FIRE IN THE HILLS

"In studying the lives of great Christians, one cannot overlook the
fact that God seems more interested in men who would become
tools in his hands than in men who would use him as a tool ....Per-
haps the Lord's strategy in using the ordinary to do the extraordinary
means 'he wants the world to know that it is not by might nor by
power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord."

"The wind swept softly through the maple trees in the churchyard
as the Parson paused and scanned his audience. Then he continued,
‘what is true courage? Is it to follow the line of least resistance; to
give vent to our hatred and anger?  Or is it true courage to dare to
follow the One who died upon the cross for our sins that we might
to conquer hate through love? I  have had to wrestle with hate
in my own life, but I'm telling you. I have found that through the
grace of God, we  can conquer our anger and hatred.'”
"The sobbing so common at a mountain funeral ceased. Under
the stately, swaying hemlocks, God's message was going home, heal
ing, strengthening, curing the hatreds of the hills."
 
 

               ABINGDON PRESS
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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                                           INTRODUCTION

Here is a story of real life on a missionary frontier, as exciting and
stimulating as any that could come from the pen of a Hollywood fiction
writer. It is additional proof that "truth is stranger than fiction." The
mountain people of Appalachia are more than a legend they are a chunk of
real Americana-and the Frakes story shows what they can be when given a
chance. Frakes gave them that chance. "Called" from the comforts and
plaudits of a town parson to the rigors of transforming a bloody valley in
the Cumberland Mountains, he never once complained of his lot. He gave, he
sacrificed, and he triumphed. And he did it, not single-handedly, but by
the "sword of the Spirit." But his was not a nebulous, unrealistic
ministry. He firmly believed that to save men's souls was not the sum total
of a parson. His "cup-of-coldwater" doctrine found expression in better
housing, better education, better food, better roads, and better law
enforcement. Surprisingly, to some, the transformation of Laurel Fork
demonstrated that exponents of the "oldtime religion" possess a social
conscience. He weathered the many storms of that tumultuous area because
those people knew he loved them. Today, in his eighties, he is active and
articulate-an effective oracle of God. Just as adverse living conditions
didn't deter him then, age is no handicap now. This story is a sound
argument that the Gospel of Jesus Christ is not irrelevant. It never is
when it is given a chance. Frakes dared to expose a needy people to its
power and it worked. It always does.

                                               Billy Graham
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                                                               ii
 
 
 
 

                                                  CONTENTS

                   1. The Parson------------------------------------------1

                   2. The Start of a Dream-----------------------------8

                   3. If Any Lack Wisdom-----------------------------13

                   4. The First Christmas------------------------------20

                   5. Big, Bad Bill Henderson------------------------24

                   6. Blessed Are the Peacemakers----------------30

                   7. Trail's End for Bill Henderson----------------39

                   8. Law and Grace------------------------------------47

                   9. The Moonshine Machine-----------------------54

                  10. For of Such Is the Kingdom of Heaven-----59

                  11. From Whiskey to Wheat-----------------------66

                  12. The Gospel According to Bloodhounds----71

                  13. The Sunbonnet Girls---------------------------76

                  14. There's Life in Those Hills-------------------81

                  I5. The Way of Cain--------------------------------87

                  16. And Knowledge Shall Be Increased-------94

                  17. A Girl's Dream Come True----------------100

                  18. Black Friday-----------------------------------108

                  19. As Thy Soul Prospereth---------------------120

                  20. The Glory Road-------------------------------128

                  21. Sundown on Laurel Fork--------------------133

                  Photo Album---------------------------Last Page
 
 
 
 

                                          THE PARSON
 

Nestled in the picturesque Cumberland hill country, near Pineville,
Kentucky, is a quiet, peaceful community called Frakes. This little
community, spawned by faith and wrought by prayers, is the fulfillment
of a dream, the pot of gold at the end of one man's rainbow. And that
man is Hiram Frakes, a humble Methodist parson.

But Frakes, Keritucky, was not always Frakes, and Frakes himself was
not always the man God meant him to be.

In studying the lives of great Christians, one cannot overlook the fact
that God seems more interested in men who become tools in his hands
than in men who would use him as a tool. Why didn't the Lord , call
Aaron, Moses' brother, to set His people free? Aaron was eloquent and
articulate. He seemed all that a great emancipator should be. But no!
Aaron was passed up for the stammering Moses, an unlikely prospect
to be one of history's great men. Perhaps the Lord's strategy in using
the ordinary to do the extraordinary is that he wants the world to know
that it is "not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord."

So it was at the dawn of Christianity when the Lord Jesus Christ chose
His disciples. What an unseemly lot they were. Not one of them was
educated.  None had the natural gifts for leadership. But when Christ
touched them, commissioned them, and filled them with his Spirit, they
turned the world upside down-and it has not been the same since.

When Peter and John healed a lame man on the temple steps, the
Scripture says of the crowd of five thousand who gathered there:
"They . . . perceived that they were unlearned and ignorant men; . . .
and they took knowledge of them that they had been with Jesus."

The hills around what is now known as Frakes once boomed with the
sound of shotguns. Old-fashioned mountain feuding, complete with
murders, was common. The ancestors of these hill people had carved
 
 
 

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out a little valley rich in soil and in coal. However, they lived by the
rule of tooth and fang, because there was no road and no law. They
made liquor for two reasons: they loved to drink it, and selling it gave
them their bread and butter. But since good land was scarce, when the
demand for a plot of ground to grow corn to make corn liquor became
greater than the supply, then family turned on family, sometimes their
own kinfolk, and the guns started blazing.

The Bell County law officers had long since written off "South America,
" as they called the area, as a social loss. "Aw, they're nothing but a
bunch of robbers and murderers, and nothing will ever change them,"
was the consensus of opinion in Middlesboro. '

No one was surprised when the sheriff would go into South America
and bring back both the killer and the killed, dropping one off at the
undertaker's, and the other off at the county jail. Trials usually were
without witnesses, for fear of reprisals, and the sentences were brief
for the same reason. South America, to the townspeople of Pineville
and Middlesboro, was as far away and as irrelevant as that continent
for which it was named.

Just as God prepared a Lincoln for the task of freeing the slaves;
just as he prepared a General Booth to show compassion to the
downtrodden of London's East End; and just as he prepared a Luther
to spark the fires of the Reformation, he prepared a man to work
among these forgotten people of the Cumberlands.

Like a homing pigeon with built-in radar, Hiram Frakes was
unconsciously searching for his real niche in life. After his schooling,
he graduated from the Dodge Institute of Telegraphy and became a
telegraph operator for the Southern Railroad at English, Indiana. He
worked in English for a time but was restless, so he transferred to the
wheat fields of Kansas. Here he worked for awhile with an old friend
from Indiana. After a short period here, he accepted a job as telegraph
operator for the Santa Fe Railroad in Dodge City, Kansas. He then
married his high school sweetheart, Leota Walker, from Indiana.

One evening Hiram and Leota were walking down the street in the
little town of Holly, Colorado, where they had homesteaded some land.
 
 
 
 

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They had been given tickets for a picture show; but on the way to the
theater they passed a large tent and heard singing inside. A sign
announced that a "union revival" was in progress. They stood and
listened to the spirited singing for a moment and then decided to
attend the revival instead of the theater.  The preacher gave the
message "straight," and, when the altar call was given, they walked
forward together without a word of consultation. The call of God
reached each of them simultaneously, and they knelt together in the
sawdust and accepted God's forgiveness into their lives. This night
was the beginning of a complete revolution in the lives of Hiram
Frakes and his wife Leota.

Interestingly enough, great movements often begin with small
events that a news reporter wouldn't bother to write about. When
John Wesley knelt at that little chapel in Aldersgate Street, the
London Times carried no report of the event. But, later, the
English historian Lecky said: "When John Wesley's heart was
strangely warmed in Aldersgate, it was a national epoch."

Few, perhaps, took notice of that young couple kneeling in
Contrition before the Lord that night in that small town in
Colorado; but the good Lord in heaven was very aware. He had
spoken to Frakes's heart first; but, more than that, he had plans for
Frakes, and this night was an important part of that plan. It was the
beginning!

While Hiram Frakes had been brought up in a Methodist church
and had never been a hell-raisin' sinner, he had finally reached a
point in his Life that all spiritual leaders reach. He realized he was
too weak to face life without a personal relationship with God.
Frakes went out of that revival service that night with a lighter step,
a glow on his face, and a joy he had never known before in his heart.
He was a new man! Some time was yet to elapse before he found his
"people" to liberate; but that night, in the sawdust, he enrolled in
the Lord's training school, and life for him would never be the same
again.  The old song, "I'll go where you want me to go, . . . I'll be what
you want me to be," kept ringing in his ears. It was so much on his
mind that he found himself whistling it as he went about his work. It
seemed to express his desire those days, and it showed in his work.
 
 
 
 

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The telegraph work continued, but a new dimension had been added.
He just had to share his newfound joy which God had given him with
others. He studied his Bible and began to preach whenever he was
invited, and in time he was granted a local preacher's license by the
Southeast Kansas Conference. The Lord had to move him around like
a checker in the hands of a master player, but He finally got him in
position for the "key" move.

At first Frakes felt a strong pull back to southern Indiana. He took a
job for the Monon Railroad at Quincy and became very involved in
the church there. He was made Sunday school superintendent; and it
was in Quincy that he completed the four-year course of study for the
ministry. The Indiana Conference then granted him deacon's orders.
His first actual church appointment was in the Methodist church in
Lanesville, Indiana. All of these events were related, although at the
time they may have seemed unrelated. He had to go to Colorado to get
converted. He had to go to Kansas to get his preacher's license. He
had to go to Indiana to get his study course and his first assignment as
a minister; but he hadn't discovered God's ultimate plan yet. He was
coming nearer to the center of God's will, though, when he noticed
one day that one of the District Superintendents in Kentucky was
asking for preachers with a missionary spirit to come to the
mountains to minister to the coal camps. This was Hiram's cup of tea,
and he immediately applied for a job. That summer he was assigned
to Benham, Kentucky, where he was to be the pastor at a coal camp.

A year later, when his superintendent, Ollie G. Ragan, saw the
leadership qualities of Frakes, along with his dedication, he sent
him to the First Methodist Church of Pineville as pastor. Frakes
served this congregation well for three years; but down deep he
knew he had not reached his "Bethel." Daily he searched his soul
and sought to learn from God his will in life. God heard his
prayers and gradually directed him to his final life's work.

So it was that in 1925 the Rev. Hiram Frakes entered a packed
courtroom in Pineville, Kentucky, to attend a murder trial.
Throughout the three years in hill country, Hiram had been no
stranger to courtroom proceedings. As secretary for the local
church's social service work he had come to grips with every kind
 
 
 
 

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of human problem--from petty theft to murder. Like his Master
he had a compassion for the poor, the brokenhearted, and those
held captives by sin. He was drawn like a magnet to scenes of
human suffering.  It must have been so, for he didn't know the
exact reason he tiptoed into that courtroom on that cold February
day. He only knew that the judge, one of his church members,
was presiding over a murder hearing in the county courtroom
and he felt a strong urge to be there.

Seated in the front rows of the courtroom were clusters of gloomy
faced mountaineers--tall and gaunt and sullen. In ominous silence
they stared defiantly back at the beach, their horny hands tucked
into overall suspenders and their bearded jowls chewing in
rhythmic unison on tobacco cuds. For two days now they had sat
thus, motionless as statues, mum as mutes. A particularly vicious
feud had flared up in their section, about twenty miles away. They
had been summoned as witnesses. With the help of their testimony
the court had hoped to fix blame for some of the killings that had
taken place. A hope, it developed, as optimistic as it was vain. Small
wonder then that the judge's patience had burst its seams.

As the Methodist minister entered the courtroom, he noted that his
friend the presiding judge was unusually disturbed and his face was
flushed from anger.

"All right!" he shouted, "you won't talk. You won't brand the
criminals.  You won't help establish law and order in your
community so your children can have a decent chance at life. I
suggest you all go back home to your South America and shoot and
maim and murder until you're all killed off.  Then we will come in
and establish a civil government. Court's adjourned!"

The judge banged his gavel with a vengeance, disgust written all over
his face. He was tired of trying to help these people who seemed to
have no desire to help themselves.

The silent men of the mountains shuffled to their feet slowly and,
almost insolently, walked from the courtroom. As the last one passed
through the door, the judge turned to see Hiram Frakes beside him.
 
 
 
 

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"Howdy, parson," he said. "Sorry you caught me backsliding with
such an unsanctified temper, but those-"

The preacher interrupted.

"I've been hearing a lot about that South America clan lately, judge.
Everybody says it's the worst spot in the United States for
moonshining and feuding."

"In the world, you mean," the judge amended. "There's not an adult
male in the whole ten square miles out there who isn't engaged in
making illicit liquor, and more people have been killed in feuds out
there than in all the rest of Kentucky put together."

The judge wiped the sweat from his forehead and continued. "Two-
thirds of all the cases before this court come from South America, and
we get a conviction only once in a blue moon."

A few days after his conversation with the judge, with out confiding
His mission to anyone, Frakes started for South America. A coal train
took him as far as. Chenoa a mining camp at the end of the line.  It
was six miles farther to his destination. As he entered the valley, he
met two surly mountaineers, who looked him over, decided he was a
revenue agent or a reasonable facsimile, and moved off to spread the
word.

He knocked at several doors before he found one open to him. The
woman who opened the door was shy and suspicious. Not many
outsiders found their way into the valley, and when they did, they
were usually law officers, and they weren't welcome.

The woman told him to walk down the trail and he would probably
Meet someone to help him. Three miles down the mountain path he
Met a man who was a lookout for a moonshine operation. Frakes told
him his mission: that he wanted to establish a Christian school for the
children of that community. The mountaineer considered this for a
few moments, and then said in his slow drawl, "Well, now I reckin I'd
better go along. If you are who you say you are, maybe I can help ye.
If you're not, me and my pony can come back alone."
 
 
 

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That was the wedge, the start, the beginning. But there were many
More trails to follow, many more mountains to climb, and many more
rivers to cross.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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                          THE START OF A DREAM
 

The Parson and the mountaineer started up the twisting mountain
trail. Thin wisps of fog clustered above the little coves, and smoke
ascended from the tiny cabins perched on the sides of steep slopes. As
their horses jaunted along, the Parson said, "We've got to find a
suitable spot for our school and church."

"It won't be easy," said the mountaineer. "There ain’t much level
land in these parts, and the folks that has it don't take much to sellin'
it."

"I don't want to buy it," Frakes said. "I want the people to give me
the land for a school--and they're going to do it."

The mountaineer looked up at the Parson with a silly grin and shyly
retorted, "You're jest crazy enough to believe thet, hain't you!"

As they walked beside their horses up a steep grade the Parson
unveiled his plans to the stranger. "I want a lot of land a hundred
acres or more. I want pasture to graze cattle on, so we'll have our own
milk and butter for the children who live too far away to walk to
school every day. I want some flat land for a dormitory, a school,
church, a barn, and some chicken houses."

His guide, whom he later found out was a moonshiner’s lookout, was
Taken in by the little man with the shinning eyes and the bold dream.
"I know a place," he volunteered "if'n you can git ahold of it."
Pointing up a steep trail he said, "it's jest over thet hill yonder."

As they came to the summit, Frakes couldn't believe his eyes. Below
him stretched one of the greenest and fairest valleys he had ever seen.
It was like some fabled Brigadoon in the Scottish Highlands. There
were groves and fields and meadows. He shut his eyes briefly: He
could envision a white school building with happy children running in
and out and a steepled church with worshipers entering a spotless
sanctuary, and the end of violence and feuding which had beleagured
 
 
 

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these bloody hills for years. A prayer crossed his lips: "O God, I don't
know how you're going to do it, but give this valley to me, and I'll
nourish it like a Garden of Eden."

Frakes then looked at his guide like a man awakening from a vision.
And shaking himself to reality, he said, "I told you I have no money;
but---" He remembered his prayer, "But will you take me to the
people who own this land anyway?"

Slowly leading the way, the man first took him to Uncle Scott Partin.
He was the senior "shiner," who boasted that his grandfather had
Accompanied Daniel Boone into Kentucky. Uncle Scott had just
returned to the Laurel Creek section after a seven-year visit to the
state penitentiary for his participation in a violent feud. When the
Parson told him enthusiastically about his almost impossible dream
for Laurel Creek, the old man looked him over from head to toe
appraisingly. He glanced again at his small parcel of lush land and,
like a man with a shotgun pressed against his ribs, said with a sigh,
"Okay, you can count on me for sixteen acres-if yer gonna' do
what you say you are."

The second man they approached about adding to their gift of land
said, "Preacher, I ain't got no money, I ain't got no larnin', and I ain't
got no land to speak of, only five acres to my name." Then he paused
and hesitatingly added, "But half of it is yourn, if you'll help our kids
to get some larnin'."

With this beginning, word of the proposed project got around fast.
Though there were no phones or tom-tom drums, news traveled fast
in mountain areas.  Frakes hadn't been in the Laurel Creek
community but a few hours, but almost everyone there was aware of
his presence.

The next man he contacted was Bill Henderson. Bill was known
throughout those mountains as the "King of the Moonshiners."
Legally, the county was "dry." But just as the mountain dew forms
upon the shrubs and fields of Laurel Creek in the night, another kind
of "mount dew," made from corn squeezings, was conjured up during
the hours of darkness. Moonshine was simply a "nice thing for
 
 
 

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passing the, time" for the drinkers of Pineville and Middlesboro, but
it was a necessity for these hill people.   At least they thought so. They
looked upon the manufacture of the stuff as an economic opportunity.
And Bill Henderson operated the biggest still in the valley.

When he met Henderson, Frakes knew he must handle the man
carefully. His guide had told him that Bill counted his misdemeanors
against the law by notches on his gun--and those notches numbered
thirteen! Just so, there were thirteen indictments lodged against him
at the courthouse in Pineville. He was the titular head of a feuding
clan, revered by his clansmen, feared by his enemies, and sought
constantly by the police. His trusty shooting iron stood between him
and apprehension by law. But Bill Henderson had a soft spot in his
heart, his children. He loved them dearly and coveted for them a
better chance in life than he had had. Bill owned sixty- eight acres of
land, and it comprised a large part of the portion that had first caught
Frakes's eye. It was the most valuable land in the entire area.

Frakes decided to approach Bill Henderson just as he had the others,
In honesty and openness. He told him his dream for the valley and
challenged him for the sake of his wife and children to be a part of it.
Bill listened intently as Frakes described Laurel Creek as it could be
and when Frakes finished, Bill eyed him silently for a long interval.
Then he stood up, shoved his hands in pockets of his overalls, threw
back his shoulders, and said, "Preacher, I don't do things halfway.
When I'm sold on something I'm sold all the way. I'll just give you
the whole sixty-eight acres!"

Frakes couldn't believe his ears. Shocked, because he'd heard even in
Pineville about the meanness of Bill Henderson, he asked for
affirmation.  "Do you mean you're going to give all the land you
own?"

"Yep, that's what I mean," Bill assured him. He went on, "I know my
days are numbered, preacher. The law is after me hard; and if, when
they git me, you'll take care of my kids, the land is yours."

For three months Frakes had been convinced over and over again
that he had done right by resigning his church in Pineville and coming
 
 
 

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to Laurel Fork. Now that conviction was established for a lifetime. He
had never been so excited about anything in all his years.

During these three months he had seen miracle after miracle unfold
Before his very eyes. He had lived with the people and visited nearly
all of them in their humble cabins, talking to their children, learning
their names, and gradually winning their confidence. They had come
to accept him and believe in him, and that was the greatest miracle of
all.

Yes, he knew there was lots of moonshining going on. In fact, he had
learned that it could well be the leading source of income in the
valley.  But he did not take the role of "informer," preferring rather
to handle the issue by seeing the people changed on the inside by
Christian conversion.  It would take time; but he figured that both he
and God had lots of that and he believed with all his heart that
eventually the change would come.

Having received the "go" signal from the people of Laurel Fork,
Frakes was now ready to challenge the leaders of his church to match
the sacrifices of the poor people of the valley. So in the spring he went
to Cincinnati to lay his proposition before his resident bishop, Bishop
Theodore S. Henderson.

The Bishop welcomed him heartily. He had looked forward to this
meeting, for he was anxious to hear all about this new project that
Frakes had written about so enthusiastically. Soon the Bishop's desk
could not accommodate all the maps, drawings, and photographs that
Frakes had brought; so they spread the materials out on the floor.
Together they got down on the floor so they, could better go over all
the plans that Frakes had in mind. The Bishop was impressed by the
careful, methodical survey the parson had made.

Frakes findings revealed: There were 1,248 children within a radius
of six miles; the few who did go to school were dropping out at the
third and fourth grades; the girls were marrying at twelve and
thirteen years of age; the boys were invariably following their fathers
into moonshining; and life expectancy was amazingly Iow because of
feuds. All these evils existed because of the lack of proper training in
 
 
 

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religion, education, health, economic and social opportunity.

Frakes convinced the Bishop that he was ready, able and willing to
Dedicate his life to improving conditions in those hills. With his
natural-born streak of Hoosier independence, he didn't even ask the
Bishop for funds or conference support. "All I want," he told the
Bishop, the opportunity to sell this project to the churches of our
denomination." He went on to say that he was ready to stake his
whole future on his ability to do so, by the grace of God.

As the two men stood amidst the jumble of maps, charts and pictures
on the floor, the Bishop put his hand on Frakes's shoulder and said,
"Brother Frakes, you certainly have my blessing. I'm with you all the
way. I want you to return to your mission field, secure a place for you
and Mrs. Frakes to live, and then-eat, sleep, and live this dream."

Frakes now had three things essential to the materialization of his
God-given vision: (1) The inner consciousness that he was in the will
of God; (2) The cooperation of the people of Laurel Fork as evidenced
by their sacrificial giving of their land; and (3) The blessing of the
titular head of his denomination.

It appeared that there was smooth sledding ahead. But even Frakes
himself, who now probably 'knew' these hill people better than
anyone else, little realized the obstacles ahead. Some would be so
great as to threaten to destroy his hopes and dreams for these
forgotten people.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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                             IF ANY LACK WISDOM
 

Lack of education, not ignorance, was the bugaboo of the hills. Frakes
believed strongly in the scripture, "Seek ye first the kingdom of God
and his righteousness and all these things shall be added unto you."
But he also believed that knowledge was important to the full
development of the human personality, and a school was part of his
original dream for the valley.

The county authorities had neglected this remote section because of
fear.  They knew that every outsider was considered a criminal
intruder, and that few schoolteachers were dedicated enough to be the
slightest bit interested in teaching at the Settlement. In fact, the
chairman of the county school board had said, when Frakes
approached him about a school in Laurel Fork: "Can't do it.  It’s too
dangerous to try that sort of thing in that section."

The Bible says, "But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world
to confound the wise; and God hath the weak things of the world to
confound the things which are mighty" (I Cor. 1:27). Frakes himself
was limited in education, having never attended a seminary. So for
this and obvious other reasons he wanted his valley parishioners to
have the benefit of wisdom and knowledge. He well knew that lack of
education was the cause of many of the feuds and much of the killing.
He convinced that if the people could get God in their hearts and
Christian wisdom in their heads the valley could be transformed.

But few of his confidants seemed to share his conviction. Everyone he
talked to agreed that the need was indeed present, but their apathy
was only exceeded by their hopelessness and despair of the situation.
Frakes, always remembering his dream for these people,  proceeded
with the faith that somehow, sometime, God would provide a way. He
knew that God was the sponsor of his project, and that God didn't
sponsor failures.

One day, as his wagon rounded a bend in the trail from the coal camp,
Frakes met a nicely dressed woman in a wagon. To his surprise she
jumped out and said, "You must be the preacher I've heard so much
 
 
 

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about. I'm here to help you!"

Frakes was dumbfounded. Either this woman was demented or she
was totally unaware of conditions in Laurel Fork. To the men who
lived in these hills a woman was a chattel, a necessary piece of house-
hold equipment and nothing more. They did not think of a woman as
being qualified for any kind of leadership.

Unaware of any such obstacles, the smiling lady from the "outside"
said, "I came to help you with your school.  I'm a graduate of the
Chicago Training School and a deaconess in The Methodist Church.
I heard about your project away up in Chicago, and, after I'd prayed
about it for several weeks, I knew God wanted me to come and
help you. So here I am."

Frakes still was not quite able to grasp what was happening. Fumbling
for words, he said, "That's wonderful.  but it's impossible. I have no
place for you to live, no funds for the school, no money to pay you
with, and I'm not sure the people would take kindly to a woman."

Frakes thought this would conclude the matter; but not so. Here was
a woman to whom God had given a piece of his vision, and who was
an answer to his prayer, although he did not know it yet, and she
could not be dissuaded.

"What's that old building over there?" she asked.

Frakes's eyes followed her pointing finger. "Oh, that's nothing but
an old log stable. There's a cow and a calf in there, and it's unfit for
human habitation."

"Why, Mr. Frakes," Bertha Riel--for that was her name retorted,
"wasn't the One we serve born in a stable?  And couldn't he fill that
cow stable with his presence just as he hallowed that lowly stable in
Bethlehem two thousand years ago?"

Frakes was duly and effectively rebuked. Here was a woman with the
insight and courage that he needed for the work in Laurel Fork. He
was not about to fight her help, if she was serious.
 
 
 

                                                               14
 
 
 
 

Miss Riel, seeing her point had gotten to him, went on, "With the aid
of gallons of water and pounds of soap we'll get this stable cleaned out,
and I'll be able to live in it. And we can start our school."

Frakes's heart was jumping with excitement; but he felt impelled to
warn this unseasoned woman of the dangers involved. He told her of
the violence and lawlessness, of the hate and ignorance. When he had
had his say, he looked at her and saw that nothing he said had effect
on her spirits. Instead, she interrupted him, saying, "Now, Mr.
Frakes, I've heard about all that already.  I didn't come here entirely
ignorant of the situation; but that's why this work is so challenging.
All I want to do now is to get on with it."

"But what about your salary?" Frakes queried.

"What's your salary?" Miss Riel asked in response.

"I don't get any."

"Then put me down for the same income until we begin to get on our
feet. I'll eat what you eat, I'll sleep in this stable, and we'll work
together for the fulfillment of God's plan for these people."

That is the way the first school started. Frakes said that he turned the
cow and calf out, and turned Miss Riel in.  She started a Sunday
school in that cabin the next Sunday, and she used the little cabin
which she’d scrubbed as clean and neat as a proper mountain house
for social gatherings for the young people, in addition to living in it.

Now with a school building and a schoolteacher, and one duly
qualified too, Frakes set out to round up his school pupils. The only
school they had had before he came (it had been closed down for
some time) was too small, a roughly built plank house twelve by four-
teen feet.  There were no seats or desks. The only furniture and
supplies were crude benches made from unplaned lumber and three
schoolbooks for the eleven children who attended. Frakes found that
there were eighty-eight children in the immediate vicinity of the
Settlement who should have been in school. A large percentage of the
eighty-eight were married, many of them only twelve, thirteen, or
 
 
 

                                                               15
 
 
 
 

fourteen year olds. They married because their parents had large
families and had to make room for the new babies which came along
every year or oftener.  Three families in Laurel Fork provided forty-
five children for the Settlement school eventually.

Most of the adults could not read or write, and the educational level
of the school-age children would have been about second or third
grade. One little girl who came to school the first day, when asked
what grade she was in, said, "I've been halfway through the fourth
grade four times."

When asked what she meant, she said, "Our teacher could not go any
farther than halfway through the fourth grade himself, and he would
turn us back when we got that far. So I went halfway through the
fourth grade four times."

One day the children came running in to Miss Riel and said, "Mr.
Banks is here. Come out and see him. He's right out here in the yard."

"Who is Mr. Banks?" Miss Riel asked the children.

"He's our mountain schoolteacher."

Mr. Banks had heard there was a modern  school in Laurel Fork and,
though past eighty years of age, had walked several miles across the
ridge to see the new school. Miss Riel invited him in to speak to the
children.

He said he would rather not. "You see," he said, "I ain't got no larnin'
like you got, and I ain't comin' in."

"But aren't you a schoolteacher?" asked Miss Riel.

"Yes'm," he answered.  "I've been larnin' our boys and girls nigh onto
forty years in these here mountains."

After a little persuasion he consented to go inside and talk to the
pupils. He told them, "Now, boys and girls, get all the larnin' you can.
This h'yar good woman has come down from the North to larn
 
 
 

                                                               16
 
 
 
 

you'uns a lot of things I couldn't larn you."

Then he turned to the blackboard and looked at the problem that had
been worked there before recess. He looked at it for a few moments
and said, "I see you been doin' a problem h'yar. Now that's beyond
me. I couldn't work that. I'm mighty proud of ya'."

The problem was a standard fourth-grade problem.

One day in February, one of the handymen at the Settlement went into
Pineville to transact some business.  He could neither read nor write,
for he had never spent a day in school. When he returned, he looked a
little downcast, and another worker asked him if he'd gotten his
business taken care of.

"Nope," he said. “Some big shot in Pineville was celebrating his
birthday, and I guess everybody went to the party, cause everything
were closed.”

"What was his name?" the fellow worker asked.

"Hit was some guy named Washington. I never did larn his first name.
Everyone I ast about the stores all bein’ closed jest said, `It's
Washington's birthday."'

When Frakes first went out to work at the Settlement, he still kept his
house in Pineville for quite awhile until he could get one built in
Laurel Fork suitable for his wife. On one of his trips home he decided
to take Alice, one of the mountain girls, with him, for she had never
been out of the valley.

When they arrived at his home, he and his wife found real pleasure in
showing Alice the modern conveniences of city life. She was wide-eyed
as Frakes showed her how to push the little black button to turn the
lights on.  Then he showed her how to turn on the faucet in the sink.
She stood on a chair, giggling, turning the faucet on and off and letting
the warm water run over her hands.

They took her upstairs and showed her the modern bathroom. When
 
 
 

                                                               17
 
 
 
 

her eyes fell on the tub, in wonderment she looked up at the Parson
and exclaimed, "Mr. Frakes, what are you doin' with that white horse
trough in h'yar?"

For her, seeing Frakes's house was like going to the fair and having
free admission to all the shows. She wanted to see it all. They took her
to the basement, and she went into the furnace room, looked at the
furnace, and saw the fire inside. She stood back in fear; but they
assured her that she need not be afraid and explained it was just a
stove that furnished the heat for the house. Her eyes literally began to
dance as she gleefully said, "Oh, Mr. Frakes, wouldn't this be a dandy
place for a moonshine still?"

Alice was not ignorant, she was illiterate. She was representative of
the 1,200 children in "South America" (the Laurel Fork section), who
had been insulated and isolated from the outside world. For one
hundred years there had never been in that valley a farm agent, a
home agent, a social worker, a sanitary officer, a government official,
or a county welfare worker. Talk about the plight of the blacks! These
white people lived in squalor equal to or worse than any blacks in the
poorest ghettos of our cities. And no one had championed their cause
except Parson Frakes. They loved him for it.  It wasn't welfare they
wanted. They wanted a chance to fend for themselves, and Frakes was
determined to give them that chance.

The school term started off in 1925 with thirteen students.  Every day
saw improvement in the students' physical appearance and their
mental attitudes. Miss Riel, they soon found, was one of the best
friends they could have.  She had come to do the noblest of all tasks:
to put love in their hearts by the grace of God, and to put knowledge
in their heads.

Of those first thirteen students, Wayland Jones went on to graduate
from high school and from Union College.  He lives in Frakes at the
present time and teaches in the high school.

Ethel Bowlin-Brown graduated from the Settlement High School,
attended college, and came back to teach for several years at the
Settlement. She later married a school teacher and moved to Jellico,
 
 
 

                                                               18
 
 
 
 

Tennessee, where she is teaching in the school system and her husband
is a successful businessman.

Mossie Murray-Price graduated from high school, entered college, and
married; Florence Bowlin graduated from high school and married a
schoolteacher; Minerva Partin graduated from high school, attended
Berea College, and became a graduate nurse with an R. N. certificate
from Cook County Hospital, Chicago. She is still there doing nursing.

The others obtained an elementary education at least; they married,
obtained gainful employment, or went into business for themselves.
Not one fell into the old mountain pattern of "marry, feud, make
moonshine, and die”  Even from the first, Frakes's dream took shape,
and his vision found fulfillment.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                                                               19
 
 
 

                         THE FIRST CHRISTMAS
 

Pineville and Middlesboro, due to their isolation, had their share of
lawlessness. A murder a week was about par for those two towns in
Bell County. But conditions at Laurel Fork were far worse. Situated
Sixteen miles from Pineville, thirty-five miles from Middlesboro, with
nothing but an ungraded, deep-rutted, rocky trail for a road, Laurel
Fork was too far away for the law to matter, it seemed. Here young
men and old died violently usually at gunpoint-over the most trifling
differences.  Making their own laws, families exacted endless reprisals
stemming from the only code they knew: "An eye for an eye, and a
tooth for a tooth:" Each man feared his neighbor, never knowing
when a shot might ring out, accompanied by the burning pain of a
penetrating bullet, signaling the end of his life on earth.

This more than anything else was what Frakes prayed to help change.
He knew it had to have first priority, if for no other reason, for the
children. He once observed to a friend in Pineville, "Those kids are
living like wildcats.”

One thing he knew, he could not do the job alone. He needed help and
plenty of it. He had the land and the approval of his denomination.
Now he needed people to implement his dream for his adopted hill
country.

Winter was coming on, many of the men were out of work, and
clothing and food were scarce. The large families living in the sub-
standard cabins would be hard put to withstand the cold of another
winter.

As Frakes thought of this problem, an idea was sparked, and he
started to work on it. There were doubtless hundreds of churches
throughout Methodism who would gladly contribute food and
secondhand clothing if they were asked.

That night, by lamplight, he wrote the resident bishop in Cincinnati
about the problem.   He had come to know that Bishop Henderson had
a soft spot in his heart for the Settlement and its people. He felt sure
the Bishop would help.
 
 

                                                               20
 
 

The good Bishop reacted with a personal letter to many of the large
churches within the area of his jurisdiction. In a matter of weeks
barrels of clothing began to roll in and boxes of food. So generous was
the response that space for storage became an immediate problem.
The old clap board building down by the log post office was turned in
A "general store." The clothing was sorted, racks were made by the
Settlement carpenter, and food was displayed in the "grocery."

Frakes knew these people to be an independent lot who would not take
kindly to charity; so in order to keep everyone happy he put a price
on everything just like a city store---except the prices were scaled down
to conform to the Settlement economy.   Shoes were 50¢ a pair; over-
coats were $1.50; and dresses went up to 88¢. Food was dispensed
similarly. A can of beans was 3¢, a pound of coffee 10¢, and a sack of
flour 8¢.

Business boomed from the beginning. The mountain people found it a
treat to be able to "shop." They left the store with their bundles of
clothing and sacks of food and felt as if they had been to town. Frakes
knew he had found a good combination: the need of his people
matched by the generosity of concerned Christians far and near.

The mountain people were not style-conscious, for they were not in
position to know what the latest styles were some of their "git-ups"
were quite extraordinary, as their purchases of clothing ran to the
ribald and ridiculous.  A red satin "flapper" skirt, discarded by some
conscience stricken Methodist woman, worn with a pair of 1902 high
button shoes and a tailored, plaid flannel blouse was not unusual. As
far as these people were concerned, these clothes sent to them by the
city folk were the latest and most chic styles-and they were as pleased
as punch.

When the Christmas season arrived, it was announced that the school
would have a Christmas tree and a Christmas program and all the
people in the valley were invited.   When one mountaineer heard of it,
he said, "Now I heerd of a oak tree, a elm tree, a maple tree, and a
gum tree; but I swanee if I ever heerd of a Christmas tree!"

It was a cold, rainy day when the time for the special event arrived,
but many family groups could be seen trudging down the wet, muddy
road and the narrow lanes that led to the former cow stable. There
 
 
 

                                                               21
 
 
 
 

was very little to look forward to in the once-forsaken valley, and
these people were not going to miss seeing a Christmas tree, of all
things!

Friends of the Settlement had sent colorfully wrapped gifts, and the
churches of Pineville had sent generous sacks of candy for each one
attending. Miss Riel put her own scant assortment of decorations on
the tree and pinned the packages on the empty branches. She spread
the candy around the bottom like a colorful skirt. Then so as to whet
the curiosity a little more, she covered it all with a large white sheet.

There was an air of mystery and excitement as the time to view the
tree approached.  Gathered together for the festive occasion were
aproned mothers with babies in their arms and little ones clinging to
their skirts. There were boys and girls and teen-agers alike waiting
eagerly for the magic moment. There were fathers and grandfathers
steeling their faces to hide the excitement they felt.

No one at the program that day--and there were at least hundred
people--had ever seen a Christmas tree. Finally the highly anticipated
moment arrived! Bertha Riel slipped over to the tree and slowly
pulled off its covering, and there in its tinseled beauty stood the grand
vision of green, white, and red. A ripple of admiring sighs came from
the thrilled group. And, when they were able to find their voices, each
exclaimed in his own way his own, personal feeling about the tree. It
was surely the prettiest thing they had ever seen. The Parson slowly
lit the candles as they all watched in enthralled silence. Then the
gifts and goodies were passed to the crowd. It was a very special time
for these shy and usually restrained people.  Laughter was rife, and a
joy they had never known in fellowship had come to them.

The Christmas party with its program was the first public meeting
ever held in the valley up until that time in which there was no
incident of violence or rowdyism.  He who brought "peace on earth
and goodwill toward men" had come to this isolated community.
Three years previously, some of the people had tried to have a public
meeting; but there was so much moonshining and drinking and gun-
toting that they had not dared try again. But on this Christmas Day
there was not a pistol seen in the crowd. One lady exclaimed as she
 
 
 

                                                               22
 
 
 
 

left the school with happiness in her heart and gifts in her hands,
"What a wonderful new day has come to us at Laurel Fork."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                                                               23
 
 
 
 

                      BIG, BAD BILL HENDERSON
 

The Parson's years at Laurel Fork were like the weather the good
Lord gives, a mixture of clouds and sunshine, of rain and fair weather.
A victory would be gained, only to be followed by some kind of
discouraging incident. At the very time of the glorious Christmas
party, Bill Henderson, the man with the big heart and the notorious
reputation, was hiding in the mountains near his home, a fugitive from
justice. There was a reward of $200 for his capture. Parson Frakes felt
strongly that something had to be done about Bill. Bill had given sixty-
eight acres to the project of Henderson Settlement, and most of the
people in the valley, and in Pineville as well, thought it had been
named for him alone. They of course didn't know about the good
bishop with the same name. But getting Bill leveled off was no cinch.

Frakes, having conducted jail services in Pineville from time to time
when Bill Henderson was an inmate, had become fascinated with this
contradiction of a man. Since Henderson seemed to be perennially in
jail, Frakes had good opportunities to study him. It was always Bill
who would say to the other inmates, "Come on, boys, the Parson is
here, and we must give him our respects."

One Sunday, after Frakes had talked with the prisoners, a young man
stepped forward to accept Christ. Bill Henderson, to everyone's
surprise, was the first to shake the young prisoner's hand and to
congratulate him for his courageous step. This is to say that like all of
us Bill had a good and a bad side. This gave Frakes both concern and,
the same time, hope for Bill.

Henderson was serving one of his jail sentences just before an election
was to take place, and the jailer was up for re-election. The jailer told
Bill that he would forget to lock the cell one night if Bill would agree
to go back to Laurel Fork and electioneer for him. So one night the
jailer did just that: he "forgot" to lock Bill's cell with the thought that
Bill would slip out and go home and campaign for him. Bill did go
home; but instead of campaigning for the jailer who freed him, he
campaigned for his. opponent, whom he apparently thought was a
 
 
 
 

                                                               24
 
 
 
 

more honest man. I suppose Bill thought that any jailer who would
forget to lock a cell was unworthy to be the turnkey for the county.

When the new jailer was installed, he tried in every way possible to get
Bill to come back on his own an, finish his sentence, but Bill
dogmatically refused. One day the jailer saw Frakes in town and asked
him if he ever saw Bill Henderson in Laurel Fork.

Frakes answered, "I see him every day or so, and just last week I spent
the night at his place."

"If you'll bring him in," the jailer said, "I've got a $200 reward for
you."

Frakes quickly told the officer that he was not a law officer but a
minister of the Gospel, and if Bill we brought in, the jailer would have
to do it himself.

Not long after that, four deputy sheriffs armed with high-powered
rifles went out to Laurel Fork one night to get Bill so they could claim
the reward for his capture They went to Bill's barn and kept under
cover until daylight. At dawn, Bill walked out of his cabin with his
trusty shooting iron in his hands and a pistol dangling in a holster. As
he came through the yard gate, one of the officers crawled from under
the barn and, with his gun drawn, said, "Okay, Uncle Bill, wait right
there. We want to have a talk with you:"

Henderson, quickly sizing up the situation, said, " right, boys, just
wait. I'll be back in a minute." And with that he darted toward the
door of his house to take cover, at least momentarily. When he made a
break for the cabin, all four officers let go with a barrage of shots,
peppering the house.

When all seemed quiet and there had teen no sound from Bill in some
time, one of the officers asked the other men to
cover him; he walked cautiously up to the cabin door with
his gun ready. Here he encountered Bill's wife, as she slowly
opened the door to peer out and see what was happening.

"Where's Bill?" the officer asked.
 
 

                                                               25
 
 
 
 

"I dunno'," she answered. "I guess you killed him."

The officer, sensing that she might be giving him the runaround, said,
"We want to come in and search for moonshine."

"If ye have a warrant, you can," she answered wisely. "I know you
lawmen! You slip into a person's house, place some liquor under the
bed, and then pull it out and say ye found it there. No, ye're not comin'
in exceptin' over my dead body." Convinced now that they were not
going to gain entry to the cabin or apprehend Henderson that day, the
men returned to Pineville.

The next day Frakes, who had heard about the incident, saw Bill and
asked, "Bill, how did you manage to keep from being hit by those six-
teen rounds from the deputies' bullets?"

"Oh," Bill said, "I just jumped first this way and then t'other way, so
they couldn't hit me till I got in the house. Then I slipped out the side
door and finally fell down over a big stone and rolled under a little
ledge where I could see everything that happened.

"Parson," Bill continued, "I could have killed any one of those men—
I had 'em dead in my sight. But then I thought of all you been doin' fer
me to git me out o' trouble, and I dropped my aim. I knew if I kilt one
of them fellers, everything you've done fer me would be ruint."

In an all-out effort to persuade Bill to volunteer to go back to jail
before the officers came back again, the Parson made arrangements
to meet Bill at his brother's house after nightfall. He realized that all
attempts to get a pardon for Bill were futile as long as Bill was a
fugitive from justice. The two met at Bill's brother's cabin, hidden in
a ravine, and talked long into the night.

Along toward morning a violent storm began brewing. The thunder
and lightning rocked the little cabin as the men talked. There was no
way for Bill and Frakes to leave, as the rain began to pour. "Well, I
guess ye’ll be spending the night," Bill's brother announced.

"Yes, I guess we'll hav' ta," Bill said, "if'n ye got someplace to put us
 
 
 

                                                               26
 
 
 
 

up."

"All I've got is that old lean-to with one bed in it," his brother
answered, "but you're welcome to that."

Frakes said, "I can stand it if Bill can, I guess."

Bill looked at Frakes warily and mumbled, "I've slept with dogs,
sheep, en' cows. I guess I kin sleep with a parson."

Bill pulled a rickety chair close to the side of the old bed, took his
holster off, and hung it over the back. Then, he stood "Ole Betsie,"
his faithful shooting iron, up against the head of the bed. Thus amply
protected for the night, they blew the candle out and lay down with
their clothes still on their bodies.

In the darkness Bill said to the Parson, "I guess you wonder about all
this artillery, but, ye see, I never know when they're a-comin' after
me."

Frakes had been talking to Bill all evening about the terrible, insecure
way of his life, and he knew Bill was in no mood for any more
preaching, so he kept quiet; besides he was ready for some sleep.

A few days later, Frakes went again to see Bill at his cabin with the
opportunity for a parole for Bill still very much on his mind. Bill's
wife answered the door and said that Bill was in the back field
"a-grubbin"' some sprouts out so he could plant corn. Frakes went
to find Bill, and when he spotted him, he saw that his fourteen year
old daughter Ruth was with him to watch out for anyone who might
try to kill him. Ruth was sitting on the old stone fence, looking first
one direction then the other. Frakes realized again that Bill had lived
for years in constant fear that someone would beat him to the draw.

Frakes decided to face the issue head on, so he went to where Bill was
working and said, "Bill, aren't you tired of living as a fugitive? You
know I'm your friend, and I have an idea that if you'll give yourself up
now we can get you cleared. I'm trying to help you.  Don't you think
it's about time you gave me some cooperation?"
 
 
 

                                                               27
 
 
 
 

Bill must have been having the same thoughts, for he offered no
resistance this time.  "All right, Parson, I guess yer' right," he said.
"How ya' goin' to build this here school you talk about, and that
church, if'n I keep running from the law." He picked up his high
powered rifle and turned to his daughter and said, "Come on, kid,
let's you and me go to the house. Your dad and the Parson has got
some important business to do."

No words were spoken as the three walked single file on the little
path that led to Bill's cabin. Each in his own way realized that a
monumental decision had been made. As they reached the open door
of the cabin, Bill called out to his wife, "Old woman, git me some clean
overalls. I'm a-goin' to town."

Apprehensively she said, "What fer?"

"By gonnies, I'm goin' to jail. The Parson has made me believe he kin
hep me better if'n I go to jail than if'n I stay out."

Because the Parson didn't want it to look like an arrest, Bill hiked the
four miles to Chenoa junction all alone, and took the 1:30 P.M. coal
train to Pineville. He walked into the county jail, marched up to the
turnkey, and said, "Okay, here I am. Lock me up."

The Parson was now in a bargaining position, and he went to work.
A petition asking the governor to give Bill a full and free pardon was
carried to Bill's neighbors. Not a neighbor refused to sign. Those who
were a bit reluctant signed for fear Bill would hold it against them if
and when he got out. Then a similar petition was signed, by the county
officials, because he had come in of his own free will, and because
Frakes had convinced them that Bill would straighten up and become
a good citizen.

Frakes then made a trip to Frankfort to present his petitions to the
governor. Seated across the desk from the governor, Frakes began his
plea for Bill. The first setback came immediately, for the governor
showed the Parson a telegram from one of the county officials who
had refused to sign the petition. He asked the governor to refuse the
Parson's request.
 
 
 

                                                               28
 
 
 
 

"Yes, Governor," Frakes said, "I'm not surprised at that; but from
my personal knowledge, some of our county officials are worse than
Bill. They buy whiskey from him which only encourages him to go on
producing the illegal stuff."

The governor agreed that he was probably right about that. Then he
looked the Parson straight in the eye and said, "Frakes, you and I
both  know that Bill Henderson is one of the most notorious outlaws in
the mountains.” You say that you believe he'll go straight now; but, if
I gave him a pardon and he betrayed our confidence, we’d be the
laughingstock of the mountains."

The Parson stood up, leaned over the governor's desk and said,
"Governor, there is just where the trouble lies! No one is willing to
take a chance on these people. They are dying for someone to believe
in them and love them.” He let that soak in for a moment and then
continued.  "Sir, if you will grant Bill Henderson a full pardon, I
personally will be responsible for his conduct. I am staking my
ministry on that man. I will stand between Bill Henderson and the
Commonwealth of Kentucky."

When Frakes had finished, the governor leaned back in his outsized
office chair and considered the proposition that Frakes had just
presented. Then rubbing his hands together as if to rid himself of any
involvement, like Pilate with Jesus, he said, "Frakes, I believe you a
fool, but I'm going to do what you ask me to do."   The pardon signed,
it was sent to the county officials, and Bill Henderson was released, in
due time. The Parson had completed another milestone. But there was
many a river to be crossed and many bridges of understanding yet to
be built before his dream could truly emerge into reality.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                                                               29
 
 
 
 

             BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS
 

The mission project had been launched; but its success would take
more than sponsorship, funds, dreams and buildings.  Something had
to be done about the hatred that had been built up through the years
in this isolated portion of Appalachia.

For example, Bill Henderson and Johnson Maiden had been feuding
for years. It is hard to say where this feud or any feud began.. Like
spontaneous combustion, it just seemed to come from nowhere without
any logical reason But one thing was sure: Bill was carrying a gun for
Johnson, and Johnson was carrying one for Bill.

Hiram Frakes believed that the One whom he served holds the answer
to all fear and hatred. Since Bill Henderson was "king of the hill" in
those parts, and since he had given the largest parcel of land for the
Settlement, Frakes knew he was the key to the development and
growth of radical change.

Strange as it may seem, Bill was a kind, gentle man to meet. He had a
streak of decency in him, and was strongly inclined toward the
Christian faith. He had simply been caught up in the code of the hills,
which was "Do unto others before they do it to you."

Frakes, knowing that the Settlement could rise no higher than the
thoughts and attitudes of its people, harbored a growing concern for
Bill and the other feudists and bootleggers in the neighborhood.

Perhaps one of the reasons for the Henderson-Maiden feud was envy
on Johnson Maiden's part. Bill had given his home place to the Parson
and, as a consequence, had received quite a lot of attention.  This
special recognition of Bill, particularly since Johnson had no land to
give could have renewed old hatreds and brought the long time feud to
a fresh boiling point.

Whatever the reason for it, Frakes decided that he would make every
 
 
 
 

                                                               30
 
 
 
 

possible effort to resolve the bitterness and hatred between the two
men. Early, one morning the Parson walked the three miles from his
place to where Bill lived. As he walked along the trail, he prayed
rhythmically with his steady gait, his shoes crunching the stones under
his feet. "Oh, God," he repeated over and over, "help me in this
meeting with Bill.”  For now he had the deep conviction that the future
of his ministry in this place depended on Henderson's being converted.

As he approached the crest of the hill overlooking Bill's cabin, he saw
the smoke ascending from the stone chimney into the clear morning
sky.  He knew Henderson was up. He sighed deeply as he realized the
great importance of what he would say in the moments ahead. He had
talked to Bill many times, but up until now he had always avoided the
subject of Bill's feuds, as well as the feuding of the other families in the
valley. This was the moment of truth! As he looked over the laurel
covered hills, he glanced skyward again and whispered, "Lord, I don't
know what I'm going to do or say, but please help me, and help Bill
Henderson too."

He knocked at the door, and Bill, with his trousers on but still bare-
foot, opened the door just a crack until he recognized the Parson.
When he saw who it was he opened it wide and warmly invited him in.
Bill was making coffee. He got out another cup, and they sat down by
the morning fire. They talked about the weather, the crops, and made
the usual small talk about conditions in the valley. As they were
talking, Frakes's eyes scanned the wall and fell upon Bill's gun in a
rack over the kitchen door.

For years this gun and others like it had been important  adjuncts to
mountain life. Guns were sheriff, judge and jury. They were staff,
compass, and guide. They determined the code, the philosophy, and
the law. But just as Jesus once said, "The law says, but I say . . . ," the
guns' days were numbered. Change was in the air.

Frakes's prayers, his faith, and his purpose (and his Lord) would
supplant a new order for the old ways. A transformation was about to
begin in those hills, for God was leading a man to do His work and His
will.
 
 
 
 

                                                               31
 
 
 
 

"Bill," Frakes began, "you were carrying that gun the other day when
I saw you going down the road. What for?"

Bill winced a little at this question, for he had great respect for this
man. Then he drew himself together and boldly answered, "I was
afraid I'd run into Johnson Maiden."

Frakes continued his questioning, "What would you have done if you
had?"

"I'd have shot him," Bill replied without batting an eye, and without
a moment's hesitation.

Now Frakes looked very straight at Bill, his blue eyes piercingly
penetrating but warm. No, he hadn't forgotten that he was in the
presence of one who had killed thirteen men by his own admission;
but he was aware that this was a man who understood frank, straight
forward language.  Holding his eyes steady and measuring his words
carefully, he said, "Bill, you're afraid of Johnson, and Johnson's
afraid of you. The main thing wrong with each of you is fear of the
other.  If we could get that out of you both, this thing could be settled,
I think."

Bill sat cross-legged on an old, handmade wooden stool.  He'd been
looking straight at the Parson as he spoke.  His eyes now dropped to
his big rough hands. He studied his broken fingernails thoughtfully
and then glanced up at the gun over the door. Then, as if in objection
to what the preacher had said, he said with emotion, "I ain't no
coward, Parson, you should know that."

"Having fear and being a coward are two different things," Frakes
said, continuing his pointed reasoning. "I'll tell you what I want you to
do, Bill. I want you to agree to meet Johnson Maiden in my presence
and settle this matter in a Christian way.  This will start to prove to
these mountain people that there's no need of killing people to settle
disputes.  We've got to start somewhere, Bill, to make this community
safe to live in. People respect you and will follow you.  Will you do it?"

Bill reached over and took a piece of cold corn bread from a plate in
 
 
 

                                                               32
 
 
 
 

the center of the table. He bit a sizable chunk off and chewed it slowly
like a cud of tobacco. Swallowing hard, he said, "Parson, that's a big
step you're askin' me to take. The Maidens have tormented me fer
more than twenty years. They've burned my fences, killed my cattle,
and, just a short while back, shot me through." His face flushed with
anger fired by vivid memories of the past.

"But, Bill," Frakes persisted, "you've tried violence, and I ask you,
has it settled anything? Are you better off? I'm your friend, Bill. You
know that. Why don't you listen to me and try God's way for once?"

For the first time, Frakes saw the tension in Bill's face relax. As he now
quietly pondered the last question, Bill's deep set blue eyes moistened.
Bill believed in God; but, as with many others, there was quite a
disparity between what he really believed and the way he acted.

Raising himself off the three-legged stool and stretching to his full
height, he said, "Parson, I been payin' a mind to what you been sayin'.
It makes sense, I know. . ." And wrinkling his face in a distorted way
as if the words he was about to say were sticking in his throat, he said
with almost a groan, "I'll quit the feud if Johnson will and no
mountain man ever said quit before, thet I knows of."

Frakes rose to his feet, and a look of great relief crossed his face. He
went over to Bill and put his arms around his great sagging shoulders.
With tears in his eyes he said, "Bill, it was a great day when you gave
sixty-eight acres of land for the church and school, but this is an even
greater one. You'll never regret the step you've just taken."

The three miles home, for Frakes, was a victory march. It seemed as
though his feet hardly touched the ground. God had answered his
prayer. A new day was dawning for Henderson Settlement.

The next morning Frakes rose early and set out on another
reconciliatory errand. This time it was to visit Johnson Maiden, for
only half his job was done. As he passed Bill's house en route to
Maiden's, he saw Bill limping out to meet him.  The limp was a
constant reminder of his hate campaign with the Maidens for they
had put a slug into him a few months before and somehow the
 
 
 

                                                               33
 
 
 
 

wound had never healed right. Frakes had a momentary qualm that
Bill might have had second thoughts about their meeting yesterday,
but it was very brief.  Bill quickly dispelled it with the reassuring
words, "Just you tell Johnson thet I'll stop feudin' if he will," he said
in greeting. "I said I'd do it, and I will. He'll know that I'm as good as
my word." Giving Frakes no time to reply, he hobble back into his
cabin.

When the Parson got to the Maiden cabin, he was glad that Johnson
himself answered the door. The atmosphere was a little tense, for
Johnson knew that Frakes and Bill were friendly. That meant to
Johnson that Frakes was on Bill's side, because, in the mountains, you
had to be on one side or the other.  They did not allow for fence
straddlers.  But Johnson invited him in.

"Johnson," Frakes said, having decided to waste no time.  "you were
down to the mission store the other day caring a gun. Is that right?"

Johnson nodded that he was.

"Why were you carrying that gun?" Frakes continued doggedly.
"Were you going squirrel hunting?"

"No, sir," Johnson replied shyly with obvious embarrassment.

"Then why were you carrying it?"

"Now you've heered the reason already, Parson.  Ye know Bill
Henderson and me hates each other. En I was afeered thet I'd run into
him down there. I knowed he'd shoot me, if'n I didn't shoot him first."

"Do you know, Johnson, that's the very same thing Bill told me yester-
day.   It seems to me that there is nothing standing between you two
men now but fear. Have you thought of that?  I'm guessing you barely
remember what your feud started over," Frakes countered.

"I reckon you're right," Johnson admitted sheepishly.

“Listen to me, Maiden. I talked to Bill yesterday, and he agreed to
 
 
 

                                                               34
 
 
 
 

meet if you will, and settle this matter between you in a Christian way.
I want you to go with me right now to Bill's house and make peace with
him."

Johnson twitched nervously as he thought of the prospect. His system
was so accustomed to the reaction of hate and fear that it could hardly
adjust to the thought of "making peace" with anyone. After what
seemed to Frakes a very long silence, Johnson finally responded with
"Now, Parson, I don't want to go down there and get hurt."

"Nobody's going to get hurt if you go down there," Frakes assured
him.   "I'll stake my life and reputation on it."

Johnson got up, walked over to where Frakes was standing, and stared
into his eyes for a few seconds as if to see some hidden meaning for this
conversation. When he seemed satisfied that Frakes had no ulterior
motives, he shuffled his shoulders as if to shake off the tension he felt
and said, "Parson, I believe you're a good man. I trust you, and, while
it's not the usual way we settle things here in the mountains, I guess
it's worth a try."

Picking up his black tattered hat from the table loaded with dirty
Dishes and yesterday's food, he took a glance at his gun standing in the
corner and said, "Let's go and see what happens."

Johnson was not a young man. The fight he had had to survive in
these mountains and the years of hate and violence and killing had
taken their toll. He seemed to be surveying his past as he walked
by Frakes's side down to Henderson's cabin.  Finally he began to try
to express his thoughts. "Bill and I have had a heap of trouble
through the years. We've done a heap of hatin' and fightin'. We're
both agettin' on in years and it would be a good thing to make our
peace before we hav'ta meet our Maker."

As they approached Bill's house, Johnson paused a moment to
listen, in case this was a trap. Then he took a deep breath, put his
head down and drew his shoulders tight, and walked on as if
plodding through a snowstorm. He didn't look up until he was
standing on Bill Henderson's porch.
 
 
 

                                                               35
 
 
 
 

Apparently Bill had been watching for the two men for, as they started
to call his name, the door opened, and he stood back to let the men
enter. Frakes pushed in ahead. As he turned around, he saw the two
avowed foes confronting each other eye to eye.

His heart began to pound a little. But Bill finally said, "Howdy,
Johnson."

Johnson echoed, "Howdy, Bill."

For the first time in several hours, Frakes allowed the terrible weight
to be lifted off his mind and soul. Here were Laurel Fork's worst
enemies exchanging a friendly greeting--their first in many, many
years. He knew their reconciliation was imminent.

Bill said, "Here, Parson, you take this rocker. Johnson you and me can
sit over h'yar on this bench." The two men sat side by side on the hand
hewn bench looking like schoolboys who had had to stay in after
school.

Bill had been shelling corn, getting it ready for the gristmill and, to
ease the tension, he continued his job.  Johnson shifted his position a
time or two and then picked up an ear and started to help.

Frakes watched the men for a moment and then said, "I'll bet that's
not the first time you've shelled corn together."

This remark brought floods of old memories to the men. They began
talking and laughing about the days when they had romped and
played in the fields and hills together as boys.   There had been a day
when they were "best" friends; and they exchanged several 'humorous
episodes they had shared together, forgetting their hatewar of the past
years.

When the atmosphere had become relaxed and completely congenial,
the Parson broke into their reveries with, "Men, this is all most
interesting; but we have come here today on serious business. You've
just been talking about the fun of your childhood. Let's face the hate
of your manhood. You've been feuding now for many years. You've
 
 
 

                                                               36
 
 
 
 

caused family to fear family in this valley. Now, I'm asking you—both
of you--to make your peace with each other complete as we sit here in
the presence of God. I will be a witness to it. Then, together, we can
show these mountain people that there is a better way to settle their
differences than by fearing, hating, and killing."

Bill looked at Johnson and said, "Johnson, I ain't got nuthin' agin
you, I guess."

Johnson swallowed hard and said, "Bill, I ain't got nuthin' agin you,
I allow."

Those words were like a healing balm in that mountain cabin. Frakes
could feel the pride and fear fade away. "Gentlemen," he said, "the
Lord is in this place. Let's seal this wonderful moment with a prayer."

As the Parson knelt by the ancient cane-bottom chair, he began his
prayer for these two rough, hate-ravaged men. As his eyes were some-
times open during that prayer, he was able to see Johnson and Bill
kneeling together at the old bench as humbly as two little children.
Each had his face covered with his hands, as if to shut out the guilt of
the past.  Tears flowed down Frakes's face as he thanked God for this
"greatest miracle" and prayed as he'd never prayed before.  When he
had said "Amen," he embraced Johnson and Henderson as two
brothers.

This is a great day for the people of the mountains," he said "Let's
have a peace dinner at the church next Sunday.

They shook hands all around and agreed.

On the next Sunday, Bill, dressed in his Sunday best walked into the
little chapel with five of his crony-feudists. He was followed by
Johnson Maiden and six of his former henchmen. It was a sight to be
remembered!  Here, worshiping together, were two men who a few
days before had been carrying guns and pure hatred for each other.

It was time for the service to start. Mabel, Bill's twelve year old
daughter, was the Sunday school and church pianist.  Bill, rarely a
 
 
 

                                                               37
 
 
 
 

church-attender, had never heard her play. The hymn was
announced: "What a Friend We Have in Jesus." As Mabel went to
the piano, sat down, and began to play, big tears welled up in the
proud father's eyes.   Pulling out his red bandana handkerchief, he
blew his nose and wiped the tears from his face. All the people were
touched to see this big man--so very tough, they had thought—moved
in tender emotion.

At the close of the service Bill went to the front shook the Parson's
hand.   He said, "Preacher, I guess you seen me acryin' like a kid
during the service; but when I saw my little girl playin' the piano and
lookin' like an angel, my heart felt like it would bust. When I rembered
how mean I've bin and how patient you and the Lord has bin with us,
it's almost too much to understand.  And then, there she was, playin' so
pretty."

After everyone had spoken to the Parson, the two factions of the old
feud sat down to eat the "peace dinner." The Parson sat at the head of
the long table with Bill and his clan on his left and Maiden and his
men on his right.  That was more than a dinner; it was a sacrament, in
which two enemy clans sealed the covenant made the week before
when the three men knelt in Bill's modest cabin.  And it was made for
life! They had buried the three things that had created conflict
between persons: envy, fear and pride. And the good Lord had done
the rest.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                                                               38
 
 
 
 

          TRAIL'S END FOR BILL HENDERSON

Christ said: "They that take the sword shall perish with the sword"
(Matthew 26:52). That statement could be paraphrased to say: "He
that takes a gun shall perish with a gun," and the mountain, people
were aware of this law. The wailing of a widow en route to the
cemetery to bury her husband who had been shot was a common
sound in these hills. Death stalked the mountain trails, and a somber
realization rested on every mountain man that he might be the next to
die.

But the Parson had brought new hope to the children.  The first
school dormitory, made of logs and containing five or six bunks, was
used to house children who had been orphaned or who lived too far to
walk to school.  Buses were impractical since the roads were too rough.
The jagged rocks soon tore up the tires or broke the springs of a motor
vehicle.

Mabel Henderson, Bill Henderson's pretty and talented little girl,
stayed at the dormitory rather than walk the muddy, rough, and rocky
three miles to the Settlement school every day. When Saturday rolled
around,  Mabel was granted the privilege of going home for the
weekend.

One Saturday morning the shrill cry rang through Partin Hall,
"Mabel's getting ready to go home!" The girls all knew what this
meant to Mabel, and while possibly a little envious they were glad she
was close enough so she could go home. Jenny, Mabel's closest friend,
looked out at the sunny day and smiled at the other girls and she said,
"Look at her, she can hardly wait."

Mountain children love their parents and their homes, no matter how
poor and unkempt. But it seemed that Mabel loved her parents more
than most. And it was obvious to all who knew the Henderson family
that Mabel was the "apple of her daddy's eye" and she adored him.
Her daddy's life of hardship and suffering had only endeared him to
her all the more.  To Mabel he was no outlaw. He merely lived by the
law that had been  etched in the minds and hearts of mountain men,
and on the stocks of their guns. They really hadn't deliberately
broken the Ten Commandments. They just had never thought of them
 
 
 

                                                               39
 
 
 
 

as having something to do with their lives. True the mountain
preachers proclaimed the Gospel the best they knew; but it is doubtful
if many of them, being illiterate themselves, stressed the personal ethic
"Thou shalt do no murder." .

Anyway, to the mountain men there was a big difference between
murder as such and "killing." Murder was taking  life without a cause;
but killing was just "giving a man his just due." It was justice,
mountain style, and, as they themselves would say, "You couldn't fault
that."

Now Mabel Henderson, scrubbed clean, rosy-cheeked and in her
freshly ironed pinafore dress, waved to the other girls in the dorm
kitchen as she skipped down the path leading to the road that would
take her home. "Good bye, y'all!" she yelled. "See you tomorrow at
church.”

"Did you ever see anyone so happy to be going home?" one of the
girls in the kitchen asked, speaking to no in particular.

As Mabel glided happily along the road toward her cabin home, it
seemed to her that the birds sang more joyfully than usual. The colors
of wild flowers making their first appearance of the season seemed a
little more vivid than ever before. It was April, and the warm sun
beckoning all nature to quit its winter sleep and rise again. Little
shoots of grass peeked through the soil softened by the spring rains.
A jonquil poked its slender leaves heavenward as if to wave timidly
at the happy lass skipping down the trail.

The little girl's heart beat high with joy and excitement.  There were so
many things to tell about school: the plans for Commencement, which
was something very new; her good grades; her new pinafore--and she
would be able to show them how she was learning to sew, for she was
wearing her first finished creation. Oh, there were so many good
morsels of news that she was anxious to share with her mother and
father.

Her young legs, unaccustomed to walking so fast, were growing weary
as she climbed the last hill before reaching home. As she stood for a
 
 
 

                                                               40
 
 
 
 

moment looking down on her home place, she had the feeling that
things didn't seem quite normal. Her father, usually at work in his
garden on warm days like this, was not to be seen.  Could he be ill?
Yes, something was wrong down there!

As her heart began to beat wildly in fear, she heard one of the
neighbor girls calling, "Mabel, Mabel! Wait a minute."

Breathlessly the girl approached her and blurted out, "Mabel, yer
dad's been killed! Marion Overton just shot him!"

Mabel wouldn't believe her ears. It couldn't be true.  No, no, it was a
terrible mistake. Her daddy couldn't be dead.

Terror shot through her frail body and she felt too weak to go further.
Then her face reddened with childish rage, and she ran toward home
as fast as her feet would carry her. She would prove the girl's words
were false!

As she rounded the cabin, the tragic truth unfolded before her. Her
father lay where he had fallen. His head was pillowed on the old black
felt hat that he had always worn out-of-doors, and his arms were
folded across his breast.

"He knew he were a-dyin'," sobbed her twelve-year old brother
Edward, who was standing at his father's feet.  "He stretched himself
out, and I heerd him say a prayer and . . . and then he went."

Shaken by shock and almost stricken dumb by her sudden grief,
Mabel ran and threw her arms around Edward and, hugging him
close to her, sobbed, "Where's Mama?"

Edward began to cry more loudly with the question and Mabel,
sensing there was still more to be told, push him from her to scan his
face. When she saw the terror and pain written there, she shook him,
saying, "Edward, tell me now, where's Mama?"

Edward could hardly form the words, but finally managed to say
between great sobs, "She's gone."
 
 
 

                                                               41
 
 
 
 

"Gone!" Mabel repeated hysterically as the tears began to stream
down her face, "gone where?"

"I dunno'," Edward sobbed again. Then seeing Mabel's incredible
look of near collapse, he tried to go on to tell her the horrible
happenings of the last hour or so. He ended by saying, "Anyways, I
heerd Marion tell her he'd shoot her too 'lessen she left here quick. I
reckon she's halfways up the holler by now," the shaken boy
stammered.

Mabel couldn't believe it. She couldn't accept the idea that possibly
her mother was gone too. Her mother and father were dearer to her
than life itself. She had to believe her father had been killed, for there
he was on the ground; but she could not believe she had lost her
mother too.

Suddenly she started to run toward the hill back of the house. She
would find her mother. She must find her mother.  With tears
blinding her vision, and beside herself with grief, she took the wrong
trail. She stumbled dumbly along the narrow path until her sister
Lonnie came and found her and brought her back to the empty cabin.
Had a young girl ever been called upon to suffer so much grief in such
a short span of time?

News travels fast in the hills, and soon neighbors and kin folk began to
gather at the Henderson home. Little by little the whole tragic story
was pieced together.

Bill Henderson and Otis Ellis, his daughter Ruth's husband, were
getting ready to plant potatoes in the garden.  The ground had been
prepared, and, they were resting for a few minutes near the barn.
Hiram Rufus and Wilburn, Bill's two sons, were playing nearby.
Marion Overton, Bill's stepson, came down the hill from his house and
started an argument with Otis. There had been some family dispute
about the division of Bill's property among the children.  Marion was
demanding more than the others would get, and Bill kept repeating,
"All my children are a-goin' to share exactly alike." There was the
usual accusation and denial, then the sharp report of a pistol. Killings
happen fast in the mountains, usually on the tip-end of an argument
 
 
 

                                                               42
 
 
 
 

or at the edge of an obscene name.

Bill said to Marion, "Don't shoot Ellis. He hain't done nary a harm."

At that, Marion turned his gun on Bill and fired.

Bill, bending over in pain, yelled, "Don't shoot agin! You've killed me."

By this time Marion was like a stalking animal in his insane rage. He
picked Bill up, stood him on his feet, and fired three more shots into
his body. Bill fell, mortally wounded but still conscious. He had often
said that he wanted to die with his boots on, and it seemed ironic that
his request had been granted.

Bill knew he was dying, but through force of habit he reached for his
old hat and slowly crunched it into a pillow and tucked it under his
head. He prayed the prayer that Rufus had mentioned and folded his
arms across his chest and went to meet his God.

As the neighbors nearby heard the shot and started to gather, wild
confusion followed. The murderer ran through the house and up the
hill, but no one followed in pursuit. By the time it dawned on every-
one what had happened, he was probably two miles away.

Bill died as he had lived by a gun! His gun with its thirteen notches was
not even used in self-defense. Since Bill was a changed man, there is
considerable doubt that he would have used it if he could have.

The last Sunday of Bill's life on earth he had given a Christian
testimony at the church service at Henderson Settlement. Stepping to
the front of the little chapel, with faltering words he said, "Hit's borne
in on me like I ort to testify here and now, fer hit might be my last
chance.  I'm feelin' proud to tell y'all 'at I've made my peace with
Almighty God, and thar hain't nothin' atween me an' my Lord."

They were prophetic, those words "Hit might be last chance," for it
was.  But that testimony rang in ears of those attending the service
that night, and they knew that Bill Henderson was a changed man.
This man who they all knew had killed thirteen men in his life had
 
 
 

                                                               43
 
 
 
 

found a new forgiveness--and God!

Three days later Bill Henderson took his last ride.  Not erect in the
saddle saying "Howdy" to fellow mountain folk, as was his custom in
life; but in death, with a haunting smile on his face as if he were saying,
"I've found peace at last." Now he was free of all the feuding, the hate,
the rigors of mountain life in Laurel Fork.

Parson Frakes had lost a good friend; but right now he had to face the
fact that there might be friends and relatives of Bill's out for revenge.
This had always been the unwritten code of the mountains. These next
days could be crucial to Laurel Fork. With a heavy heart, he thought
about slipping away into Pineville and turning the service for Bill over
to the mountain preachers. It would have been the easy way, and he
was very, very tired, as he had suffered a severe loss in Bill's death.

But. Frakes was really never one to run from divine duty. His
temptation was tempered with the knowledge that the mountain folk
have their ways and perhaps it would be best to let them pursue their
ancient drama of death.

When he was first called to preach, the word of the Lord had come to
him: "Preach the preaching I bid thee preach." But still came the
recurring thought that perhaps the mountain preachers could handle
this delicate situation better. As he sought guidance in the matter, the
words of Scripture came to him. "Who knoweth but that thou art
come to the kingdom for such a time as this?"

Out of his terrific inner struggle came this chastened answer to God,
"You've helped me so far in these hills, and I know you'll lead me on."
Putting an end to his soul's conflict, he added these submissive words,
"I'll do what you want me to do."

The church was filled for Bill's funeral. After his own daughters along
with the glee club from the Settlement school  sang "Jesus, Lover of
My Soul, "Frakes stepped to the foot of Bill's coffin, took his small
Testament from his pocket, and read slowly and impressively the third
chapter of James. Then with deep feeling he began to speak: "My
friends, we are here to commit the body of William Henderson to the
 
 
 

                                                               44
 
 
 
 

earth and his soul to God. We all know how swift was his summons.
But we know too that he died with a prayer on his lips, and we are
willing to stake our lives on God hearing that prayer. I am not here to
pronounce a eulogy over this man, who was my friend. Yet I must
mention the fact that over and over again since this tragedy men have
said to me: 'Bill Henderson was a good neighbor. He had a kind
heart.'

"I shall never forget one Sunday morning at the Settlement when Bill
saw his daughter Mabel at the piano for the first time. As he heard
her play the hymns of the church, tears ran down his bronzed cheeks.
He was unashamed of those tears, being the man he was. At the close
of the service he said to me, 'Parson, we're kind of an uncivilized lot,
quarreling and fighting like we do; but my daughter Mabel here is
gonna' be different.' He seemed happy at the thought that one day
things would change.

But, my friends, it is not of the dead I would speak today,