The Ballad Singer

The Bailad Singer By Mn Napier Charcoal By Walt Priehard IN THE BARE ROOM OF A MOUNTAIN HOME, LIGHTED BY FIRE AND MOONLIGHT FROM A WINDOW, LAURA, THE MOTHER, WORKS AT QUILT PIECES. JANE WATCHES NEAR THE WINDOW. Laura It's a silver bullet night. I never seen the moon So bright against the floor. Like times my granny Used to sit and spell us how old Sarah Beck Would have her foster children saddled, Bridled by the neck and ride them out to frolics. Near bound me with her tongue when she would tell John Napier (1915-1965) was born in Oklahoma, but be was related to the INapiers of Perry County, Kentucky. In 1937-38, John taught in Perry County and married Mary Napier, a distant cousin. Most of his subsequent working career was spent with the federal government in several locations. In his spare time he wrote and read. The Ballad Singer was first produced as a reading by the Poets' Theater of Cambridge, Mass., and later published in Kentucky Writing and produced, full stage, for the Morehead Writer's Workshop . It is reprinted here by special permission of Mrs. Mary Napier. 49 APRALACHIAN HÉRITAGE Of how one saved the younger bending nails Into the old haunt's foot, then raising up the coverlet Next morn ... to prove it wasn't honey in the horn. Jane Hush ! What if he came and heard such talk? Laura Lake's not he's heard such talk before And passed it off for women's foolishness. You might as well sit there and cut my pieces While you wait. No young one but is careless of his time. He's likely tarried at a ginny barn to pick a tune And listen while some betsy drops her idle words Of how she'd warm his bed or scratch up victuals Just to suit Jane Green wouldn't heed. Laura An old song, Jane, You'd better hear your father's words. Let ballad singer pack his music where he wills. Your father's anger at the antic boy frets him of nights. . . I've heard him walking near the well, Dropping the bucket down to hear it splash. I've heard him vow to send Green packing Through all the brier and laurel on Grapevine. Turns her pieces. Be that as may, would be a lonely place without his song. Jane Laughing. AndJim would be a ragged sight himself. She hums, then sings softly Bright love that comes when night is still Brought to its quiet by the whippoorwill. Laura Those words are strange, like the first taste of berries Or light held in the bloom on an old tree-now stretch this tight I said the night is one to be mistrustful of. Sit here to warm. He'll wait and strike again Or there's another likelier still To set a doorpost and a proper sill. I've heard Jane Hush, mother . . . The sound of a guitar, plucked banjo-style, and the words of "Old Joe Clark." Green strolls in at the door, a dogwood bloom behind his ear. He bows to Laura. Jane does not stir. 50 John Napier Laura Your company a chair, Jane. Mend your manners. Jane brings a chair. She takes the dogwood from Green and places it in a glass of water. Laura Now, Green, maybe you've had word of Jim Or what has kept the boys. We waited supper till Jane fed the creatures. Have you heard of rafts lost in the spring tide Or frolics holding men folk from their victuals? Least they could send a notice When they aim to leave their board. Green All I've heard A Roberts told me he had passed your men afoot Below the rapids of the Middle Fork. They hailed him gaily. Said they had a pretty Fetched from Lexington for you and Jane. Laura Mor'n a pretty Jim will need Before he sets a foot inside. I've told him not to come about, The time he's drinking. His boys Won't sleep here till they've doused their heads And cooled them proper in the spring . . . I...