Granny reflected a moment then said philosophically, "There's a heap of meanness goes on in t'other counties, same as in this." Briskly she plied her knitting needles. "And there's a certain party that has - - "
"Granny!" a brusque voice interrupted from the door- yard, "you ain't no call to be mouthin' such talk!" The stalwart mountain man in a few long strides reached the doorway.
"Bart!" exclaimed Granny, gathering up her knitting in her apron and rising quickly, "talk of the angels and you'll hear the rustlin' of their wings." Vaccilating, indeed, was the voice of Granny Blevins. "Come in and set!" she offered her chair which Bart, having bowed a greeting to me, accepted. "This is my grandson," she touched his shoulder.
"I 'lowed Granny would be singin' the Stell Kenny piece for you, Woman," Bart smiled jovially in my direction, "when I ketched sight of you comin' to the house. I were off grubbin' on the pint yonder," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward a clearing on the hillside. "Wimmin folks has curious ways. They're just downright boastful sometimes." He turned a condemning eye on the old woman.
"Bart!" defended Granny Blevins, "I weren't braggin' a-tall." She tossed her knitting on the bed and turning slowly to her giant grandson added meekly, "I vow I never named to this Woman who it was made the ballet."
"A guilty conscience is its own accuser," Bart retorted playfully.
"Well," countered the old woman lamely, "it is a good ballet and the truth every word of it and you don't need to disown the makin' of it."
Bart shifted awkwardly in the chair and looked at the floor.
"I wish I could do half as well at verse," I ventured a word of praise.
"Two against one!" Bart dropped his hands between his knees, "I reckon I might as well give up."
Granny beamed upon him. "Come along," she wheedled, "and sing your piece about Judge Yancey. You see," Granny settled herself in a chair at my side, "this happened over in Breathitt and Bart put it together from talk he heard."
"Granny, if you'll stop gabbin' long enough," Bart interposed with mock severity, "I might have a chance to show out a little." Taking a mouth harp from his pocket he tapped it on his knee, then tilting back in his chair he played an intriguing melody.
"That's the tune of it and now here's how it reads." Bart sang in a roaring voice:

Come all you people if you want to hear
A story about a cruel mountaineer.
Sydney Allen was a villain in vain
Until at the courthouse he won ill fame.

Sydney Allen, the prisoner took the stand;
Unbeknown to guards around him,
With a pistol in his hand,
He sent Blake Yancey to the Promised Land.

A few minutes more, the place was in a roar
The dead and dying were lying on the floor;
With a Thirty-eight Special and a thirty-eight ball
Sydney backed the sheriff up against the wall.

The judge thought he was in a mighty bad place;
The mountaineer was staring him right in the face.
He turned to the window and then he said,
"A few minutes more and we'll all be dead."

Sydney mounted to his pony and away he did ride,
With his friends and his kinsmen riding by his side;
They all shook hands and swore they would hang
Before they would give up to the prominent gang.

They arrived at the station about eleven forty-one,
His wife and his daughter and his two little sons;
They all shook hands, and they knelt down to pray;
Crying, "Oh Lord; don't take Pappy away."

The people all gathered from far and near,
To see poor Sydney sent to the electric chair.
But to their great surprise, the judge he said;
"Syd's going to the penitentiary instead."

Bart pocketed his harp and bringing out a knife began to whittle unconcernedly. "Human nater," he drawled, "is pretty much the same anywhere. If devilmint is in a man's heart, he'll be doin' the Devil's work no difference where he is....


From Ballad Makin' in the Mountains of Kentucky, by Jean Thomas. Oak Publications, 1964, pages 156-159. Originally published in 1939 by Henry Holt.