So they pray and preach together And sing in one accord, My heart within rejoices To hear them praise the Lord.

Though seats are rough, uneven, And they lay upon the sod, There can be no fault in the building, For the Architect is God.

Through years--it's been a custom That prayer should first be made, And then the others follow, Their praises ring in wood and glade.

There in the temple of temples, They tell of the glory land, While they beg the many sinners To take a better stand.

They beg the sinners to listen As they explain God's love, Telling of home that's waiting In the mansions up above.

Still praising God, the Father, Who gave His only Son, The meeting service closes Just as it had begun.

--Jessie Stewart

MOUNTAIN DOCTOR

This ballad was composed and set to tune by Jilson Setters, the Singin'

Fiddler of Lost Hope Hollow, who can neither read nor write, yet who has composed and set to tune more than one hundred ballads, some of which the late Dr. Kittredge of Harvard declared "will live as classics."

A very kindly doctor, a friend, I quite well know, He owned a mighty scope of land, some eighty year ago.

The doctor had an old-time house, built from logs and clay, A double crib of roughhewn logs, it was built to stay.

The doctor he would fish and hunt, He would bring in bear and deer; He was content and happy in his home with his loved ones always near.

The doctor owned a faithful horse, He rode him night and day; He had nothing but a bridle path To guide him on his way.

The panther was his dreadful foe, It often lingered near; The doctor always went well armed, He seemed to have no fear.

He made himself a nice warm coat From the pelt of a brown woolly bear; Often I loved to trace its length With eager hands through shaggy hair.

The forepaws fitted round his wrists, The hind parts reached to his thighs, And of the head he made a cap That sheltered both his ears and eyes.

The doctor dearly loved the woods, He was raised there from a child; He was very fond of old-time ways, If you scoffed them, he would chide.

He was good and sympathetic, He traveled night and day; He doctored many people, Regardless of the pay.

Nels Tatum Rice was his name, He was known for miles around; Far beyond the county seat, 'Long the Big Sandy up and down.

His mother wove his winter clothes, As a boy he'd case their furs; With them to the county seat, But once a year he'd go.

The merchant he would buy the fur, It gladdened the boy's heart.

He had money in his jeans, When for home he did start.

Boys, them days was full of glee, Both husky, fat and strong.

Nels very soon retraced his steps, It didn't take him long.

Safely, of home once more in sight, The boy quite glad did feel.

For he could hear old Shep dog bark, Hear the hum of the spinning wheel.

--Jilson Setters

MOUNTAIN WOMAN

'Tain't no use a-sittin' here And peerin' at the sun, A-wishin' I had purty things, Afore my work is done.

I best had bug the taters And fetch water from the run And save my time fer wishin'

When all my work is done.

Paw heerd the squirrels a-barkin'

This morning on the hill, And taken him his rifle-gun And tonic fer his chill.

Menfolks ain't got no larnin'

And have no time to fill; Paw spends his days in huntin'

Or putterin' round his still.

"'Tain't no use complainin'"

Is the song the wood thrush sings, And I don't know of nothin'

That's as sweet as what he brings.

But I best had comb my honey And churn that sour cream, And listen to the wood thrush When I ketch time to dream.

Sometimes I feel so happy As I hoe the sproutin' corn; To hear, far off upon the ridge, The call of Paw's cow horn.

Then I know it's time for milkin'

And my long day's work is through, And I kin sit upon the stoop And make my dreams come true.

I'll dream me a wish fer a shiney new hoe, And some dishes, an ax and a saw: And a calico shroud with a ribbon and bow And a new houn' dawg fer Paw.

--John W. Preble, Jr.

WOMAN'S WAY

You like this Circle Star quilt, Miss, you say: I have a favorance for this Flower Bed bright and fair; I made it when my heart was light and gay.

Like me, it's much the worse for time and wear.

I used it first upon my marriage bed-- And last, when Thomas, my poor man, lay dead.

This Nine Patch that is spread across my bed, My Emmy made it in her thirteenth year; I meant for her to claim it when she wed-- Excuse me, Miss, I couldn't help that tear.

She sewed her wedding dress so fine and proud-- Before the day, we used it for her shroud.

That Double Wedding Ring? poor Granny Day, Before I married Tom, made that for me.

A thrifty wife, I used to hear her say, Has kiverlids that all who come may see.

She rests there on the knoll f'nenst the rise-- The little grave is where my youngest lies.

Dove at the Window was my mother's make, Toad in a Puddle is the oldest one, Old Maid's Ramble and The Lady of the Lake I made for Ned, my oldest son.

Hearts and Gizzards make me think of Grandpap Day.

"Like Joseph's coat of many colors, Ma," he'd say.

The Snow Ball and the Rose are sister's make, She lived in Lost Hope Hollow acrost yon hill, Poor Jane, she might have had her pick of beaux, She sits alone because it was her will.

A wife she never would consent to be, For Jane, she loved the man that favored me.

--Martha Creech