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