes to the door and speaks.) You needn t bring her 
 supper in here, Mayno, she s going to git up, she says. 
 (JANE goes back into the room. MAYNO shrugs her 
 shoulders, sits down and begins to eat. JANE comes 
 in supporting old CUMBA. She speaks to MAYNO.) 
 Fix her chair by the fire, Mayno. 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 (Rising reluctantly from the table) 
 Gimme time, cain t you? 
 
 (She pulls CUMBA S chair nearer to the fire. 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 125 
 
 CUMBA is a bent, emaciated old woman, about 
 seventy years of age. Her face is scarred with 
 suffering. She is a mixture of Negro and Por 
 tugese, somewhat darker than JANE. She is 
 very feeble and shakes with palsy.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 (Pausing, as JANE leads her to the fire) 
 Did you say they warn t nary letter from the boys 
 way out thar ? 
 
 JANE 
 (Looking at MAYNO as she settles CUMBA in her 
 
 chair ) 
 
 No m, there warn t no letter this time, but they ll be 
 one soon. You see they cain t write often, not yit. 
 They mought be ketched on account of it. Tain t 
 quite time for another n yit. 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 Mebbe so, mebbe so. But I thought they mought 
 a been one. How long is it they been out thar, chile? 
 
 JANE 
 
 (Placing the plate of food on her lap) 
 Two months now, muh. And they s livin straight 
 and spectable, too. And twon t be long fore the big 
 Governor ll pardon em, and they ll come back to you, 
 and you ll be happy agin. 
 
126 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 CUMBA 
 (Brightening) 
 
 And I ll be at the loom then, a-weavin em the good 
 shirts, won t I ? And they ll be working in the fields 
 and comin home to a good dinner, won t they? And 
 at night Henry Berry ll be a-playin of his banjo like 
 old times, won t he? (She stops suddenly. All the 
 brightness goes out of her face. She lets her knife fall 
 to her plate.) But they won t be but two of em, will 
 there, Janie? Jes two. When thar was Allen, my 
 old man they shot im over thar in the corner. (She 
 turns and points.) They s a blood spot thar now. 
 Then thar was Willie and Tom. And they ain t no 
 tellin how they put im away, chile . . . chile . . . 
 
 JANE 
 
 Now, muh, you mustn t do that! Eat your supper. 
 You got to git well, time Steve and Henry Berry gits 
 back. They s allus grief with the children going, but 
 you still got two of the boys and me. 
 
 (JANE butters a piece of bread and hands it 
 to her.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 Mebbe so, mebbe so, chile. But . . . (She stops.) 
 Whar s that letter that come from the boys last month ? 
 I wants it read agin. 
 
 JANE 
 
 But, muh, you got to eat. I ll read it after while. 
 Let me fry you a egg. 
 
 (MAYNO leaves the table and begins spinning at 
 the wheel.) 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 127 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 I ain t hongry, chile. Take them thar rations and 
 put em back and read me the letter. It s enough to 
 hear it ... hearin that the last of my boys is safe 
 and ca m and livin once more as I d lak em to. 
 
 JANE 
 Well, I ll git it then. 
 
 (She goes, searches in the cupboard, and at last 
 draws out a greasy envelope. From this she 
 takes a sheet of paper and comes back to old 
 CUMBA.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 Read it, honey. It s the blessin of the Lord that I s 
 spared to learn that two o my boys is shet of sin. But 
 they s been a heap o blood spilt, chile, a heap o blood 
 spilt . . . but they s been more tears spilt by they ol 
 mammy, too, and mebbe at last they ll ketch a chance 
 to come back to her. Read it, chile. 
 
 JANE 
 
 (Glancing at MAYNO and then looking at the letter) 
 They says they s a-gitting along well and makin 
 money an . . . 
 
 CUMBA 
 Don t read it like that. Read what they says ! 
 
 JANE 
 Well, I ll read it then. 
 
 (She pretends to read.) 
 
128 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 "Dear Mammy: 
 
 "We writes to let you know we re in Qeorgy at last, 
 safe an sound. We re both workin in a store an 
 makin good money. They ain t nobody knows what 
 we done back there, an the people is good to us. 
 Twon t be long fore the Governor ll pardon us, and 
 we can come back and take care o you. 
 "Your loving sons, 
 
 "Steve and Henry Berry." 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 You left out somethin , child. Don t you know they 
 sent some money with the letter and they spoke 
 about it. 
 
 JANE 
 
 (Confused) 
 
 Yes m, that s right. I forgot it. It s on the other 
 side, mammy. Yes m, here it is. It says, "We re 
 sendin you twenty dollars to buy meat and flour with." 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 Good boys they is, they ain t never meant no harm. 
 Willie and Tom was jes that-a-way. Every cent they 
 used to make a-hoein cbtton roun they d give it to 
 they ol mammy, an the good Lord knows whar they s 
 sleepin to-night ... but they s two spared me an I 
 hadn t ought to complain, I reckon. Is the money all 
 gone, Janie ? 
 
 JANE 
 
 No m, there s some left yit, and they ll be sending 
 more in the next letter. 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 129 
 
 (She puts the letter back into the cupboard and 
 begins cleaning up the dishes. Old CUMBA 
 leans back in her chair, gazing into the fire. The 
 hooting of an owl is heard. She stirs uneasily 
 in her chair. MAYNO and JANE stop their 
 work and listen. They both look at each other 
 and then glance at old CUMBA, who is trem 
 bling and gripping the arms of her chair. JANE 
 begins to rattle the dishes. MAYNO spins 
 rapidly.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 (Turning to JANE) 
 Ain t that a owl squeechin , Jane? 
 
 JANE 
 
 (Looking at MAYNO) 
 What? ... I ... I don t hear nothin . 
 (The hooting is heard again.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 Ain t that it agin? 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 Aw, it s nothin but that oP swamp owl. He hollers 
 most every night. Don t take on bout it. 
 (She shivers and stirs the fire.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 (Shrilly) 
 
 It sounds like some o my boys a-makin o they sig 
 nals down thar in the night; but tain t them though. 
 
i 3 o THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 The only two that s left is a long ways off, and mebbe 
 won t never come back. 
 
 JANE 
 
 Now, they will too. 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 Way back yonder I loved to see em round me 
 here, the warm fire a-burnin and Allen thar a-working 
 at his gear, and them that was little uns then a-playing 
 on the floor. I didn t mind it them times. (Her 
 voice grows shriller.) And now where are they? My 
 ol man and all the house gone from me. 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 Aw, Ma Lowrie, what s the use of all them carry- 
 ing-ons? You reckon you re the only one that s had 
 trouble in this world ? 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 And when the rain and the wind come raring down 
 and the cypress trees is moanin in the dark and the 
 owls a-honing through the night, I think on them three 
 lyin dead thar in the woods and the water washin over 
 them, and me with nothin but their clothes to remem 
 ber on and show for them I was prided for. 
 
 (Again the hooting of the owl is heard. JANE 
 leaves the dishes suddenly and comes to the fire, 
 lays more wood on, furtively wiping the tears 
 from her eyes. CUMBA still looks in the fire.) 
 
 JANE 
 It s time for you to lay down now. 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 131 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 (Without noticing her) 
 
 At times in the dark night I dream on em and they 
 ain t nothin happened and it s all like it used to be, 
 and then I wake a-callin , and they don t answer, for 
 they re sleepin out naked in the cold. 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 (Shrugging her shoulders) 
 
 Jes listen at her! Ma Lowrie, cain t you be quiet 
 a bit? (Lowering her voice.) Lord, you re as 
 techous as an old hen ! 
 
 JANE 
 
 (Half sobbing) 
 
 What makes you carry on like that ? It cain t do no 
 good. Ain t Henry Berry toF you a hundred times 
 that he s buried all three of em down thar in the 
 swamp. And he s skeered to tell the place for fear 
 them sher ffs ll dig em up and git the money for em. 
 Don t take on so. They s put away with praying like 
 any Christians ought to be, and you d better lie down 
 now. 
 
 (She looks at MAYNO.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 Yes, they mought be buried in the swamp down thar, 
 and when it rains the river rises and washes over em, 
 them that used to pull at my dress when I was at the 
 wash But Old Master sends the sun and the rain, 
 and the Book says we ought to be satisfied. ( The owl s 
 
132 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 hoot is heard again. CUMBA looks at the door and 
 shivers.) Help me in now, chile. I didn t mean to 
 say all that, but I m done. An ol woman s heart is a 
 foolish thing ... a foolish thing. . . . 
 
 (JANE helps her into the room at the left. A 
 moment later she reappears. She looks at 
 
 MAYNO inquisitively.) 
 
 i 
 
 MAYNO 
 Sounded like Henry Berry s hootin , didn t it? 
 
 JANE 
 
 Yes, I m afraid it s him, after all I tol him. Oh, 
 what makes him do it? But it s like I said. He s 
 givin in now, he s quittin at the last. And he s set 
 on seein her once more or it s some of his quair no 
 tions, somethin he s wrapped up in gittin . 
 
 (Three knocks are heard at the door. JANE 
 runs and lifts the heavy bar, and HENRY BERRY 
 LOWRIE walks in.) 
 
 MAYNO 
 Henry Berry! 
 
 (He starts to speak but JANE lays her finger on 
 her lips and leads him towards the fire. He 
 takes off his hat and bows wearily to MAYNO. 
 He is a man of handsome personal appear 
 ance. The color of his skin is a mixed white 
 and yellowish brown, almost copper-colored. 
 Just below his left eye is a crescent-shaped scar. 
 Despite the look of weariness, his countenance is 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 133 
 
 expressive in a high degree of firmness and cour 
 age. His forehead is broad and high, his eyes 
 large and keen, his hair thick and inclined to 
 curl. He wears a black beard. From appear 
 ances he is about twenty-six years of age, a little 
 above medium height, well-knit, broad-shoul 
 dered, and well-proportioned throughout. He 
 wears a broad, black felt hat, brown corduroy 
 coat, dark woolen trousers, and calf-skin boots. 
 In a belt around his waist he carries two pistols. 
 From this belt a strap passes upward and sup 
 ports behind a repeating rifle. He also carries 
 a long-bladed knife stuck in his belt. He takes 
 a seat at the fire, putting his rifle in the corner, 
 but retaining his other arms. JANE runs to the 
 door at the rear and makes sure that it is closed 
 tight. Then she hurries to HENRY BERRY. 
 
 JANE 
 
 Brother, what made you do it! The house is 
 watched an . . . 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 I know it, Sis, but I had to come. I m quittin . . . 
 to-night. Is she asleep ? 
 
 (He jerks his head towards the room at the 
 left.) 
 
 JANE 
 
 No, I ve jes* helped her in. That s the reason we 
 couldn t make no sign with the light. 
 
134 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 I couldn t figure what the trouble was. I hooted til 
 my head hurt. But I was goin to risk it anyhow. 
 
 JANE 
 
 What ll she think if she sees you ! Oh, hurry and go 
 away! 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 Naw, I got to see her. After to-night twon t mat 
 ter. Bring me a bite to eat, Sis. How is she ? 
 
 MAYNO 
 I reckon she s on the mend. . . . 
 
 JANE 
 
 (Frightened) 
 
 Will they git you to-night? What do you mean by 
 sich talk? 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 Never mind. They ll git me ... when I m dead, 
 all right, no doubt o that. I m taking the gear off at 
 last. The ol man s gone, Willie and Tom s gone, and 
 they got Steve last week, and I m the last o the gang. 
 I m tired, damned tired of it all, Sis. 
 
 JANE 
 
 But I tell you, you cain t give up like that. You 
 got to keep on fightin till you git a chance to git away ! 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 Naw, it s too late now. If they d a let me, I d a 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 135 
 
 lived straight, but after the first trouble I had to keep 
 killin to live. Well, I m done killin , now . . . cept 
 one man, and they ain t no use of you knowin who it 
 is. You ll know soon enough. One man can t stand 
 it allus, and they ll scrush him at the last. 
 
 (JANE sits at her chair weeping softly. HENRY 
 BERRY lays his hand gently on her head. Try 
 ing to appear cheerful, he turns to MAYNO.) 
 Mayno, bring me a bite to eat. 
 
 (He sits at the table, facing the front. MAYNO 
 gets a plate of food and puts it before him. He 
 eats hungrily.) 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 Whar d they put im, Henry Berry? 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 I ain t been able to find out, Mayno. Piled him in 
 some of their rotten graveyards, I reckon, when he 
 loved to run the woods with th other wild things like 
 him. 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 What d they do with his money? 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 I dunno. Got that, too, I reckon. But you needn t 
 to worry. Jane! (JANE looks up.) Here, I ve fixed 
 for you-all. Here s money enough to last you three 
 after I m gone. 
 
 (He stops eating and pulls a bag of money out 
 of his pocket.) 
 
136 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 JANE 
 But, brother . . . 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 Never mind, take it and take care o her. It s the 
 last thing I c n do for her and you. 
 
 JANE 
 But she won t use it, knowin how you come by it. 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 She won t ? 
 
 JANE 
 
 No, she won t. She ll starve first, and you know it. 
 You know all them fixin s you sent her. She give em 
 all away, the stove and the stool with three legs and 
 everything. And when she thought you and Steve was 
 livin straight in Georgy, she give away that gold chain 
 you brung her. She s feared you hadn t got it honest. 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 (Softly) 
 
 Yes, yes, she s allus been too good fer us. (He leaves 
 the table and takes a seat near the fire.) Still that 
 chain was bought honest. . . . But you three s got to 
 live, ain t ye? Take that money, and don t tell er. 
 (JANE puts the money in the chest.) Mayno, is my ol 
 banjo still here? 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 Yeah, in thar. 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 137 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 I been wantin to knock her a little for a long time. 
 And I want to knock her a little the las night. 
 
 JANE 
 
 The las night! It ain t the las night! If you d 
 go now you d git away. Why do you talk like that? 
 (She is interrupted by a loud cry. Old CUMBA 
 stands in the door at the rear.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 It s you, it s you, Henry Berry! Come back from 
 Georgy. I knowed you d come. I knowed. . . . 
 (She totters to HENRY BERRY and throws her arms 
 around him. He kisses her on the forehead. Her look 
 is one of unmingled joy. Suddenly the hurt look comes 
 back into her face.) Why you come back a-wearin of 
 your guns? 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 (Helping her to the fire) 
 
 I m just wearin em. I didn t want to be ketched 
 empty. I m leavin in a few minutes and le s us enjoy 
 ourselves, and forgit about Georgy. 
 
 CUMBA 
 No, they s somethin wrong. Whar s Steve? 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 (Looking at MAYNO and JANE) 
 He s waitin for me ... out thar. 
 (He points toward the swamp.) 
 
138 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 Why didn t he come in wid you? Is he well and 
 strong? How I d love to see im! 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 One of us had to wait for th othern t, and he s all 
 right. How you feelin , mammy? Is your haid bet 
 ter now? 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 Yes, I m gittin better now. I wants to git well time 
 you and Steve comes home for good. (Stroking his 
 hand.) Has the Gov nor pardoned ye already? 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 No, mammy, not jest yit. But it ll be all right 
 soon. . . . Steve and me s jest passin through. . . . 
 Now le s us enjoy ourselves. I got to be movin in a 
 minute. Steve s waiting for me. . . . Mebbe we ll 
 talk about Georgy some other time. . . . Mayno, bring 
 me my ol music box. 
 
 CUMBA 
 Yes, yes, git it and let im play for me. 
 
 (MAYNO brings the banjo from the next room. 
 HENRY BERRY tunes it. CUMBA sits gazing in 
 the fire, a troubled look on her face.) 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 You want me to play bout Job s Coffin hanging in 
 the sky? (Strangely.) That was Steve s piece. 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 139 
 
 JANE 
 
 (Nervously) 
 
 Don t, don t play that. It s too lonesome. 
 (She shivers.) 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 What piece you want me to play? 
 
 (To CUMBA. She makes no reply. HENRY 
 BERRY looks at her. He strums several bars, 
 his face gradually losing its tense expression.) 
 
 What you want me to play, muh? 
 
 CUMBA 
 Play anything. Some o the ol pieces. 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 I ll play that piece bout poor John Hardy. 
 
 (He plays and sings three stanzas of the ballad 
 "John Hardy/ ) 
 
 ^ \? 7 7? r ^ 
 
 John Hard - y was a mean and 
 
 dis per . a ted man, He 
 
i 4 o THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 tot - ed two guns ev . ry 
 
 day. He shot him - self a man in 
 
 New Or - leans Town John 
 
 Hard - y nev . er lied to his guns, poor boy. 
 
 He s been to the east and he s been to the west 
 And he s been this wide world round, 
 He s been to the river an been baptized, 
 An he s been on his hanging ground, poor boy. 
 
 John Hardy s father was standing by, 
 Saying, " Johnnie, what have you done?" 
 He murdered a man in the same ol town, 
 You ought a-seed him a-using of his guns, poor boy. 
 (He stops and gazes pensively before him.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 (Looking anxiously at HENRY BERRY) 
 What s the matter, son ? You don t play it like you 
 used to. 
 
- 
 
 < fc 
 
 S-S 
 
 ^ 8 -2 
 
 32 3 
 
 6 -ti 
 
 r .-- - 
 U 1> 3 
 
 N W 
 
 l 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 141 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 It ain t nothing. I ll play yo other piece now, that 
 Florelly song. 
 
 CUMBA 
 Yes, play it. Allen allus said twas a good piece. 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 The Fair Florella 
 An Old Ballad 
 
 ~= " 
 
 Down by yon weep . ing wil . low, 
 
 <J J . J 
 
 Where ros - es so sweet - ly bloom, 
 
 There sleeps the fair Flo . rel - la, 
 
 J J U ^ J. 
 
 So si * lent lo_ the tomb. 
 
142 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 She died not broken hearted, 
 No sickness her befell, 
 But in one moment parted 
 From all she loved so well. 
 
 Down on her knees before him, 
 She begged im for her life, 
 But deep into her bosom 
 He plunged the fatal knife. 
 
 (Before the last verse ends, owl hoots are heard 
 outside. HENRY BERRY stops, listening. The 
 banjo slips through his hands to the floor. All 
 three look at him questioningly.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 What is it, boy ? Don t look that-a-way. 
 
 (Again the hooting of an owl is heard. HENRY 
 BERRY rises to his feet, takes his rifle from the 
 chimney corner and stands an instant tensely 
 silent. Slowly his defensive attitude changes 
 to one of despair. They watch him anxiously 
 as he comes back to his former place in the room, 
 looks down at his banjo, makes a move as if to 
 pick it up, then turns to CUMBA.) 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 Well, I m goin . I ve sorto tried to be a fatten boy 
 to you, but I reckon I made poor outs at it. 
 
 (He bends and kisses her. She rises and clings 
 to him.) 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 143 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 You ain t a-goin air ye? It ll be for the las time 
 and I know it. 
 
 HENRY BERRY 
 
 Yes m, I got to go. Didn t you hear Steve s signal? 
 He s a-waitin . 
 
 (Making an indefinite motion with his hand 
 toward the swamp, he loosens her hold, kisses 
 JANE and makes a sign for MAYNO to follow 
 him. They both go out. CUMBA wrings her 
 hands and follows him toward the door. Then 
 she becomes calm.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 Let him go off now, an I ll never see im agin. His 
 sperit s broke and he won t be a-goin back to Georgy. 
 I see it in his face that he s quittin it all. 
 
 JANE 
 
 No m he ain t, he s a-goin straight back. ... He 
 and Steve is. 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 No, he ain t a-goin back. Cain t I see what s in his 
 face? They ll git im and twon t be long, and then 
 Steve^ ll be shot down next, and there ll be only a hand 
 ful o their clothes for me to look at. (JANE weeps 
 silently.) Whar s Mayno? 
 
 JANE 
 She s jes stepped out a minute. She ll be back. 
 
144 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 Yes, and I know, they re goin to git im. They s 
 a-setting for him thar in the black night.- 
 
 JANE 
 
 No m, they ain t, I tell you. They ll never git Henry 
 Berry. (OLD CUMBA shakes her head mumbling. 
 She goes to the chest at the left and takes out the burlap 
 bag. The lid of the chest falls. JANE starts up.) Put 
 it back, put it back. You mustn t look at em to-night. 
 Come back to the fire. 
 
 (She tries to take the bag from her.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 No, chil , I ain t. I m goin to look at all that s left 
 of em. 
 
 JANE 
 Let em be! 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 (Waving her off) 
 
 No, git away. Soon Henry Berry s 11 be in there, 
 too. (She stops and looks at the bag.) Janie, who s 
 been f oolin wi this ? What s . . . 
 
 (She hurries to the table and holding the sack 
 close to the candle, opens it. She catches hold 
 of a coat sleeve and draws out Steve s coat. A 
 gasping dry sound comes from her throat. She 
 drops the bag and holds the coat in her trem 
 bling hands.) 
 
 It s Steve s! How came it here? It s Steve s! 
 one I made im myself. 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 145 
 
 JANE 
 Oh, muh, let ... What ails you ? 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 I s picioned it! And they been foolin me. 
 
 JANE 
 
 (Hopelessly) 
 Yes m, it s Steve s. 
 
 ( CUMBA sways to and fro.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 You been foolin me! You been foolin me! (She 
 stands rigid for a moment, then speaks in a hard, life 
 less voice.) It warn t right to fool me like that 
 When d it happen ? 
 
 JANE 
 
 Las week. . . . They got im down on the big road 
 by the swamp, an ... 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 Hush! Don t tell me bout it. I m afflicted and 
 defeated enough now. They s only one left and they ll 
 git im soon. ... Did they put Steve away like a 
 man? 
 
 JANE 
 I dunno. The sheriff give is clothes to me. 
 
 (A shot is heard in the distance, followed by a 
 woman s scream.) 
 
146 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 (Starting up and speaking in a shrill voice) 
 They got im now! They got im now! The last 
 un s gone! 
 
 (She tries to go out at the door. JANE stops 
 her.) 
 
 JANE 
 
 (Catching her by the arm) 
 Don t do that! 
 
 (CuMBA goes back to the sack, picks up STEVE S 
 coat and stares at it dully.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 They tuck em all now. They tuck em all. 
 
 JANE 
 Muh, it had to come. An it s better that-a-way. 
 
 CUMBA 
 (Lifelessly) 
 Better that-a-way? 
 
 JANE 
 
 Yes, it s better like that. They was wrong from the 
 jump. 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 Wrong ! My boys was good boys. They ain t never 
 . . . (Raising her hands above her head, she speaks 
 fiercely.) May OF Master send his fires on them that 
 done it! An . 
 
THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 147 
 
 JANE 
 {Sobbing) 
 Oh, why d they do it I 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 No. It says as how we d ought to love em at does 
 us wrong. 
 
 (She closes her eyes, swaying slightly from side 
 to side.) 
 
 JANE 
 
 Let me help you to lie down now! 
 
 CUMBA 
 
 Yes, it s better that-a-way, I reckon. (Her face 
 shows resignation to sorrow. She speaks with a sort 
 of joy in her voice.) An I won t be livin in hope and 
 fear no mo , will I? (Slowly.) And when the owls 
 hoot through the swamp at night, and the whippoor- 
 wills sing in the thicket at dark, I won t have cause 
 to think that s one o my own a-givin of is signals, an 
 tryin to slip back to is oP home, the only place he loves, 
 will I ? (She drops down into the chair behind the 
 table.) An I won t lie awake at night, thinkin they re 
 in danger ... for He s done give em His peace at 
 last. 
 
 (MAYNO enters running. Old CUMBA stands 
 up.) 
 
 MAYNO 
 
 He shot isself. He shot isself! He give me this 
 coat to give to you, an then the sheriffs crope from the 
 
148 THE LAST OF THE LOWRIES 
 
 thicket at im, but he shot isself fore they got to im, 
 
 and they tuck im and toted im off! 
 
 (She drops into her chair exhausted, rocking to 
 and fro. Old CUMBA takes the coat from her, 
 looks at it, and then puts it in the sack. She 
 puts STEVE S coat in also and stands looking 
 down at the bag.) 
 
 CUMBA 
 That s all that s left o them I loved ... a bundle 
 
 o clothes to show for my man an four grown sons. 
 
 (She stops an instant.) You ll all sleep quiet at last. 
 
 (She stands a moment silent, then shrilly.) But they re 
 
 all gone, and what call hev I got to be living more. . . . 
 (She raises her hand as if in a curse. But her 
 face softens, and as the curtain falls, she stands 
 with both hands outstretched on the clothes, 
 blessing them.^ 
 
 1 It is interesting to note that the actual story (see Introduction 
 page xxyiii) of the old Lowrie mother somewhat parallels that of 
 Maurya in Synge s Riders to the Sea. In the one case the mother 
 sees her sons sacrificed before the power of the law. In the other she 
 sees them claimed by the terribleness of the sea. So far as the suffer 
 ing is concerned, the forces in both cases might be the same. 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 THE LANGUAGE OF THE PLAYS 
 
 Observations on the Pronunciation of the Dialects of 
 North Carolina 
 
 With a few obvious exceptions, the personages de 
 picted in the dramas here printed speak one or another 
 of the dialects used by the uncultured whites and 
 negroes of North Carolina. In connection with this 
 effort to utilize for dramatic purposes the folk speech 
 of a relatively small district of the South, several facts 
 should be borne in mind. In the first place, it is an 
 error to assume, as appears to be done frequently out 
 side the South, that all Southern whites speak prac 
 tically alike and that the difference between their speech 
 and that of Southern negroes is insignificant. Al 
 though, it is true, certain peculiarities of pronunciation 
 and certain turns of phrase are more or less common to 
 all speakers of English in the South Atlantic States, 
 considerable differences both in vocabulary and in pro 
 nunciation are discernible between numerous districts 
 of this section, in some instances even when these dis 
 tricts adjoin each other. The dialect spoken by the 
 native whites of eastern North Carolina, for example, 
 is markedly different from that of the Carolina high 
 lands, and among the Blue Ridge and Alleghany 
 149 
 
150 THE LANGUAGE OF THE PLAYS 
 
 mountains clear variations in language may sometimes 
 be noted as one passes from valley to valley or from 
 "cove" to "cove." Again, although it is true that the 
 English-speaking negroes of the South, having bor 
 rowed their language from the whites, have much in 
 common with them and have even exerted an appre 
 ciable influence upon the speech of their white neigh 
 bors, yet no Southerner would confuse the dialect of a 
 typical uneducated Carolina negro with that of even 
 the most backward Carolina white. Moreover, in 
 North Carolina, as elsewhere, dialect varies from fam 
 ily to family and from individual to individual, and 
 even the same person changes his speech to suit his 
 humor, his company, or other occasional circumstances. 
 What Horace Kephart says of the Carolina mountain 
 eer is true of the uncultured throughout the State. "The 
 same man," writes the author of Our Southern High 
 landers, "at different times may say can t and caint, set 
 and sot, jest and jes and jist, atter and arter, seed and 
 seen, here and hyur and hyar, heerd and heern and 
 heard, took and tuk." These facts, obvious as they are 
 to the Southerner, need to be emphasized if this volume 
 is to be read intelligently outside the South. 
 
 It should also be observed that the dialects of North 
 Carolina, like those of other districts, cannot be cor 
 rectly represented by any conventional system of 
 printed signs. As Professor Sheldon has pointed out, 
 "the written [language] ... is, speaking, generally, 
 only a later and inexact representation for the eye of 
 the language as spoken, that is, of the real language," 
 and, with an alphabet so imperfect as ours, it is clearly 
 
THE LANGUAGE OF THE PLAYS 151 
 
 impossible to depict accurately even the more obvious 
 peculiarities of Southern pronunciation, to say nothing 
 of the subtler differences between the various speech- 
 islands of the South. Few of the differences between 
 North Carolinese and standard American English are 
 capable of exact representation by ordinary letters ; most 
 of them are so elusive as to escape even the most elab 
 orate system of phonetic symbols. In the words of a 
 distinguished authority on the history of English speech, 
 "You could not denote [such variations in language] if 
 you would and if you could, you would be encumbered, 
 rather than aided, by the multiplicity of signs." Or, to 
 adopt the language of a queer old eighteenth century 
 spelling reformer, "delicate ears alone can discern 
 what only delicate organs can convey." 
 
 In view of these difficulties, it became necessary to 
 adopt an arbitrary standard of spelling for the dialects 
 represented in this volume. In establishing this norm 
 the editors have been guided by several considerations. 
 To begin with, as may be observed in the work of Synge 
 and other serious writers of dialect literature, success 
 ful dialect writing depends rather upon picturesqueness 
 of vocabulary and idiom than upon spelling. In the 
 best dialect literature spelling is of purely incidental 
 value. Again, in the case of many words and phrases 
 the difference between North Carolinese and American 
 English as spoken by all except the most careful speak 
 ers outside the South, is too slight to justify any 
 change in the accepted spelling. On the other hand, 
 the combined labors of Southern dialect writers for 
 nearly a century have established for certain words and 
 
152 THE LANGUAGE OF THE PLAYS 
 
 phrases a conventional standard which has come to be 
 associated in the public mind with any effort to repre 
 sent on paper the speech of the typical Southerner. In 
 considering the matter of traditional dialect spelling, a 
 distinction should, however, be made between legiti 
 mate variations from standard practice and those spell 
 ings which are of no assistance in pronunciation and are 
 merely "bad." Josh Billings, it is recorded, began his 
 career as a humorist by changing his famous "Essa on 
 the Muel" from ordinary to "phonetic" spelling, but 
 most of Josh Billings spellings, however funny they 
 may have been to our fathers, have little justification 
 phonetically. The same is true of much of the spell 
 ing used by Artemus Ward, Petroleum V. Nasby, Sut 
 Lovingood, and other humorous writers who have 
 helped to establish the tradition of dialect spelling in 
 America. For many w r ords contained in the dramas 
 here printed, new spellings could be devised which, 
 regarded phonetically, would perhaps represent the 
 actual Carolina pronunciation more accurately than 
 either the standard or the traditional orthography; 
 yet any such gain in accuracy would in most cases be 
 more than offset by a resulting loss in intelligibility. In 
 view of these facts and of the alarm with which spell 
 ing reforms are liable to be regarded by the average 
 reader, it has been deemed advisable to depart from 
 standard usage only in those cases where traditional 
 practice in Southern dialect literature clearly points the 
 way or where the use of "phonetic" spelling runs no 
 risk of irritating or distracting the reader. 
 
 Although nothing short of an intimate acquaintance 
 
THE LANGUAGE OF THE PLAYS 153 
 
 with spoken North Carolinese can insure an absolutely 
 correct pronunciation of the written language, the fol 
 lowing observations may be of assistance to readers 
 who know the dialects of the South chiefly through the 
 medium of the printed page. Owing to limitations of 
 space, only the more general and characteristic pecu 
 liarities of the Carolina dialects can be considered here. 
 A more detailed discussion is now in preparation and 
 will, it is hoped, appear ere long in Studies in Phil 
 ology, published by the University of North Carolina. 
 As regards consonantal sounds, the spelling adopted 
 in this volume requires little comment. In general the 
 consonants, except r, may be understood to have the 
 same value as in standard American English. For prac 
 tical purposes it may be assumed that r is omitted by 
 native Carolinians whenever it stands before other con 
 sonants or is final. The result is usually a slight change 
 in the quality or length of the preceding vowel. Thus 
 floor and tore are practically indistinguishable in pro 
 nunciation from floiv and toe, and the Carolina 
 pronunciation of corn rhymes with the standard pro 
 nunciation of daiun. There is also a strong tendency 
 to omit the r-sound between vowels (as in beyin for 
 burying [a funeral] and ve y for very), and even in 
 some cases when it stands after a consonant and before 
 a vowel (as in hundred for hundred and p oduce for 
 produce). In order to avoid undue distortion in the 
 form of the words, r is generally retained in the spell 
 ing here used except in forms such as cuss for curse, 
 fust for first, and nuss for nurse, where the meaning 
 is easily identified and the spelling is clearly justified 
 
154 THE LANGUAGE OF THE PLAYS 
 
 by tradition. The combination er is also freely used, 
 especially in final position, to represent the indistinct 
 sound heard in the Carolina pronunciation of such 
 words as tobacco but lacking in more exact speech. 
 
 As appears from the examination of a large body of 
 dialect literature, the practice of spelling together 
 groups of words pronounced as a unit is frequently open 
 to objection ; hence it has been followed here only in a 
 few well established cases such as gimme for give me, 
 mebbe for maybe, and nemmine for never mind. The 
 highly characteristic Southern pronunciation of you all 
 (practically yawl) is indicated merely by a hyphen 
 (you-all). 
 
 Of the many phonetic differences between the dialects 
 of North Carolina and standard American or English 
 usage, several require special attention. 
 
 For the short o sound heard in the standard English 
 pronunciation of cob, dog, fog, frog, God, gone, gospel, 
 hog, and similar words, the typical uncultured 
 North Carolinian generally substitutes a sound closely 
 approximating that of the vowel in law. Or, to put it 
 another way, in North Carolina God rhymes with 
 sawed, and hog is pronounced as though it were spelled 
 hawg. 
 
 The dialects of North Carolina show few traces of 
 the so-called "broad a" and none at all of the middle 
 or Continental a recommended by the dictionaries for 
 such words as branch, can t, France, and grass. Except 
 before r the sound in such cases is usually that of a in 
 lamb, sometimes slightly drawled. The same vowel is 
 heard in the Carolina pronunciation of ant, aunt, bath, 
 
THE LANGUAGE OF THE PLAYS 155 
 
 calf, dance, gape, half, and similar words. Thus, in 
 eastern North Carolina, calm, palm, and psalm rhyme 
 with dam. When the a sound (written a or ea) pre 
 cedes r, the r practically disappears and the vowel ap 
 proaches the sound of aw in law so closely as to be 
 easily distinguishable from the New England pronun 
 ciation of a in the same position. Thus, in North Car 
 olina yard, though not quite a perfect rhyme for sawed, 
 is much more nearly so than it is for hard as pronounced 
 by the New Englander. (Cf. Dialect Notes, I, 34.) 
 As elsewhere in the South Atlantic States, the "broad 
 a" is most frequently heard in the eastern Carolina 
 pronunciation of ask, ma, master, pa! A character 
 istic though not exclusively Carolina pronunciation is 
 caint (cf. ain t) for cant. In calf, can t, car, carpet, 
 Carter, garden, (re) guard (s) , and other words in 
 which the accented a is preceded by a c or g(u), 
 the glide-sound following the consonant and popu 
 larly supposed to be an earmark of aristocracy in 
 eastern Virginia and North Carolina, is seldom heard 
 except among negroes and whites of the older genera 
 tion. 
 
 In the North Carolina pronunciation of apple, ash, 
 bag, candle, cash, have, rabbit, saddle, spasm, and simi 
 lar words, the accented vowel is generally somewhat 
 flattened and is occasionally drawled. Important excep 
 tions are ketch for catch, chomp for champ, flop for 
 flap, stomp for stamp, strop for strap, tossel for tassel, 
 and tromp(le) for tramp (le) . A similar substitution 
 is frequently heard in the pronunciation of barrel, bar 
 row, narrow, spargus (asparagus), and sparrow. 
 
156 THE LANGUAGE OF THE PLAYS 
 
 The short e sound heard in the standard pronuncia 
 tion of any, bed, bury, dead, friend, heifer, Reynolds, 
 said, says, and similar words is not uniformly pre 
 served in the dialects of North Carolina. A frequent 
 and characteristic substitute is short i, especially as in 
 Anglo-Irish, before m or n. Thus end becomes ind; 
 Evans, Ivans or Ivins; fence, fince; Jenny, Jinny; men, 
 mm; pen, pin; yesterday, yistidy. Short i is also the 
 accepted vowel in the Carolina pronunciation of again f 
 get, kettle, project, ten, and yet. Again, among 
 negroes and uneducated whites the accented vowel of 
 dead, edge, leg, neck, and sedge is frequently replaced 
 by the sound of a in age. Keg, wrestle, yellow, yes f 
 and a few other words occasionally have the same 
 accented vowel as rag, and in the more remote dis 
 tricts deaf rhymes with leaf. 
 
 Among negroes and certain rustics bear, declare, 
 fair, stair, pair, swear, their, there, and similar words 
 requently have the same accented vowel as bar and star, 
 but care, scare, and scarce are pronounced as though 
 spelled keer, sheer, and skeerce. In the pronunciation 
 of negroes scarce rhymes with face. 
 
 The obscure vowel sound heard in the standard pro 
 nunciation of the unaccented syllables of such words as 
 ago, children, China, cupboard, famous, liquor, mother, 
 and nation is not only preserved in the Carolina pro 
 nunciation of these and similar words, but is often 
 substituted where in more precise enunciation other 
 vowels are required. Its extensive occurrence is one 
 of the chief indications of the "laziness" frequently 
 charged against Southern speakers generally. Because 
 
THE LANGUAGE OF THE PLAYS 157 
 
 of the practical impossibility of representing with ordi 
 nary letters the more difficult examples of slurring in 
 the dialects of North Carolina without deforming the 
 words beyond recognition, the standard spelling is pre 
 served except in a few cases where tradition justifies 
 the substitution of o, a, or er. 
 
 For the short e sound heard in the standard pro 
 nunciation of certain, learn, search, serve, and similar 
 words, mountaineers and negroes are likely to substi 
 tute the a sound of Clark. Heard is frequently pro 
 nounced hyeard. Girl may become gall; the pronun 
 ciation gyerl is confined to a few older whites and 
 negroes. 
 
 In been, breeches, sleek, teat, and a few other words, 
 the accented vowel of standard pronunciation is uni 
 formly replaced by that of bit. Creature is pronounced 
 creeter or critter. 
 
 For the accented short i heard in the standard pro 
 nunciation of such words as bring, dinner, hinder, linen, 
 miracle f pith, pin, since, spirit, thin, thing, think, the 
 uneducated Carolinian is likely to substitute a short e 
 sound. That is to say, in the mouth of the typical 
 uncultured speaker the accented vowel of pith and 
 hinder is that heard in the standard pronunciation of 
 death and tender. Other noteworthy departures from 
 standard pronunciation are genuaine for genuine, favor- 
 aite for favorite, highstrikes for hysterics, reptaile for 
 reptile, eetch for itch, and mischeevous for mischievous. 
 In North Carolinese the universal pronunciation of 
 Mrs. is merely Miz, with the final consonant somewhat 
 prolonged. (Cf. Krapp, The Pronunciation of Stand- 
 
158 THE LANGUAGE OF THE PLAYS 
 
 ard English in America, New York, 1919, p. 122.) 
 For the accented vowel of boar, bore, door, floor, 
 force, gourd, porch, pork, and most other 1 words of the 
 same class, the native Carolinian substitutes a long o. 
 The r is of course lost. Thus, in typical North Caro- 
 linese of the remote rural districts boar, door, floor, 
 and sore are homonymous respectively with beau, 
 dough, flow, and sew. Noteworthy also are the pro 
 nunciations janders for jaundice, sassy for saucy, and 
 f award for forward. 
 
 The u sound heard in the standard English pro 
 nunciation of lose requires special consideration. As in 
 certain sections of America outside North Carolina, 
 food, proof, roof, root, soon, spoon, and certain other 
 words have the sound of oo heard in balloon, whereas 
 butcher, broom, coop, Cooper, hoof, hoop, Hooper, 
 and room have a short u sound like that heard in 
 the standard pronunciation of bush. Again, in the 
 Carolina pronunciation of cute, dew, due, duty, stew, 
 tune, and Tuesday, the accented vowel is preceded by 
 a glide sound as though the words in question were 
 spelled cyute, etc.; in absolutely), blue, deuce, glue, 
 Lucy, Luke, rude, Sue, true, and most other words of 
 this class the glide is never present. In North Caro 
 lina, as elsewhere in the South, the "correct" differ 
 entiation in this matter is one of the best criteria of 
 native speech. No North Carolinian of uncontami- 
 nated linguistic habits would, for example, pronounce 
 "New tunes are due to Sue," Noo toons are doo to Syue. 
 A noteworthy departure from the accented vowel 
 heard in the standard pronunciation of such words as 
 pull, woman, wood, are put, took, and soot, which 
 
THE LANGUAGE OF THE PLAYS 159 
 
 among older speakers generally rhyme respectively with 
 gut, tuck, and smut. 
 
 For the so-called "long i" of standard usage the Caro 
 lina lowlander frequently substitutes a sound composed 
 of the u of but followed by the vowel of tea. In a 
 number of words notably advice, (al) might (y), 
 bite, cipher, (de) light, disciple, ice, like, mice, nice, 
 night, right (eous), title, trifle, and twice the latter is 
 the accepted pronunciation along the coast as in other 
 parts of the South Atlantic seaboard, and its "correct" 
 usage is one of the best linguistic earmarks of the native 
 Southerner. In the matter of "long i" the Carolina 
 mountaineer is much closer than the lowlander to the 
 ordinary pronunciation in the North and the Middle 
 West. 
 
 Analogous to the treatment of "long i is that of 
 the ou sound heard in the standard pronunciation of 
 couch and town. Most words containing this sound 
 are pronounced much as they are outside the South, 
 but in certain cases notably doubt, house, louse, mouse, 
 mouth, and south the first element of the diphthong is 
 replaced by the vowel of met. Less frequently the same 
 combination of short e and u is heard in cow, cloud, 
 down, flour, flower, found, foul, fowl, how, howl, now, 
 plough, and sow (a female hog). The ability to use 
 this sound "correctly" is another excellent test of 
 Southern speech. Among the mountains the au sound 
 appears to be the rule. Except in the most remote dis 
 tricts the diphthong lacks the flat, nasal, drawl adopted 
 by many Northerners who attempt to imitate Southern 
 dialect. 
 
 For the oi sound heard in the standard pronunciation 
 
160 THE LANGUAGE OF THE PLAYS 
 
 of such words as anoint, hoist, join(t), joist, point, poi 
 son, spoil, and tenderloin, negroes, mountaineers, and 
 other ultra-conservative speakers substitute "long i" 
 
 TOM PEETE CROSS. 
 The University of Chicago. 
 
PRODUCING IN LITTLE THEATERS 
 
 By CLARENCE STRATTON 
 
 Written with a contagious enjoyment, it shows how to 
 manage the actors, mount, costume, light, finance, select 
 plays, etc., with over 60 striking illustrations and an annotated 
 list of 200 plays. 
 
 The Drama "will be of tremendous service . . . supplies to amateur pro 
 ducers the information for which they are writing frantically. . .invaluable. 
 
 SEEN ON THE STAGE 
 
 By CLAYTON HAMILTON 
 
 The fourth of this noted critic s books on the contemporary 
 theatre covering a wide range of plays and authors, including 
 O Neill, Dunsany, Ervine, Drinkwater, Shaw, Tolstoy, etc., 
 etc. 
 
 Brander Mathews in New York Times: "His four volumes of col 
 lected dramatic criticisms are not unworthy to be set on the shelf by the 
 side of Lemaitre s "Impressions de Theatre" and Faguet s "Propos de 
 Theatre." His preparation for dramatic criticism is exceptionally ample. 
 He adds also the other three qualifications which a critic ought to 
 possess insight and sympathy and disinterestedness. These plays are 
 vital and vivid in Mr. Hamilton s pages. 
 
 TOLD IN A CHINESE GARDEN AND OTHER PLAYS 
 
 By CONSTANCE G. WILCOX 
 
 For Outdoors or Indoors. They also include Pan Pipes, 
 Four of a Kind, The Princess 1 in the Fairy Tale and Mother 
 Goose Garden. 
 
 Evening Post: "... A welcome contribution to the literature 
 of the Little Theatre. Whimsical, imaginative, pictorial. . . . An 
 author of promising originality, taste and style. ..." 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 19 West 44th Street New York 
 
CAROLINA FOLK PLAYS 
 
 Edited by Frederick H. Koch, founder of The Dakota Play- 
 makers and of The Carolina Playmakers. 
 
 Five one-act plays by various authors. With illustrations 
 from their productions. $1. 75 
 
 Whin Witches Ride Peggy DodGast YeBothlQjfNags 
 Head or The Bell Buoy The Last of the Lowries. 
 
 Plays full of atmosphere and flavor. Outlaws, Moon 
 shiners, "revenoors", witches and land-pirates provide action 
 and picturesqueness. Has Professor Koch started to do for 
 America what The Abbey Players did for Ireland? 
 
 Walter Pritchard Eaton in The Drama: "Koch is doing a 
 wonderful work. He is teaching young people to write their 
 own plays, about their own people and their lives, stage them, 
 costume them, act them." 
 
 FRANKLIN By Constance D y Arcy Mackay, 
 
 author of The Beau of the Bath, etc. A play in four acts. $1. 75 
 
 Shows Franklin from his "Poor Richard" days through 
 his triumph at Versailles. 
 
 Boston Herald: "We see Franklin as the wag, the dreamer, 
 the lover, the scientist, the author, the diplomat, the patriot. 
 It is a fascinating play to read. 
 
 Chicago News . True to period. . . . The moments of 
 crisis are well managed, the characters convincing and the 
 humor delightful." 
 
 PRODUCING IN LITTLE THEATERS 
 
 By Clarence Stratton. With 70 Illustrations. 2nd Printing. $2.90 
 
 Literary Review of New York Post: "The most important 
 book for the small stage and one of the most practical additions 
 to theatrical literature." 
 
 PLAY PRODUCTION IN AMERICA 
 
 By Arthur Edwin Krows. With many illustrations. $3. 5 net 
 
 Life: "Everything that pertains to plays and their pro 
 duction." 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 19 West 4*th Street Viii aa New YorV 
 
Producing in Little Theaters 
 
 by CLARENCE STRATTON 
 
 Author of "Public Speaking" 
 
 258 pages 70 illustrations 11 chapters 
 
 Annotated list of 200 plays for amateurs 
 
 $2.90 
 
 A model manual, sane and sensible, helpful and practical 
 ... A word of praise must be given to the many illustra 
 tions . . . selected to adorn this book. . . . Immediately 
 helpful. Brander Matthews in New York Times. 
 
 The most important book for the small stage and one of 
 the most practical additions to theatrical literature for some 
 time past. New York Literary Review. 
 
 The amateur producer is bound to appreciate these pages 
 particularly. St. Louis Star. 
 
 It is impossible to over-estimate the value of this book as 
 a practical and stimulating help. Hartford Courant. 
 
 A record of interesting experiments in stagecraft with well 
 selected list of 200 plays suitable for amateurs. St. Louis 
 Post-Dispatch. 
 
 A varied and unusual collection of facts and data. . . . 
 Sanely and soundly acquainted with things theatrical. Phila 
 delphia Ledger. 
 
 For the thousands of teachers who take on dramatics as 
 extra duty, the work is invaluable. Drama. 
 
 The book is extremely well done. . . . To its public it will 
 be indispensable. Chicago Evening Post. 
 
 The first book which has come forth which treats all the 
 important phases of a little theater. Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 An excellent book. . . . Knows his subject well. Boston 
 Herald. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
BY CONSTANCE D ARCY MACKAY 
 
 THE LITTLE THEATRE IN THE UNITED STATES 
 An account of our principal little theatres, describing each 
 with its history, policy, achievement, repertory, lighting, 
 scenery, etc. There are also chapters covering The North 
 ampton Municipal Theatre, the New Theatre experiment, the 
 repertory system, and the cost of maintaining a Little Theatre. 
 With over 20 unusual illustrations and a so-page index. 
 277 pp. $2.50. 
 
 Walter Pritchard Eaton: "Not only of great value to the student, 
 but a great stimulation to the Little Theatre managers, to writers, and 
 to ambitious amateurs everywhere. ... I shall find occasion to make 
 much use of the book this winter, I am sure, and to recommend it." 
 
 COSTUMES AND SCENERY FOR AMATEURS 
 
 This book includes chapters on Amateurs and the New 
 Stage Art, Costumes, and Scenery, but consists mainly of 
 simple outline designs for costumes for historical plays, par 
 ticularly American Pageants, folk, fairy, and romantic plays 
 also of scenes, including interiors, exteriors, and a scheme 
 for a Greek Theatre, all drawn to scale. Throughout, color 
 schemes, economy, and simplicity are kept in view, and 
 ingenious ways are given to adapt the same costumes or 
 scenes to several different uses. With over 70 illustrations and 
 full index. 258 pp. $1.75. 
 
 HOW TO PRODUCE CHILDREN S PLAYS 
 After treating of the history of the children s play move 
 ment, its sociological aspects, and suggestions for new fields, 
 there come chapters on play-producing scenery, costumes and 
 properties. The book discusses the special needs of public 
 schools, social settlements and camps, and has lists of plays 
 for such places. There is a bibliography of the whole child- 
 drama movement. 151 pp. $1.35- 
 
 PATRIOTIC DRAMA IN YOUR TOWN 
 Miss Mackay sketches the main essentials with which any 
 fair-sized town may have pageants, A Little Theatre, or an 
 Outdoor Theatre. She also gives detailed suggestions for 
 community Fourth of July and Christmas Celebrations, etc. 
 135 pp. $1.35. 
 
 A circular Including Miss Mackay s popular plays for 
 young and old, free on application to 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS (io 22) NEW YORK 
 
BY CLAYTON HAMILTON 
 STUDIES IN STAGECRAFT 
 
 CONTENTS: The New Art of Making Plays, The Pictorial 
 Stage, The Drama of Illusion, The Modern Art of Stage 
 Direction, A Plea for a New Type of Play, The Undramatic 
 Drama, The Value of Stage Conventions, The Supernatural 
 Drama, The Irish National Theatre, The Personality of the 
 Playwright, Where to Begin a Play, Continuity of Structure, 
 Rhythm and Tempo, The Plays of Yesteryear, A New De 
 fense of Melodrama, The Art of the Moving- Picture Play, 
 The One-Act Play in America, Organizing an Audience, The 
 Function of Dramatic Criticism, etc., etc. $2.25 net. 
 
 Nation: "Information, alertness, coolness, sanity and the command 
 of a forceful and pointed English. ... A good book, in spite of 
 all deductions." 
 
 Prof. Archibald Henderson, in The Drama: "Uniformly excellent in 
 quality. . . . Continuously interesting in presentation . . 
 uniform for high excellence and elevated standards. . . ." 
 
 Athenaeum (London) : "His discussions, though incomplete, are 
 sufficiently provocative of thought to be well worth reading." 
 
 THE THEORY OF THE THEATRE 
 
 THB THEORY OF THE THEATRE. What is a Play? The 
 Psychology of Theatre Audiences. The Actor and the Dra 
 matist. Stage Conventions in Modern Times. The Four 
 Leading Types of Drama: Tragedy and Melodrama; Comedy 
 and Farce. The Modern Social Drama, etc., etc. 
 
 OTHER PRINCIPLES OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM. The Public 
 and the Dramatist. Dramatic Art and the Theatre Business. 
 Dramatic Literature and Theatric Journalism. The Inten 
 tion of Performance. The Quality of New Endeavor. 
 Pleasant and Unpleasant Plays. Themes in the Theatre. 
 The Function of Imagination, etc., etc. $2.25 net. 
 
 Bookman: "Presents coherently a more substantial body of idea on 
 the subject than perhaps elsewhere accessible." 
 
 Boston Transcript: "At every moment of his discussion he has a 
 firm grasp upon every phase of the subject." 
 
 PROBLEMS OF THE PLAYWRIGHT 
 
 This is probably even more interesting than the author s 
 popular Theory of the Theatre or than his Studies in Stagecraft 
 and is somewhat longer and more varied than either of its 
 predecessors. It represents the best of his work for several 
 recent years. $2.25 net. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 
 
THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS 
 
 WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN 
 THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY 
 WILL INCREASE TO 5O CENTS ON THE FOURTH 
 DAY AND TO $1.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY 
 OVERDUE. 
 
 fr 
 
 B , 
 
 :.-. r 
 
 21 OCT 59FT 
 
 oui - 
 
 3Apr 61DA 
 
 MAY 3 o tab! 
 
 26Apr 63PG 
 
0255 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNfAr rljkRARY