Hurrah For Arkansas

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Hurrah for Arkansas

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OCf 20 6! > V

r i 1979

In northern Arkansas many a cascades like this miniature Niagara, waits for
a person who would like to boast that he has a waterfall in his own hack yard.

FROM RAZORBACKS
TO DIAMONDS

MARGUERITE LYON

ILLUSTRATED

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY

Publishers

INDIANAPOLIS NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1947, BY THE B O B B S- M E RRI L L COMPANY

%I ;*.%RI^fEji IN}"f HE^l?NITED STATES OF AMERICA
T1 " ***<* ( " <*

F/ fj 1 ; Edition

Dedicated to
MY FRIENDS,

RUTH WEBB AND VERA BECKER,
WHO KEPT MY HOUSE CLEAN

AND FED MY HUSBAND, CATS
AND DOG, WHILE I WENT
MERRILY ABOUT ARKANSAS
DIGGING UP THE FACTS I
HAVE PUT INTO THIS BOOK.

I AM INDEBTED to the Arkansas State Publicity Depart
ment for all except one of the photographs in this book
and especially to Glenn A. (Bud) Green and Dwight
Nichols, who took the pictures. I also wish to thank
the Cassville & Exeter Railway for their permission to
reproduce the picture o "Old 345."

MARGUERITE LYON

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I ARKANSAS TRAVELERS 13

II OUR TOWN, A BUT OF SWITZERLAND 19

III OZARK RAILWAY, WITH 2% -MAN CREW 25

IV OZARK PLATEAU SWEET BROILERLAND 30

V OZARK PLAYGROUND WOODS, WATER, FISH, FOOD .... 46

VI PEACHES WITH AND WITHOUT LEGS 56

VII RICELAND FIELDS OF GOLDEN GRAIN 77

VIII A SLICK CHICK AND DIAMONDS 92

IX CROSSETT CHILD OF THE FORESTS 108

X THE OUACHITAS, WITH A SUITE FOR A QUEEN ...... 121

XI TEXARKANA WHERE ARKANSAS MEETS TEXAS 131

XII THE De Queen Bee TELLS ALL! 143

XIII WHERE WILDCATS MEAN WEALTH 152

XIV HELENA ARKANSAS SOUTHERN BELLE 172

XV LAND OF COTTON, CONTESTS AND CONTENTMENT . . . . 187

XVI OUR PAST Is A PRESENT DELIGHT 211

XVII NEWTON COUNTY LAND OF UNSPOILED BEAUTY .... 220

XVIII HOT WATER AND WATERMELONS 241

XIX WHAT! No PINK COATS? 257

XX SMART PEOPLE, THESE ARKANSANS! 268

XXI HURRAH FOR ARKANSAS! 276

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

In northern Arkansas, many a cascade waits for a person
who would like to boast of a waterfall in his own

back yard Frontispiece

FACING

PAGE

Eureka Springs 267 streets wind about the mountains .... 30

A steeply roofed shelter protects Crescent Spring 31

Old 345, of the Cassville & Exeter Railway, creeps upgrade ... 64

"Coin" Harvey s amphitheater may be visited at Monte Ne . . 65

Arkansas hills are still dotted with quiet little towns 96

The biggest peaches are always on top. Scene during Peach

Harvest 97

When the fields in Riceland turn to gold, the grain is cut . . . 128

Rice is the white gold of Arkansas Grand Prairie 129

Bauxite mining leaves unsightly craters on Arkansas fields ... 160

Sunbonnets are still the favorite headgear of women in the fields 161

Sinking an oil or gas well in southern Arkansas may bring wealth 192

At the Camark Pottery plant, an expert craftsman fashions grace
ful vases 193

The Territorial Restoration at Little Rock has preserved the

beauty of 1820 224

Hot Springs is a beautiful fun-spot, with lakes and mountain

drives , 225

HURRAH FOR ARKANSAS!

rave

lers

"WHOOOOP! I m the old original iron-jawed, brass-
mounted, copper-bellied corpse-maker from the wilds of Arkansaw!
Look at me! I m the man they call Sudden Death and General Desola
tion! Sired by a hurricane, dam d by an earthquake, half-brother to the
cholera, nearly related to the small-pox on the mother s side. Look at
me! I take nineteen alligators and a bar l of whiskey for breakfast when
I m in robust health, and a bushel of rattle-snakes and a dead body
when I m ailing. I split the everlasting rocks with my glance, and I
squench the thunder when I speak! Whoo-oop! Stand back and give
me room according to my strength! Blood s my natural drink, and the
wails of the dying are music to my ear! Cast your eye on me, gentle
men! and lay low and hold your breath, for I m bout to turn myself
loose!"

These words ran through my mind all one bright warm September
morning. I had heard Bud Green say them, with gestures, in a speech
not long before, and to the last syllable they had stayed with me. Bud
had put a lot of vim and vigor into his speech. He hadn t made up the
words. They were lines he had found in one of Mark Twain s popular
books, Life on the Mississippi, published in Boston in 1883.

In the book the spouter of the words was a drunken bully whom
the author called "Arkansaw!"

Bud had felt sad that Mr. Clemens, or Mark Twain, had gone along
with so many other writers and artists in making Arkansas the stooge

13

14 Hurrah for Arkansas!

state of the nation. But when he got to Henry Rowe Schoolcraft, a
geologist who came into Arkansas in 1819, Bud got really sore. If Mr.
Schoolcraft had seen fit to stick to his minerals, he might have some
friends in Arkansas today, said Bud, implying quite clearly that the
geologist didn t and hasn t! It was Mr, Schoolcraft who sketched the
lazy mountaineer squatter, with hookworm, bare feet, fiddle and jug,
sitting before his log shack among his greasy dirty children and his
moronic-looking wife, his hound dogs and his filth. He set a standard
for Arkansas publicity that has endured far too many years, opined
Bud, who was pretty bitter about the whole darned thing. And no one
could blame him. Bud was State Publicity Director, and his was no
easy job. Every time he tried to get a picture of a bustling Arkansas
city or a beautiful, well-tended Arkansas farm into an out-of-state news
paper the editor would just chuckle and ask, "Where s a picture of
those mountain boys?"

Mile after mile, on a winding, twisting road, I kept thinking of Bud s
speech. What if Bud were just trying to cover up a situation that really
did exist! What if Arkansas were as the world believed it to bel It
would be just too bad for the Jedge and me. On that sunny September
day we were on our way to Arkansas . . * to live!

Eleven months earlier we had driven down into Arkansas on a sight
seeing trip. At sundown, on a blue-and-gold October evening, we had
driven over the same road to Eureka Springs. Fold upon fold of hills
lay about us, a great tapestry of crimson, copper, gold and emerald,
shimmering with damask brilliance in the bright sunlight, veiled with
a soft blue chiflfonlike haze in the shaded valleys. The beauty of the
scene had enthralled us. The next morning we had bought a house
overlooking miles of those hills and valleys. We had become Arkansas
taxpayers within eighteen hours after we had crossed the state line.

During the months we had needed to find the right people to take
over our farm and livestock at Mountain View, Missouri, we had no
misgivings. When Jean Krakow and Nell Dill planned to make a dude
farm of our former home and call it Ozark Mountain Farm, it seemed
that Providence was taking good care of all of us. The girls would

Arkansas Travelers 15

have a beautiful home which could earn a good living for them. They
would take care of the beloved cows, horses, dogs, cats, sheep and
guinea fowls that went with the place. The Jedge and I, with our three
favorite cats and our Boston terrier Judy, would move to our home in
Arkansas. It had seemed very fine, until I heard Bud make his speech.
I m one of those who believe that a lot of smoke means inevitably a
little fire, and maybe just maybe Arkansas was as bad as it had been
painted by Mr. Schoolcraft. And here we were, driving toward a life
with people like that. I wished I could talk to the Jedge. Perhaps I
could urge him to let us turn back before it was too late.

The Jedge, however, was hurtling along the road ahead in his red
car, while I followed in my blue one. He refused to listen to my signals,
for I have a way of doing back-seat driving for him even when I am
in another car. If I see a bad curve beyond, or a car approaching from
the side or someone cutting in ahead, I sound my horn just to make
sure he is on the alert. For that reason, I can never make him stop
unless I drive around him and practically throw my car under his
wheels. On this trip my car was too loaded to do any fancy driving.
In the back seat I had my Victorian lamp, my camera equipment and
my collection of strawberry glass. Beside me was Katie Lichty, a
farm neighbor who was going down with me to help straighten up
the new home. In the trunk of the car was Toughie, my big striped
cat who hadn t got his name for nothing. Toughie wailed protestations
from the moment he had been put into a covered basket, and as the
hours went on, the wails changed to unmistakable feline cuss words.
Perhaps, I worried, Toughie s instinct tells him that we are doing
wrong in going into Arkansas! What if he is trying to get me to
turn back? I sounded the horn.

Judy looked out the rear window of the Jedge s car, to see what
was wrong. But the Jedge looked straight ahead. He seemed to have
thrown a fur neckpiece around his shoulders. Maybe he had a stiff neck!
But where had he found a fur neckpiece? He had nothing in his car
except a flower box, Judy and her bed, and a chicken crate containing
two half-grown kittens, Midnight and

16 Hurrah for Ar^ansasl

Putting a slat on the chicken crate had occupied the Jedge s day
while the movers were loading our furniture. The Jedge is not what
one might call a handy man. If he tries to put up a towel rack in the
kitchen he is sure to mash his fingers, lose the screws behind the sink
and eventually drop the towel bar and break it. When he started to
fix a slat on the chicken crate, I knew what was coming. He had me
fetching and carrying nails, hammers, screws, screw drivers, saws and
various lengths of boards when I should have carried out the antique
cheese cover which was broken in the moving. He had started for
Arkansas with the kittens curled up on an old coat in the bottom of
the crate, presumably fenced in securely by the newly nailed slat,

I drove closer to investigate the fur piece. Yes, just as I had expected.
Prankster was riding along on the Jedge s left shoulder. Midnight was
on the right shoulder. I might have guessed that one of them would
put an inquisitive paw against the slat and push. It was typical of the
Jedge s carpentry efforts that the slat had promptly fallen off and both
kittens were free in the car. However, the fact that they had climbed
on the Jedge s shoulders and seemed to be looking forward eagerly
to their new life in Arkansas was somehow reassuring. The wails in
my own car might be caused by Toughie s anxiety to be in Arkansas
before supper time 1

I left my worries at the state line.

There before me were the hills, rich with autumn color and the
valleys going to bed under a coverlet of blue chiffon. This was my
land, my beloved Arkansas! Let her be the nation s stooge! To me,
she would always be the state with everything from razorbacks to
diamonds.

If people went barefoot, that was O.K. I, too, would go barefoot*
After all, there s nothing quite so cooling on a summer day as getting
one s shoes off!

As for all the rest of the publicity of the Schoolcraft brand, I would
ignore it! I would just run the wheels off my little blue car getting
about the state and finding out about Arkansas for myself.

Now, another autumn has brought the glory of gold and scarlet to

Arkansas Travelers 17

the hills about our home. I hold no resentment against Mr. Clemens
bully, Arkansaw, or even against Mr. Schoolcraft. Shucks! We have
to keep a few barefooted people sitting around to make tourists realize
they are actually in Arkansas! Otherwise they might credit California
with our glorious climate, Colorado with our beautiful scenery, Massa
chusetts with some of our fine schools, Florida with our delicious fruit
and Chicago with our busy main streets. Perhaps the lad with his
bare toes hanging out was a lieutenant or captain in the recent war,
and before that, a white-collar guy somewhere up north.

Newcomers from other states are flocking in, but somehow, they
don t change Arkansas. Instead, Arkansas changes them. They come
in with tense frowns on their faces, a hard glitter in their eyes, and
they walk so fast they almost run over the dogs taking naps on
the sidewalks. We just let them alone for a few days. Then when
the Mister has found that he doesn t have to shave every day unless he
really wants to, and the Missus has got into something comfortable,
we sort of edge up and begin to talk to them. Usually they wind up
by buying a "little place out in the hills," just to have for their old
age, even when they have come down for a short vacation. Then it s
funny to see how quickly they come running back to their place.
The lure of our soft caressing sunshine, the blue of Arkansas skies,
the clean, pine-scented air from the hills exert a mighty big pull on
a fellow s heartstrings when he goes back to the city after an Arkansas
vacation.

Then, most of all, one remembers the friendliness of soft-spoken
folk who are never in a hurry. The salesgirl in the store, who smilingly
says: "Hurry back, now!" to the tourist who has dropped in to buy
a post card. The farmer who will stop plowing to give you directions
to the next town, and probably take you to his house to see his cured
meat. The housewife who will show you her cellar, packed with
canned vegetables, which she planted, hoed, harvested and canned with
her own two hands, and wild blackberries which she picked dew-wet,
braving chiggers, snakes and briers, and who will wind up by loading
your car with jars of those same vegetables and berries. The woman

18 Hurrah for Arkansas!

who comes to do your cleaning, bringing an armload o flowers from
her garden, or a vine carefully potted in a tin coffee can. These are
the Arkansans whom Mr. Schoolcraft never met. Poor Mr. School-
craft!

II

Our Toum, a Bit of Switzerland

though the Jedge and I had no part in founding
or naming the town of Eureka Springs, we can t repress a smug little
grin when tourists exclaim: "This unique town! Why, it s just like
Switzerland!"

After all, we discovered it for ourselves, about seventy-five years
after Colonel C. Bertram Saunders had discovered this valley of springs
for Arkansas! Today Eureka Springs is a town of perhaps 5,000
people, who live in houses that perch on mountainsides, peer down
from mountaintops or snuggle in narrow valleys with a slab of con
crete leading from the front door across a leaping, foaming mountain
stream to the highway. It is not at all unusual to have a dinner party
cut short because a sudden, sharp rainfall comes up just as dessert is
being served. At such times the guests fairly fling themselves out of
the house and into their cars in a frantic effort to reach home before
the "branch" rises and shuts them off from house, children and baby
sitter for twenty-four hours.

A house that looks like a tiny cottage in front will prove to be four
stories deep in back, as it fits against the mountain on which it was
built. The house that looks tall in front may back up to a cave in the
mountain. In fact, many houses and business places have caves in
which meat and vegetables are kept at an unvarying cool temperature
the year around.

We have 267 streets in our town, but not a crossing. The streets
wind about the mountains, sometimes merging, but never making a

19

20 Hurrah for Arkansas!

direct cross. Some of them are almost vertical, which is terrifying to
people from Iowa and Kansas at first, but they soon learn to park their
cars with the wheels turned toward the curb. Not more than once a
month does a car get loose and run down a mountain under its own
power. A few of our tourist courts are located on the ridges and often
people from the plains drive in and leave their cars there, preferring
to take to the hills on foot. Most tourists, however, like the sense of
adventure that comes with sweeping down mountains at a roller-
coaster, devil-may-care speed.

One popular resort spot can provide a whole vacation, making it
unnecessary for a timid motorist to turn a wheel until it is time to leave.
This is Lake Lucerne, operated by Richard R. Thompson. The spring-
fed lake, set like a gem in the hills, is fine for swimming and boating, and
one has a choice of hotel or cottage accommodations. A golf course
and evening bingo game in the dining room provide excitement. If you
think golf can t be exciting, you haven t seen this course. Mother Nature
built the hazards on this one and as a golf course architect she has no
equal!

In the valley and along the mountainsides, within the city limits,
sixty-three springs come bubbling out of the earth. Even the town
waterworks is supplied by a spring-fed pool high in the hills* The
water of the springs is said to have qualities that help people on to
health and presumable happiness, but I think it is enough to say it is
the best drinking water I have ever tasted anywhere. However, the
reputed remedial qualities of Eureka Springs water were actually
responsible for the founding of the town-

In 1879 Dr. Jackson, who lived in the hills near Benyville, crosvsed
the ridge to the valley which is Eureka Springs main street now, and
found a great spring of amazing coolness and clarity. All about the
spring were signs left by Indians who had undoubtedly enjoyed its
water and pleasant surroundings. The good doctor took a jugful of
water home with him and tried it on the eyes, injuries and unhcaled
wounds of his patients* Probably any good sterilized water would
have had the same results, but the doctor got the idea that the spring

Our Town, a Bit of Switzerland 21

water had healing qualities. A few weeks later, when he learned that
young Bertram Saunders and his father were preparing for a hunting
trip, he persuaded them to cross the ridge to the valley with the great
spring that came out of a basin in the rocks.

I have heard this story many times from Colonel Saunders, who is
now well past eighty. On the hunting trip the doctor rode his horse,
with a jug tied to the saddle horn, and the Saunders men rode in a
buggy drawn by a team of horses. At the top of the ridge they left
the buggy, mounted the horses and rode with the doctor down into
the valley. On their first night in the valley, they killed a deer.

The spring in the basin of rock was as clear and cool as the doctor
had said, and for weeks after he had ridden away with another jug o
spring water tied to the saddle horn, the Saunders men stayed on.
Hunting was profitable and they cooked their meals and slept beside
the spring. When it was time for them to go home, they were reluctant
to leave so pleasant a spot. At last they decided that instead of going
home, they would bring young Bertram s mother to the camp. The
younger Saunders rode to the top of the ridge, leading the second
horse. There he hitched the team to the buggy and drove home to
Berryville for his mother. When they returned, Mrs. Saunders rode
one of the horses down into the valley. They built a crude log cabin
and there the Saunders family stayed for several weeks, enjoying the
water and scenery and wild game. In the meantime, the elder
Saunders often bathed an unhealed spot on one leg where he had been
injured by a pitchfork. Before the camping trip ended, his wound
was completely healed. Word of that spread like wildfire through
the hills after the Saunders family returned home.

The spring beyond the ridge then became a mecca for everyone.
Thousands of people crowded into the valley within the next few
years, bringing the sick, the lame and the blind to the healing waters
of the spring. At last 10,000 people were living in tents, crude shacks
and covered wagons in that valley and still the settlement had no
name.

One evening the question of a name came up, and it was decided

22 Hurrah for Arkansas!

to settle the matter then and there. In honor o Dr. Jackson, the name
"Jackson Springs" was suggested. Then someone else said it should
be named "Saunders Springs." Young Bert Saunders, who was sitting
beside the spring, gave the matter deep thought. He remembered tales
of the search for the Fountain of Youth. Here indeed was a veritable
fountain of health for all who cared to come to it. We have found it,
he whispered to himself. The old poem "Eureka" came to mind.
Eureka! We have found it!

"Let s name the town Eureka Springs/ " he shouted.

And so it was named!

To this day the spring is said to be beneficial to people suffering
from sore eyes or stomach trouble. I wouldn t know. My eyes are
quite all right. And as for my stomach, the only trouble I have with
it is keeping it filled! For the spring, however, I have the most sincere
devotion. It stands in the center of a beautiful little park that is the
outdoor living room of Eureka Springs. A band shell provides a place
for programs, community sings and outdoor Easter services. Beside
the park is an eight-story hotel, The Basin Park, owned by my good
friend and fellow hilkramper, Joe ParkhilL The hotel has frequently
been mentioned by Ripley in his Believe-Itor-Not series, for each floor
is a ground floor. It is built against the mountainside, and the guests on
any floor can step out the back door of the corridor and walk their dogs
on the mountain. If you wish to attend a party on the roof garden, you
can park your car at the top of the mountain and walk down to the
roof.

Another delightful hotel stands near our house. It is the Crescent
Hotel, built back in the days when Eureka Springs was so popular a
vacation spot that special trains ran into the town to bring the crowds.
When the hotel was reopened, the new owners and the manager,
Dwight Nichols, restored not only the gracious rooms with their
balconies looking out over hills and valleys, but the old-time excellence
of the hot biscuits and fried chicken for which the hotel was famous.

From the terrace that runs to the Crescent s swimming pool one

Our Town, a Bit of Switzerland 23

looks down on the steeple of beautiful little St. Elizabeth s Catholic
Church. This church, too, has a story.

Back when the Crescent was in its heyday, Richard C. Kerens made
his home in one of its luxurious apartments. One day Mr. Kerens started
on a trip to Washington. His mother who had been caring for him
during a slight illness stepped out on the "Shoo Fly" walk to wave
good-by to him. At the bend of the road on the mountainside he turned
in his cab to look back at her. That was the last time he saw her alive.
His return from Washington was delayed by further illness, and at last
he had word that his mother, who had returned to her home in Fort
Smith, had suffered a stroke and passed on. He decided to build
a church to her memory at the very spot from which he had waved
that last good-by. A church on the sharply sloping hillside required
real architectural genius. The congregation walks in at the steeple,
then follows a winding path down a steep slope to enter the auditorium.

Many homes are built on slopes just as steep, and this architectural
jumbling gives rise to many quaint tales. At her club one day, a
woman spoke casually of looking up her chimney and seeing her
cows come home. It is a matter of legal record that the first lawsuit in
the town was filed by a woman who was angry at her neighbors. It
seems they had thrown their dishwater down the chimney of her
home. The chimney was hot, and it was "plumb ruined" by that dish
water. She sued for damages.

Perhaps the oddness of this little town in the hills of Arkansas has
brought about the friendliness and consideration one finds among
Eureka Springs citizens. When one is climbing a hill, it is nice to stop
and chat awhile with someone who keeps a comfortable chair on a
front porch. Hustle and bustle are almost completely eliminated by
the steepness of the hills. We have time to talk to strangers and to
ask about one another s health. Minor irritations that might cause
downright annoyance in the city are taken more lightly where trees
and sky meet at the tops of great hills.

Sometimes newcomers need a little time to grasp this fact, but

24 Hurrah for Arkansas!

eventually they do. For instance, when we moved into our new house
we found one of the screen doors sagging very badly. A carpenter
was called in to straighten the door. With upstairs jobs to be done, I
didn t stay to watch the work. Later when I went down, I found the
carpenter had gone, but the door to all appearances, listed the same
way. As I stood looking at it, one of our cats flattened his graceful
body and eased his way into the house under the sagging screen.

That settled things!

The next time I saw the carpenter, I sputtered my protest! "The
door still sags so much that my cats can crawl under it," I fumed.

The carpenter said gently and unhurriedly: "I reckon you ll just
have to get bigger cats!"

Ill

Railway, with 2^/2-JMian Crew

You won t find many engineers who will promise to
hold a train for you when you phone the night before your trip
that you may be a bit late getting to the depot. But then few engineers
run the only train on their railroad, as Bert Anderson does. It simpli
fies matters in many ways. For instance, when Bert had to get out
and help his fireman and the student brakeman mend the track,
there was no fussy business of racing up and down to flag oncoming
trains. They just stopped Old 345 on the track, got down and rum
maged through a toolbox, brought out picks and mauls, and walked
leisurely to the broken rail. There they mended it with a couple of
brackets quicker than one of these high-flying modern engines can
whistle at a crossing.

You see, the one-train railway on which Mr. Anderson pilots an
engine is the Cassville & Exeter, probably the shortest full-gauge rail
road in existence. It runs just four and eight-tenths miles on the
Ozark Plateau. Did I say runs ? That was a slight exaggeration, since
it took exactly one hour and twenty minutes to make the less-than-
five-miles trip from Cassville to Exeter, one way!

We didn t have to hold Mr. Anderson to his promise to wait for
the Jedge and me. We were up before dawn to get a real railroadman s
breakfast under our overall belts before setting out to drive the twenty-
five miles to Cassville. The Jedge used to be a brakeman on the Green
Bay & Western Railroad and the thought of getting back on a freight
train was like the smell of powder to an old war house. He kept talking

25

26 Hurrah for Arkansas!

about the good old days when he walked the tops of boxcars with a
Wisconsin north wind whistling about his ears. He seemed a little
regretful when the Arkansas sun came up bright and warm. He d been
hoping for a blizzard, I m sure.

We found the engine steaming away in the switchyard or rather
I found it there. The Great Railroader had to stop at a convenient
restaurant for a final cup of coffee before he went on the job. At close
range the engine looked sort of pony-size. Instinctively I wanted to
pat its nose. It had had a long life. The thick wooden planks that
made up the cab were scarred and splintered, and smoke had turned
them a rich, deep black like old Chinese tables* Mr. Anderson, who
looked as stout and hearty as an engineer should look, introduced me
to the crew: Cecil Hodge, the fireman and brakeman, and Jack Bundy,
aged seventeen, the student brakeman. Since the train had neither
coach nor caboose, I climbed into the engine and sat on the fireman s
seat at the left. It was made for a long-legged fireman but I could
clutch the window ledge. Mr. Anderson let me pull the cord that
range the bell, and I felt very superior to the motorists who had to
stop and let us clang across the highway. I leaned out the window
and looked back at the coal car and two empty oil tanks as though
their safety depended upon my efforts.

At the little depot beyond the highway we picked up the Jedge, who
rode on an outside corner of the coal car, and other preparations for
the trip were made. A lever was pulled to fill the water tank and Cece
fired up. He would scoop up a shovelful of coal, put his foot on a
lever that promptly split the firebox door down the middle, disclosing
a true fiery furnace, and then he would swing the coal inside. It made
a nice rhythm. Scoopl Stomp! Swing! Scoopl Stomp! Swing! A
jigger with numbers indicated the rise of the steam pressure. The
crew kept eying it until Old 345 puffed and wheezed, dripping mois
ture here and there like a fat girl at a square dance. When the pressure
climbed above 100, Jack swung aboard, the Jedgc clutched a handy
corner and we were off!

We wound through the outskirts of town, so close to Httle houses

Ozar\ Railway, with 2Y2-M.au Crew 27

we could see breakfast dishes standing on kitchen tables. A flock of
white chickens fluttered across the railroad under the nose of Old 345,
squawking at this intrusion of their private runway. I rang the bell
vigorously at the final street crossing and then we were out of town,
moving slowly up a narrow valley. As we neared a low trestle Bert
gave a sigh and stopped the train.

"Here s that broken rail," he said. The entire crew dismounted and
went to work. The Jedge gave me the technical name of the repair
job, and I listened with interest until I realized that we two were
alone in a snorting, puffing engine. "What if this thing begins to
back up?" I asked. "Do you know enough about railroading to stop
it?" Loftily the Jedge explained that he would just grab the throttle
and do this or that, but I got down off my high seat. I was prepared
to jump if the engine budged.

At last the rail was properly bracketed, and Old 345 seemed to tiptoe
across it. Everybody breathed easier and we settled down for the trip.
It was wonderful to move so slowly. When a covey of quail whirred
across the track only to settle down and watch us pass, I could see
their bright eyes and the beauty of their feathers. I could see, too, the
fluffiness of the tail of a rabbit that scurried off the track and crouched
beneath a bush a few feet from the rails. When a flock of birds drink
ing at a small pond arose and flew to a near-by tree, I could see the
spread of their wings. The texture of the earth turned over by two
men plowing in a field looked like the breaks in freshly dipped choco
late ice cream. At a field of alfalfa I could see where the sower had
turned his team and drill at the end of the field; the green rows made
wide swirls against the brown earth like a beautifully patterned rug.
The leaves in the sheltered valley had not lost their bright color, and
the slow tempo of our passing through a panorama of gold and
scarlet seemed to have a dignity I had never noticed in a swanky car.
I found myself holding my chin high, as though I might be wearing
a crown instead of a bandanna on my head. Then suddenly we came
to a deep cove where trees were festooned with long sprays of bitter
sweet, bright with scarlet-orange berries. I stopped my mental play-

28 Hurrah for Arkansas!

acting and shrieked with longing. "We ll stop and get you some when
we come back," promised Cece.

The way grew more steeply upgrade and Cece began shoveling in
dead earnest. Each shovelful of coal made just that much more black
smoke billow back into the cab. "Fightin a head wind," quipped
Bert. "Slows us down!" As we inched up the grade, an overalled
farmer swung up on the engine, rode a short distance, chatting with
the crew and the Jedge, then swung down again. Just taking the
train over to a neighbor s! A little later we passed another man walk
ing along the road. Bert leaned out of the cab and called, "Get that
lard you was lookin for?"

The man s answer came clearly: "Yupp! Got some yestiddy. Much
obliged!"

Bert turned to me and explained: "Poor fellow. Plumb out of lard
the other day. Havin to use butter. Store s got some in now, and I
thought I d bring him some."

Cece went through his routine of scoop, stomp and swing, More
smoke billowed over us. Cece leaned on the shovel and asked: "Did
you know this railway is mentioned in the Bible? It is! There where
it says and all creeping things.* "

We paused at Exeter only long enough to leave our two empties
and hitch two freight cars, one filled with corn, the other with coal,
to the nose of our engine, "Downgrade all the way, so we back down!*
explained Bert, Cece flung his shovel into the coal car, Jack climbed
on top of the corn car, the Jedge took a new hold on another corner.
Bert released the air brakes a bit; they hissed softly, and Old 345 began
to coast backward. We went back down the valley with just about
the same speed we had made coming up. At intervals during which
I could count to six, Bert would release the hissing brakes, When we
came to the cove with the bittersweet, both Bert and Cece remembered
the promise to stop. Bert fussed with the air brakes until the engine
was brought to a full stop at the exact spot where the berries were
brightest and thickest. Jack put an old fence post under the rear
wheels. We all climbed out and an armload of bittersweet was cut

Ozar^ Railway, with 2 T /2-Man Crew 29

for me. When we reached the field where the men were plowing, we
saw one of them holding a rabbit that the dog had obviously just
caught. The Jedge leaned from his private coal car and shouted, "I ll
give you two bits for that rabbit."

"It s yourn!" yelled the farmer.

Again Bert obligingly brought the train to a stop. The Jedge
climbed down, got his rabbit, paid his quarter and brought the rabbit
back to the coal car where he put it on his private corner. Supper
had been achieved!

"Now," said the Jedge, "I m going to get up on top of this boxcar
with Jack!" He swung up the ladder on the side of the car and stood
on the roof, silhouetted against the bright sky. I clutched the window
ledge and the train started up. The Jedge hastily sat down. Perhaps
the tracks were smoother on the GB & W. He didn t try to walk, and
after a while he began to make bad-order signals indicating that the
top of the car was hard and bumpy. But he was still gamely atop when
we reached the mended rail and then the siding above the depot.
There he dismounted and watched from the side lines when the two
boxcars were shunted to the sidetracks by means of a long wire cable
and stout hooks. I rode the engine until we reached the depot, won
dering if Casey Jones might have been kin to me.

Bert and Old 345 have been working together thirty-seven of the
fifty years the Cassville & Exeter Railway has been in existence. At
first the railway was owned by two Cassville men. Now their widows
run it, with Mrs. Ida Dingier as president and Mrs. B. C. Ault as
secretary. Mrs. Dingler s son, Ray, is vice-president. His wife, Lona,
is general agent, handling weigh bills, express and all the technicalities
common to a railway with hundreds of trains. We had a nice visit
with her while the Jedge rested on a cushioned chair in the little depot
office. Ray was not around. He was up in Missouri, said Lona, look
ing for fifty-six-pound steel with which to repair the track, and making
a bid on a new engine. Old 345 is about due for the retirement list.

The Jedge, too, is willing to admit that his railroading days are over.

IV

Qzark Plateau^Sweet "Broilerland

IF ALL the people who have nursed the plan o retiring
to a farm and making a fortune raising chickens were placed end to
end, it would be a good idea. Chicken raising and prospecting for
gold are two gambles which the Jedge and I long cherished. We
finally tried to make nice big profitable broilers out of anaemic little
chicks with mayhem tendencies, and if we hadn t been blessed with
good neighbors, I might have beaten the author of The Egg and 1 to
the draw. With that out of our system, we decided the gold prospect
ing could wait for our reincarnation. I had hoped that people at large
had stopped thinking of chicken raising along about the time pros
perity turned its famous corner. But such is not the case. Down here
in the Ozark Mountains, it remains one of the big ideas. And what
is more, it pays if you do it the Bcnton County way*

In Benton County, chicken is king, and the entire community is
geared to help you make a success of your effort. Chicken feed is
brought in by the carload, and practically everyone in the whole
community is able and willing to give you advice, whether or not you
are willing to take it.

Almost every farm has its poultry house. In fact, raising 3,000 to
5,000 broilers is regarded as part of the farm work. I have often heard
women at club meetings relate their duties and, after telling about
cooking, washing, ironing, fixing the children s lunches, etc*, add,
"Oh, yes, we have 10,000 broilers, and of course I help with them. * A
man and his wife who have modern equipment and good buildings

30

Eureka Springs 267 streets wind about the mountains on which the town is
perched but never cross! In background: Basin Park Hotel, where a catwalk
connects each ol: the 8 floors with the mountainside.

A steeply roofed shelter built against the mountainside protects Crescent
Spring, one of the 63 springs within the city limits ot Kureka Springs.

Ozar\ Plateau Sweet Broilerland 31

and are not allergic to work can handle 15,000 broilers with excellent
success. Travel through Benton County and you see chicken houses
on every hand proof that many couples, native Ozarkians as well as
newcomers, are taking this work seriously.

When one speaks of broilers in Benton County, one means chickens
at least fifteen weeks old and weighing from four to four and a half
pounds. Since Red New Hampshires are the favored breed, it means
quite a hunk of chicken. Spindling broilers often seen elsewhere, it
was explained to me, are less profitable for the raiser. Actually, the
big cost and threat of disease occur before the chicken has reached
twelve weeks. The grower who holds onto his chicks just a trifle
longer, say three weeks, gets a greater percentage of profit for the
extra pounds.

This was one of the tips straight from the chicken s bill that I ob
tained by visiting the biggest ranch of them all, Willhill, operated by
Vick Will. From his ranch of 320 wooded acres, three batches of
56,000 New Hampshire broilers each are shipped every year. He raises
also 11,000 turkeys, kept at some distance from the chickens, since
chickens and turkeys do not thrive in one another s society. At the
time of my visit 2,200 New Hampshire hens and roosters, their blood
tested at intervals by state inspectors, were in the laying house. Their
care, added to that of the broilers, was too much for the ranch to
manage, and this hgs since been abandoned.

Don Hoyt, then secretary of the Rogers Chamber of Commerce,
took me to the ranch. He had prepared me for the sight of thousands
of chickens walking around on valuable drumsticks. Anyone who
lives in north Arkansas knows about the chickens in Benton County,
just as they know about fish in White River. But no one had told me
what a queer place Mr. Will had picked out for his famous ranch. It
is in the hills and I m not foolin 5 ! You go out Route 12 from Rogers,
winding among steep, wooded hills and valleys until you come to a
gate that leads into what might truthfully be called "the interior."
The welcome mat isn t exactly spread out for you. If you are brazen
enough to make the trip, look out for the hill after you cross the

32 Hurrah for Arkansas!

gully. Take it in low gear and try not to think what the sharp rocks
are doing to your tires.

At the ridge you discover the ranch is a sort o horseshoe affair, with
abruptly descending hills veering sharply downward from many well-
painted buildings set at wide intervals. There goes the long-cherished
idea that chicken houses should be in the valley, with the sun shining
in at south windows for winter warmth! H|re in the Ozarks the
chickens can keep warm under their own steam, so to speak, in the
winter. But summer heat is the problem. If the sun beat down on
those houses containing the feathered beauties they would be un
comfortably warm. For that reason the houses are built on the ridge,
where they get the benefit of mountain breezes.

Furthermore, the trees of this heavily wooded section are allowed to
tower above the buildings and shade the runs. Another unexpected
reason why this horseshoe ridge was chosen is the air drainage. Both
in summer and winter, currents of air sweep up and over the hills,
swishing away germs and impure air that might hover for days in a
valley. Of course water drainage is also important, and for this the
horseshoe-shaped ridge rates high. Each rain pours down the hills
from the buildings, washing off impurities that might cause infection.

The land cost $350 an acre two years ago, making the total cost for
the 320 acres just $1,120. But don t let the original cost fool you into
becoming a chicken rancher before you have figured out all the angles.
It isn t the original cost, but the upkeep, that will get you if you don t
watch out.

At Willhill Ranch buildings 250 feet long and 20 feet wide were
constructed to hold 6,000 chickens, with crosswise partition to break
that number into smaller groups. The buildings had ventilating
spaces at the rear, and wide openings covered with feed sacks at the
front. Chimneys for brooders, made of three sections of six-inch tile,
were set into concrete, non-leaking bases on the roofs and each was
tipped with a metal shield. Each building faced into a run about
seventy-five feet deep, and there in the shade of tall oak, hickory, gum
and maple trees, the chickens spent their days, shifting from sunshine

Ozarf^ Plateau Sweet Broilerland 33

to shade, eating and drinking at will. They were tame and gentle.
They came to the fence to peer at visitors like friendly youngsters. I
gathered that it was a crime to sound a horn or make a loud outcry on the
ridge. Chickens are temperamental and must not be upset by loud
noises. At marketing time trucks come for them at night and load
them noiselessly*

Formerly, the layers in houses at the bottom of the hill supplied the
eggs which hatched into baby chicks. Now the eggs come from pedi
greed hens controlled by the ranch or known to be of high quality.
When the baby chicks arrive at the ranch, they are put directly into
the house where they will live through all their growing period. Each
house, of course, has just sent a batch of broilers out into the world.
Before the new babies come in, it is cleaned as thoroughly as disin
fectants can clean it. Two inches of peat moss and commercial litter
are spread on the floor, and covered with newspapers. When the
chicks are a few days old, the newspapers are removed, but the litter
remains unchanged during the fifteen-week period. Since it is kept
bone-dry, there is no danger of it carrying infection.

In place of a mother hen, the baby chicks have a coal-stove brooder
for a period of five to six weeks, depending on the weather. At no
time do they sit on perches. That might develop crooked breastbones
in the young chickens and reduce their market price. Both chicken
houses and runs are equipped with automatic waterers. When a
chicken takes a drink, more water runs in, fresh and clean. Willhill
is blessed with a great spring, from which water is piped up the hill
to a cistern and then to all the buildings, including the eight tenant
houses.

A cafeteria feeding plan is provided for the chicks. They have
three choices: corn, oats and a mixed feed, which are kept before them
all the time. Chickens are not so dumb as a certain author would
have you believe. On a hot day they eat a lot of oats. On a cold day
they eat corn.

When one of the twenty workmen at Willhill goes into a building
he wears rubbers and dunks his feet in a pan of disinfectant, so germs

34 Hurrah for Arkansas!

cannot be carried into one building from another, or from infected
ground. Trucks driven into a run to load a batch o broilers must
have their tires sprayed. As another precaution, older chicks are never
allowed near younger chicks, for the older brother may be holding
his own with some disease that might carry off the weaker baby.
With this continuous care, the anticipated mortality, which is six to
seven percent, is kept away down. In fact, in one set of buildings it
was held to the all-time low of two and six-tenths percent,

If you are wondering why chickens are not raised in batteries here,
as in the city, let Benton County answer. Because of the lack of
processing plants in this region, chickens have been shipped out of
Rogers "on foot" for many years. That is, they stand in coops which
are loaded on trucks and driven to the cities. Battery chickens would
not have enough strength in their legs to permit them to stand all
the way to Chicago. Chickens raised under normal outdoor con
ditions, with plenty of sunshine, fresh air and exercise, can be shipped
almost everywhere.

However, this type of shipping is rapidly becoming obsolete, for
great processing plants are now being established in Benton County by
famous packers. Battery chicks may be the next step* But why skimp
on space when land is still relatively inexpensive?

Unfortunately I cannot promise that you will still find land ex*
tremely cheap in Benton County. Seems that a lot of people have found
out what a delightful country this is, and they are coming down in
flocks. Naturally that does things to the price of land. But, let me
assure you, many wooded hills are still lying around waiting to be
purchased at a price far below what you would pay almost anywhere
else* And you have the advantage of neighbors who are raising
chickens, too, so you can talk shop morning, noon and night and
maybe from such talk you can get the good advice you need.

The Arkansas Traveler who talks with people in Benton may learn
that, although thousands have tried to find it and failed, there is still
money in drumsticks and wishbones*

The Willhill people sum up the difference between success aad

OzarJ^ Plateau Sweet Broilerland 35

failure in chicken raising in just one word: carelessness! They mean
the sort of carelessness that lets dirt and filth take over the chicken
house. Lack of experience can be licked. In fact, when they hire
workmen the Willhill people prefer employees who have never raised
a chicken. They have no cut-and-dried ideas to be unlearned. But just
let a workman forget to dunk his shoes in disinfectant, or obey any
of the other rules that would seem silly to the average Arkansas farmer
and wham, there s another chap fired . . . even if help is scarce!

With your own flock you must be just as careful.

Oh, yes, it takes a little money, too! Willhill has found that the
original investment for building and equipment runs about ninety
cents per bird. And the cost of buying, feeding and caring for the
chicken from its fluffy babyhood to upstanding, red-combed adult
hood runs from eighty-five to ninety cents per bird.

Now get out the old lead pencil and start figuring.

While I was seeing the Willhill chicks in their fumigated, sterilized
houses, a butterscotch-colored car came swiftly over the hilltop. I m
still wondering about its speed, for I had reached the limit to which
I am willing to push my little blue car. I had ruined one tire, and I
was in no mood to de-rubberize another. When we reached the ridge,
says I, we ll do the rest of this on foot! That is how Don Hoyt and
I happened to be on foot, like the chickens. When the car came over
the rise, we could see a handsome, well-dressed man in it not the
chicken thief whom I had already shot three times mentally, of
course! Indeed, chicken thieves might be handsome and well dressed,
but theirs would seem a messy job attractive only to the lower stratum.

Don recognized the drives as Mr. Glen Will, brother of Vic k
Will. Glen has a home in California but spends his summers in the
Ozarks. He greeted us cordially, and when Don introduced me, I
was surprised no end to learn that he had read a book or two of mine.

"Imagine," he said, "meeting Marge Lyon in a chicken house!"

He might have said "in my chicken house," ior he is associated in
his brother s ranch. After we had finished a tour, in his butterscotch
car, of the broiler houses, wells and ranch homes of the employees,

36 Hurrah for Arkansas!

he insisted that we come home with him for supper. *J ean would
never forgive me if you were this close, and I didn t bring you to
meet her," he said. I gathered that Jean was his wife, and a nice girl
t hadn t she read my books! but the thought of barging in on her was
not too pleasant for me, and what would it do to her?

However, we went. I rode in the butterscotch car with Mr. Will
and Don trailed behind in my car. Uphill and downhill, through
War Eagle River, skirting deep valleys we drove, and finally we ar
rived at the Wills 5 home.

There is a house that could serve as a model for all the country
places in Arkansas. It is a long, low building, with the center given
over to a living room that has doors on both sides. The entrance
doors in front open on a terrace; the back doors open on another that
lies above the river. Step off it and you would drop a couple of hun
dred feet into water. An outdoor fireplace, chairs, tables and a radio
make the rear terrace a complete living room. Guests were arriving
that evening and supper would be served here. We must stay!

That was Jean for you! Of course we stayed, I had never had the
opportunity of stepping into a picture-book house before* It was like
walking right into the pages of House and Garden or Sunset,

The guests proved as delightful as the Wills, and our party was very
gay, Jean brought out fried chicken, baked lima beans and other hot
food in deep earthen dishes that hold heat for outdoor eating. Bowls
of salad and sliced cantaloupe furnished a cool touch. We were soon
lined up with plates in hand ready to do justice to such a repast.

Probably because I had the hungriest look in my eyes, I was put at
the head of the line, and by the time I had my plate filled, those crocks
and bowls were considerably less than full! At the end of the table
I turned to speak to Don, who was just back of me, and suddenly I
realized that the heels of my darned flat shoes had slipped over the
edge o the terrace. , , . Which edge?

In terror of falling, I grabbed at thin air with one hand, clutched
my plate with the other and tried desperately to get my balance. But
nothing helped. I went over backward, describing a wide arc with my

teau Sweet Broilerland 37

plate. Baked beans, fried chicken and salad scattered all over the beau
tiful terrace. I was certain that I was about to plunge into the river
two hundred feet below. I know now that people s entire lives do not
flash through their minds at the instant they face sudden death. I
know they do not shout, "Say good-by to Mother!" or do anything
dramatic. My one and only thought was to save the golden-brown
quarter of a Willhill fried chicken.

The Wills are my good friends now, and I have often returned to
their beautiful house on the river s edge. Always I step very carefully
over the five-inch drop in the terrace at the end of the buffet table.

Rogers, Bentonville and Springdale are the Big Three of north
western Arkansas in a business sense. They are in plateau country that
differs sharply from the mountains just north of them, and have little
time for the tourists who flock to the hills.

Bentonville and Rogers have been rivals ever since the railroad
the St. Louis, Arkansas & Texas came through. Or perhaps that is
hardly the way to express it, since Rogers didn t exist at that time.
Bentonville was sitting pretty as the seat of Benton County both
town and county had been named for Thomas Hart Benton when
the railroad line was laid out. A meeting in St. Louis was scheduled
for all the towns that wanted the railroad, and Bentonville, as a mat
ter of course, sent representatives. When they went up to St. Louis,
they took along $40,000 that had been raised in the community. It
was to be handed to the railroad as a good-will offering, just to make
it easier, you understand, for big locomotives to come steaming into
the little country town.

It seemed very simple. In fact, it seemed too simple! On the night
before the meeting the representatives put their heads together over
some of St. Louis finest brew, so the story goes, and decided that the
dang railroad was bound to come through Bentonville anyhow. Next
morning, with judgment a bit clouded, and the urge to hang onto
Bentonville s money till death firmly established in their minds, they
went to the meeting. My informer was not present, so I have no

38 Hurrah for Arkansas!

means of knowing just what was said or done, but the general idea is
that the representatives sat tight with a pocketful of community money
and let it be known that not a cent would be forthcoming for the
railroad. Two of the surveyors who had laid out the line were on
hand. Quickly they grasped the notion that the railway need not go
through Bentonville. They left the meeting, got on their horses and
rode pell-mell into the blue beyond!

When the railroad came along, it missed Bentonville by five miles.
And strange as it may seem, two young surveyors owned all the land
at the point on the line where a town would logically be built, and in a
short time, the new town, Rogers, was born!

In those days a five-mile stretch between town and depot was like
living in Chicago and catching a train in Milwaukee. Now, of course,
it is nothing at all. It is like a main street, with clusters of stores and
pleasant houses at each end. This five-mile distance has, however,
made a great difference in the towns of Bentonville and Rogers.
Bentonville is the South, a gracious, lovely, traditional Nashville.
Rogers is the North, a bustling little Chicago, It is difficult to park in
Rogers, a druggist was rude to me there, and the Harris Hotel is the
finest in all northern Arkansas. So I always get a feeling of being
back in Chicago when I am in Rogers. When I stay overnight in the
region, I always go to Bentonville. Now that industries are coming
to Bentonville, I hope it will not grow Northern! I ll settle for the
New South! The old kindliness and hospitality, plus pay rolls!

The hotel at which I stay figured in the Battle of Pea Ridge, which
was fought a few miles north of Rogers* Franz Sigel was in com
mand of a Federal artillery unit at Bentonville. Confederate General
Earl Van Dorn attacked on March 7, 1862. The Federal officer had
just sat down to breakfast in the hotel with members of his staff, when
the boys in gray uniforms came up. Sigel retreated toward Pea Ridge,
where the main Federal force was posted, and the roadway, so
they tell me, was littered with dead and dying. The artillery unit and
the Confederate troops fou^bt all the way. At Bentonville old-timers
will point out the path by which the Southerners approached, and the

Ozar^ Plateau Sweet Broilerland 39

road along which General Sigel so furiously rode his horse. By the
highway that leads to Eureka Springs is a little old log house, which
has become a sort o Pea Ridge landmark. It stood in the line of fire
between the two armies, and now has a more harried existence resist
ing the onslaught of souvenir hunters. It serves as a museum, and a
small admission fee is charged.

When the Arkansas Traveler comes into Rogers from the north, on
Route 62, he gets a strong reminder of Grandma s kitchen in apple-
butter time, or Grandpa s orchard when he used to make cider. The
Gregory-Robinson-Speas vinegar plant produces about 3,000,000 gal
lons each year, using apples grown on this plateau land.

Apples are not the only fruit of this region. In the strawberry
season I was driving along the highway near Rogers one day, when I
came upon a shed housing more activity than I had ever seen before
in the vicinity. A half-dozen women and girls and a couple of men
were busy sorting and crating strawberries, great, luscious, crimson
berries that made my mouth water. Out in the field, a dozen pickers
were crouched over the rows, filling the boxes in their wooden carriers
with the fine berries. A truck was being loaded with the crates.

"Where did you get all this help?" I asked the farmer.

"My neighbors!" he said.

A community where one can grow such berries and live alongside
such people makes a pretty good home.

A few miles from Rogers is the site of the "Coin" Harvey Pyramid,
which was under construction when Mr. Harvey died. The amphi
theatre and speaker s platform built at the mouth of two springs is one
of the sights of the region. Mr. Harvey, as your grandmother can tell
you, was a prominent figure in the late nineties. He was the trusted
counselor of William Jennings Bryan and, like him, believed that free
silver was the salvation of the nation. When Mr, Bryan was defeated,
Mr. Harvey was convinced that the world was going from bad to
worse. He buried himself in the hills of Arkansas. Even today the

40 Hurrah for Arkansas!

spot he chose is a sparsely settled region, although the scenery is among
the best.

In the hills Mr. Harvey wrote books and pamphlets. He had great
visions of a magnificent summer resort. In the quiet little valley with
springs popping out from under the hill to form a brook that still
rambles down to a river bed, he could visualize a lively, bustling town.
Farther along he saw in his mind s eye great, rambling buildings sur
rounded by velvety lawns. Beautifully dressed women in high pompa
dours and long sweeping skirts would spend vacations there playing
croquet with high-collared gents or dabbling lily-white fingers in the
cool spring water as they boated on the winding streams. I have some
of the illustrated pamphlets Mr. Harvey produced to promote his
dream. They prove that he was way ahead of his time. If he could
have had the bathing beauties and the automobiles of today, he would
have gone places with his summer resort.

Instead of the towering hotel popular in that era, he planned long,
low buildings that bear a remarkable resemblance to modern tourist
courts. Each building would be separated into forty or fifty rooms, all
on the ground floor. One building called Missouri Row was actually
finished and, according to the prospectus, had forty open fireplaces and
575 feet of porches. None of the rooms was less than sixteen feet square,
and all were furnished with the heaviest iron and brass bedsteads and
most expensive mattresses that could be obtained. Oklahoma Row was
under construction, a separate hotel of smaller dimensions, and an audi
torium had been built, bridges had been constructed, waters were
stocked with fish, and even a five-mile railroad had actually come into
being before the bubble burst,

I have seen Missouri Row, but I rarely waste much time on. the
lamented summer resort. I am always eager to get to the amphitheater,
which fascinates me. I like to walk along the narrow runways, sit in
the backless seats and wonder how it would look in moonlight* Like
something out of Athens, perhaps* The amphitheater curves in a grace
ful half -moon about a spring-fed lagoon. It is built of concrete and rock
hewed from the mountainside, with scats in clustered groupings. The

Ozar\ Plateau Sweet Broilerland 41

runways which connect these groupings would hardly accommodate
two persons of average plumpness. In the center of the lagoon stands
a concrete platform, furnished with concrete chairs for the speakers.
I would hate to sit there waiting to address a women s club while the
members who attended the annual convention in Ponca City gave their
report! In fact, I would hate to sit there . . . period. Although the con
crete structure shows no sign of age or decay, the runway that at one
time joined the mainland with the island speaker s stand has long since
disappeared. I have waded out to it on a warm summer day when I
was wearing shorts, but I would be reluctant to make the same trip in
an evening dress before a waiting audience.

The audience would get one break, however. They could look beyond
me and see the picturesque length of a tree-bordered stream the result
of those two springs and even the dullest speech would become quite
bearable.

Year in, year out, Mr. Harvey tried to make the country understand
that we were going to hell in a hand basket. At last, discouraged by the
public s apathy, he decided to build an everlasting, nondestructible
pyramid. He would build it of concrete on the rocky floor of his Arkan
sas valley. It would be, he said, 130 feet high, ending in a sawed-oflf top
6 feet square. There he would place a plate of the most enduring
metal known, inscribed with these words : "When this can be read, go
below and find the cause of the death of a former civilization."

Below, in a room sixteen feet square with concrete walls eight feet
thick, the searchers would find a book of 400 pages setting forth the rise
and decline of our civilization. A copy of Mr. Harvey s book, Paul s
School of Statesmanship, also would be there, showing that one man in
the- United States had had the vision to figure out what was coming.
Other things would be in that pyramid statuettes of people and
animals, examples of styles of dress and volumes on each industry and
scientific achievement, so those races which followed our own vanished
age would know how we had spent, or misspent, our time. For financial
reasons, we may presume, the pyramid progressed no farther than a
retaining wall.

42 Hurrah for Arkansas!

The little valley of Monte Ne may not be important in the life of an
Arkansas Traveler, but as I sit on a seat in the little hidden amphi
theater, I can feel the pathos of "Coin" Harvey s dreams.

The third town in this interesting trio is Springdale, which is bursting
out at the seams these days. A poultry-processing plant which handles
10,000 chickens a day has been put in operation there. A grape-juice
plant, employing one hundred people and furnishing use for thousands
of acres of grapes, has been working at top speed for the past few years,
Other industries are coming in when homes can be found for workmen,
and the banks are stuffed with money.

My friend Don Hoyt left Rogers to become secretary of the Spring-
dale Chamber of Commerce. A short time after he assumed his new
work, a letter came to my husband from the Springdale Chamber of
Commerce. I had a good mind, as we say in the hills, to open it, but
reflected that this might lead to the Jedge s opening my letters, and
wisely refrained. A few days later I heard him talking over the phone,
"Oh, it s you, Don." "Yeah, Don." "Sure, Don!" "Ill try my darnedest,
Don!" "YouVe right, Don," and "Well, so long, Don," Then he an
nounced that was Don asking him to speak at the annual banquet of
the Springdale Chamber of Commerce.

Now there is nothing that pleases the Jedge more than hearing some
one say, after much blah, blah, blah, ". . , and now, ladies and gentle
men, it is my great privilege to present Judge Robert W* Lyon." My
husband gets up on his feet, opens his mouth and in a deep, resonant
voice speaks well on any given subject whether or not he knows any
thing about it. I am one of those people before whom audiences swim,
Everything I am to say must be written, memorized and rehearsed for
weeks on end. Therefore I am always in a dither for days before the
Jedge makes a speech because he prepares nothing. If I delve into this
or that, and hunt up magazine articles or editorials on his proposed
subject, which I carelessly leave lying beside his plate at the table, he
tosses t|*em aside* *T11 think of something when I get up to talk!" he
says blithely.

Ozart^ Plateau Sweet Brollerland 43

Over the Springdale speech I practically had a nervous breakdown.
No subject had been assigned the Jedge, and for all I knew then, or
know now, he hadn t chosen one. I kept hunting up little squibs that
make funny stories, in case, God forbid, he went humorous! I felt that
Fd scream if he gave his reliable old wheeze about the woman who
took her ear trumpet to church and the usher he was Scotch said,
"One toot and ye re oot!" Only the Jedge always tells it nondialect,
and one toot and you re out is even less funny, if possible. Day by day
I vowed I couldn t go, but he would only shrug his shoulders and say
that was all right.

Finally the day came, and wild horses couldn t have kept me at home.
On the drive over to Springdale we would have two uninterrupted
hours in which I could make him do some serious thinking about his
speech. But a light snow had fallen, and I defy anyone but an Okla
homa truck driver to ride snowy hills in the Ozarks and give a thought
to anything except the operation of the car. That goes for the back-scat
driver as well as the one behind the wheel.

When we rolled into Springdale, I said, "Now look! You find a nice
quiet corner and study up a speech."

"I will," he promised. Somehow I had the feeling he was adding
"not."

Mrs. Horace Smith was giving a tea for me, while Mr. Smith and
Don and other members of the Chamber of Commerce took the Jedge
around town to see what strides were being made. After the tea some
of the guests lingered. When Mr. Smith and the Jedge came in, I could
only whisper frantically to my husband, "Did you do anything about
that speech?" He opened his coat to disclose a large, folded paper
which I took to be notes. After that, I was able to wear some lipstick
without biting it off. Soon we went to the church in the basement of
which the meeting would be held, and met what seemed to be all of
Springdale, Rogers, Bentonville and even such faraway points as Spring
field, Jonesboro and Fayetteville.

I began to dig my fingernails into my palms, praying that the Jedge
had prepared a speech worthy of such an assemblage. We went down

44 Hurrah for Arkansas!

into the basement where long tables had been spread for the dinner.
There were corsages for Mrs. Smith and for me, and azaleas were
blooming in pots. It was all very festive, but I was getting more and
more nervous because the Jedge was obviously having a good time
instead of thinking about his address. I picked up the printed program
beside my plate, hoping against hope that some great shining orator
had come to town and at the last minute usurped the Jedge s place.

For a moment the words swam before my eyes, and I clutched at the
tablecloth. Then I looked again. Yes, it was true! I, too, was listed for
a speech! I, who always must write out and memorize even such a
simple phrase as "I second the motion."

I remember nothing of the dinner, nothing of what the Jedge said, or
what I said, though there is a dim memory of getting to my feet. I only
recall the Jedge saying, as we drove home through the night, that he
hadn t told me I would be expected to make a speech because he didn t
want me to worry!

I hear that Springdale has recovered and is making progress as the
months go by. I wouldn t know, I haven t been back since.

The Arkansas Traveler who misses Tomitown, just five and a half
miles from Springdale, passes up one of the finest examples of Ameri
canism in Arkansas. Before the turn of the century a group of Italians
bought land there, sight unseen, from a land agent* When they arrived,
they found their new home a swampy, unhealthful district, but being
poor peasants, unused to kicking about anything* they settled down
on it. They grew poorer and more disease-ridden by the month* Then
a priest was sent over from Italy to see how the emigrants were getting
along* He must have been sad, indeed, when he saw the plight of his
parishioners. He promptly purchased a thousand acres of the beautiful
land in Washington County and moved thirty-five families there* On
the rolling hillsides they planted grapes like those they had grown in
Italy. In autumn when the grapes were harvested, they held a festival,
much as they would have done in the homeland. They throve and
prospered* After twenty years or so the Arkansas farmers about them

Ozar\ Plateau Sweet Broilerland 45

began to plant grapes. Now the community is noted for its fine grapes,
largely responsible for the coming of the Welch Grape Juice Company
plant to Springdale.

On your map it is marked Tontitown. It was named for Henry de
Tonty or Tonti, Italian lieutenant of La Salle. Tonty also founded
Arkansas Post, the first settlement of the state.

The trip to Tontitown is worth while for two reasons: (1) Beside the
roadway you find native port and claret made from grapes grown
within a stone s throw of the stand where you make your purchase.
(2) You may eat one of Mary s dinners. I don t know Mary s last name.
It isn t important. Just tell the telephone operator at Springdale that
you want to phone Mary at Tontitown. Ask her if she will prepare
dinner for you and whomever you may wish to take with you, up to
a regiment. If she says yes, turn left at Tontitown and drive along a
crooked country road that finally brings you to an unimpressive little
house. Go in through the kitchen and tell Mary, who will be working
over the cookstove, your name and when you phoned. She will give
you a seat at one of the big tables in the two front rooms, and you
will have examined and identified not more than half the religious
statues before the food comes in. What food! Great platters of fried
chicken with the giblets and huge dishes of spaghetti, which you will
eat until you are bursting.

The South and Italy! May they never secede from each other I

V

Ozark ^Playgrounds

WooJs, Water, Fish, Food

I AM glad I became acquainted with a small part of
northern Arkansas several years ago. So many changes arc taking place
and so rapidly that one can refer to the "good old times" and mean
a scant three years ago* It is hard to believe that I spent my most fearful
forty-five minutes on the banks of Norfork Lake a summer night no
longer ago than that. Actually there was nothing to fear, but I certainly
worked myself into a lather while waiting for the Norfork Ferry,

I had crossed Norfork Lake on the same ferryboat many times that
summer and always I had waited for it with genuine pleasure. Usually
I took advantage of the few minutes to put on the wading shoes I
always carry in my car, and get my feet cool at the edge of the wide
blue lake.

On the night in question I had no qualms as I drove along the
winding hill road that led to the crossing. To a stranger it might have
seemed a lonely road. Perhaps a half-dozen small log or frame houses
stood along the forty-mile stretch, but they were back in the woods,
completely hidden from passers-by even in daytime* At night, in the
darkness and the shadows of the trees, my dog and I seemed the only
living things along the way*

However, I knew the road perfectly, the tires crunched on the gravel
in the chummy fashion that seems to say all is well, the engine ran
smoothly and ribe lights were bright The tick of the speedometer, the
little red button that glowed when the "brights" were on, the light on
the face of the dock and the instrument panel were cheerful and re-

46

Ozar\ Playground Woods, Water, Fish, Food 47

assuring. Even the gentle snoring of Judy, wrapped in her blanket
beside me, seemed companionable. Suddenly I reached the top of a
long hill and there was my gravel road apparently running right into
a black, mysterious lake, shimmering faintly in the starlight. I knew^
of course, that the loading pier of the ferry intervened before it met the
water. Beyond the pier stretched a lake three miles wide and fifty miles
long, with a 500-mile shore line. The only bridge stood rusting a
hundred feet below the surface of the dark water. About midway of
the lake the lights of the ferry were twinkling redly as it matde for the
opposite shore. I had missed the boat, literally speaking.

Once the car had stopped, the only sound was the gentle lapping of
water on the lake shore and night noises of the woods the chirp of
crickets, the shrill zing of the cicada, the crackle of tiny dry branches
as little prowlers with bright eyes scurried about. What might lurk in
those dark woods, ready to pounce on a lonely gal who couldn t have
turned her car around in the steep and narrow road if her life depended
on it? This was the question that stayed with me for forty-five of the
longest minutes of my life.

I drove close to the loading pier and turned the lights on the murky
water, but that only served to intensify the darkness of the woods to
each side. I recalled something my little hill friend Doris had said
long ago.

"If anything s a-goin to git you, it can find you a lot easier if you re
a-carryin a light!"

I turned out the lights.

The dog awakened and sat up in the car, with ears forward and nose
twitching as if she scented danger. I, too, could smell it, taste it, hear
it and feel it in every taut nerve. All at once the car seemed a trap.
With my flashlight I stepped out on the graveled road, taking the dog
with me, and walked around the car. In the utter stillness my footsteps
sounded like gunshots. Suddenly I discovered that I was dogless. Judy
had disappeared! Ivly heart stood still. I called her name in a frantic
whisper, and threw the feeble gleam of the flashlight in every direction.
Then inside the tree line I found her facing into the woods, poised for

48 Hurrah for Arkansas!

a dash after something that might be a chipmunk, a bobcat or a
drunken prowler. If she went into those woods, I knew I would have
to go after her. I made a flying tackle, grabbed her up, thrust her into
the car and jumped in beside her, breathing hard. Then I began flash
ing the lights of the car across the lake.

Always the ferry waited fifteen minutes at each side before making
the return trip. Although I knew they couldn t see my signal, perhaps
they would see a glimmer of reflected light, think somebody was dying
and cut the fifteen-minute smoke short! I lost all sense of time and
refused to believe the clock on my car. I was sure it had stopped.
Perhaps the ferry had quit for the night! I felt my hair stand on
end at thought of spending the night there. Then abruptly the
blessed heart-cheering lights showed up around the bend and headed
toward me over the water. I flashed my lights a few more times just
by way of urging them to hurry. The men were chuckling when they
brought the ferryboat up to the loading pier and found me there with
engine running and car in gear, ready to rush aboard. The lights had
told them a silly woman was waiting there, afraid of the dark and the
lonely woods.

/ Now stores, tourist camps and even a night club called, of all things,
Villa Moderne, are found along those roads and the lake shore, for
Norfork Lake has become a great vacation spot. And deservedly so.
White River as a whole was always a fine fishing stream, and the North
Fork particularly good. When the North Fork Dam was put in, the
name was shortened to the form which the hill people had always given
to this branch of the famous river the Nor fork. It is already attract
ing hundreds of fishermen, and all seem to find the sport eminently
satisfactory.

As the water backed up, all the little creeks that had run down to the
North Fork became bayous and eventually arms of the lake* Now,
when one flics over the lake on a sunny summer day I wouldn*t fly
on any other the great body of sparkling water looks like a giant
glittering octopus, thrusting its long, curving arms into the woods for
miles on every side. Indeed, a 500-mile shore line presents quite a lot
of bank on which a patient fisherman may sit and dream* Or probably

pase -

Ozar\ Playground Woods, Water, Fish, Food 49

that gives a wrong interpretation to fishing as it is done in Norfork
Lake. From what I hear, one doesn t have time for much dreaming.
The fish reach up and grab the hook before one can throw it into the
water so I have been told.

I have ever* seen fish that were allegedly so caught. I kept any private
skepticism to myself, for the fisherman was permitting the fish to be
served at a hotel supper, and I was one of the guests. That was part
of the fun of staying in one of the Mountain Home hotels during the
first year or two after the water had backed up to make a lake. Fisher
men from Illinois and Missouri would come down to spend two or
three weeks. Something had to be done with the fish they caught each
day so that they might go out next day and catch more. Obviously the
best thing to do was to let the hotel have them. As a result, we feasted
on great five-pound bass and other delicious fresh-water fish until we
couldn t look a fish bowl in the face.

With the fish we had delicious hot rolls, chocolate cake, apple pies
and other dishes that wore such fancy names no one could guess the
ingredients. Not that the hotel cook believed superb fish called for
such superb accompaniments! It was just that the wives of the fisher
men became bored with sitting around and went out to the. kitchen to
whip up their fanciest dishes.

It was fun to watch those wives. They followed a definite pattern.
When the little woman arrived, she would be so tired of housework
she wouldn t even fill her own tumbler from the water pitcher on the
table. For the first two days she would sit in the little hotel lobby
writing letters and working on her nails, disappear into her room in
the afternoon for a long, luxurious nap and appear for supper fresh as
a daisy. The first two nights she would go to a movie, while her hus
band cleaned his fish and made plans to get that big one in the cove
the next day. The third day she would sit in the lobby working on her
needle point and talking with the other women. Invariably the con
versation turned to recipes and then to food. On the fourth day she
Would come to breakfast in a fresh cotton dress and make a beeline
for the kitchen right after her coffee.

Until a new batch of fishermen and wives arrived, we would have

50 Hurrah for Arkansas!

food fit for the gods! Each woman would make her own "company
special" in competition with all the other company specials. After they
left we would refer regretfully to them as Mrs. Apple Pie, Mrs.
Chocolate Cake or Mrs. Hot Rolls.

Now I note by the Baxter County Bulletin that one can get flake ice
at the rear of the DeMers drugstore in Mountain Home for forty
cents a bushel. It is, they say, perfect for packing fish or beverages.
This is just taking the fish right out of the mouths of the Mountain
Home hotel guests! What fisherman wouldn t prefer to pack his
prize fish in flake ice and send it home to the partner, neighbor or
brother-in-law who doubted the presence of fish in Norfork Lake!

Mountain Home is changing from sleepy little hill town to busy
resort town, with new beauty parlors, new restaurants, new shops and,
naturally, new real-estate offices. One of the real-estate men, young
Abbott Haskins, has probably reaped more fun out of selling land in
and around Mountain Home than any later ones will have in a
hundred years. A Newton County lad, he knew the benefit a lake
would bring to the mountains and he got into real-estate early becoming
the partner of Hugh Melville, Chkagoan and owner of Mountain Lake
Ranch. He has had excitement.

One stormy autumn day Abbott had a trio of prospective customers,
two men and a woman, out in a boat showing them the shore line*
Suddenly one of the inexplicable things that happen to boats hap*
pened to this one, and the four found themselves in the water. Abbott
was the only one who could swim, and he was wearing the heavy
sports clothes that are most practical around the lake* He found the
men first and put their hands on the boat and told them to hold on.
Then he dived for the woman. He reached her and got her to shore.
He went back for the others.

It was hard work to tow the heavily dressed, panic-stricken men to
shore, but he managed well enough with the first one. The second
was more difficult. One of his arms seemed quite useless. It simply
hung heavily in the water, while he clung to the boat with the other.

Ozar^ Playground Woods, Water, Fish, Food 51

Perhaps, thought Abbott, he has broken his shoulder. That brought
more worry. It was bad enough to handle three sopping, half-drowned
people on the farthermost wooded bank of a lake, without having one
of them injured. When Abbott, with his last breath, it seemed, reached
shore with the man, he found why the man s arm had hung in the
water:. He was carrying a suitcase!

As he fell from the boat, the man had grabbed the heavy suitcase
he was taking to Abbott s lakeside cabin. In his panic he had clung
to it through the agonized moments before Abbott reached him, all the
time he had hung onto the boat, and all the while Abbott was towing
him, choking and spluttering, to land. He was as much surprised as
anyone to find that he still had it in his hand.

On a happier occasion Abbott set out in the boat with a cynical,
you ve-gotto-show-me-sort of chap, who wanted a "little place where
he could fish and hunt." It was a bright autumn day, but Abbott was
not enjoying it very much. The man was obviously a tough customer
and if he had his mind made up about the superior fishing and hunt
ing merits of another lake somewhere, what could Abbott do? Just
take him a boat ride and bring him home, darn it! But Abbott had
forgotten it was one of those bright days that come after a heavy rain.
All the fish, even the big ones that get away on ordinary days, were
out to get the little bugs that hovered over the sunny water and the
brand-new feed washed down the hills into the lake by a million little
drainage streams. The man gazed popeyed at the big fish leaping out
of the water, showing glittering lengths of shining scales.

"Fish!" he murmured. "Damned if you don t have some!"

"Yeah," said Abbott, lazily. "Danged fish so thick in this lake it s
hard to get a boat through em."

They put-putted on.

Around the cove they came head-on into a flock of wild ducks feed
ing in the quiet water, far from the sound of a gun. With loud quack-
ings they rose into the air, darkening the autumn sun with their
flapping wings.

"Wild ducks" exclaimed the customer: "Millions of em!"

52 Hurrah for Arkansas!

"Oh, they re comin in now, darn it!" said Abbott. "Not so bad, now*
Danged nuisance a little later! Wears a fellow out clubbin em out
of the way when we go down to the lake to get a bucket of water."

They put-putted on. Abbott looked straight ahead, but the man s
eyes darted over the hills surrounding the lake.

Suddenly he called excitedly, "A deer! I d swear that s a deer up
there on that hilltop."

Abbott lazily turned his head in the direction the man was pointing.
No deer had ever been seen on the Norfork banks although there were
some in the remote hills. But there unmistakably was a deer. . . .

"Oh, are they back here!" exclaimed Abbott. "Those deer sure play
hell with our turnip patch."

"Look," said the man, reaching for his checkbook. "How much
did you say you d take for that piece of land we looked at this morn
ing? I want to pay for it right now!"

Northern Arkansas is already taking its place as one of the nation s
famous vacation spots. Hunters have found abundant quail, squirrels,
rabbits, coons, possums and all the other hunting of the hills. In the
Sylamore Mountains deer hunting has been an important late-autumn
sport. Two weeks of hunting are allowed, with a week intervening, in
order to give more hunters a chance. A week is also permitted to
those who hunt with bows and arrows. They get their turn ahead of
the gunners.

Rangers who make the government forests the excellent vacation
spots they are must be as canny about deer as a successful livestock
raiser is about cattle, horses and hogs. For instance, as one of then^
told me, they must know how high a deer can jump. This isn t exactly
known, but a buck once died of starvation in an experimental plot
surrounded by a six-and-a-half-foot fence* He jumped in, but he
couldn t get enough running start to jump out!

Deer would go hungry in cured grass knee-high between January 1
and April L They are browsers, and the woods must provide enough
tender twigs and buds to feed them. If browse material is scarce in

Qzar\ Playground Woods, Water, Fish, Food 53

this critical period, the deer with the longest reach will survive, per
haps, but woe to the does and fawns who cannot stretch their slender
necks above the deer line! They starve to death.

In the Sylamore district, every effort is being made to increase the
deer herds in order to give hunters a good vacation. Eight sets of
four plots fifty feet square have been established as a guide in stocking
the game refuge. These will show the amount of food available under
all conditions during the critical period. One plot will have seven-
foot fences to keep out deer and everything else. The second will have
gates that can be opened for controlled grazing and browsing. The
third will have a fence three and a half feet high to keep out all animals
except deer. The fourth will be open to everything. Deer, surprisingly
enough, do not range far from the places where they were born.
Therefore, in overstocked areas herds must be reduced by some means.
Controlled hunting is one method. In 1945, 449 bucks were killed in
the Sylamore hills during the two weeks hunting season. This seems
a cruel method, but it saves food for the deer that are left. And it
makes a lot of hunters happy.

Trapping is another method of keeping down the deer population
in any given area. One of these days a doe, buck or fawn will enter
a woodsy enclosure for a special treat of apples or to lick the familiar
salt block, and slam will go the ends of the enclosure! Then state
game-and-fish wardens will aid the rangers in coaxing the trapped
animal into a smaller crate. After that it will be loaded with tender
care into a truck, and soon the deer will find himself in a new refuge
where food is plentiful the year round.

The deer of the Sylamore hills are native sons and daughters. When
the region became a refuge in 1926, it was established that twelve to
twenty deer roamed over the 170,000 acres. Now there are about four
thousand. They are the Virginia white-tailed deer, brownish gray
with the underside of the tail white. Fawns are born any time from
late April to early June. A day-old fawn is very active, but if his mother
puts him into a brier patch to rest while she browses near by, he stays
uixtil she comes for him. A young deer, say the forest rangers, has no

54 Hurrah for Ar\ansasl

scent, which is nature s way of protecting him from wolves and other
animals that might seek him out. His coloring is another protection,
In fact, so perfectly does his spotted coat blend with vegetation colors
that you or I would pass him by without seeing him.

Bucks shed their horns in late January or February but where they
shed them is a mystery, even to forest rangers. The most indefatigable
rangers have found only two or three. The bucks, it has been decided,
usually knock the horns off in tangled underbrush. There they may
lie hidden for years, or they may be eaten by mice, wood rats, chip
munks and squirrels.

Work on Bull Shoals Dam has been temporarily halted by govern
ment order, but will be resumed later, according to reports. This will
put another great lake in north-central Arkansas. Then, within ten
years, say state government engineers who are readying the blueprints,
another dam will be placed above Batesville in Independence County.
This will put Sharp, Stone, Independence, Izard, Baxter, Marion and
Fulton into a resort district that can indeed be called a sportsman s
paradise.

Incidentally the Baxter County Bulletin is campaigning for boat
races on Norfork Lake. Progress marches on!

For vacationists, who want just a sight-seeing trip with no destruction
of life beyond picking an ant off the picnic table, I can recommend all
the northwestern part of Arkansas from the Missouri line to Mena,
To be strictly fair, I would begin my vacation suggestions at Branson,
which is in Missouri, but which has Arkansas scenery and hospitality.
You may play golf on the Don Gardner golf ranch and cat a superb
chicken dinner afterward at the Gardner Dining Room. Located right
on the bank of Lake Tanneycomo is an excellent resort, the Anchor
Travel Village in the town of Branson. Rockaway Beach farther up the
lake has Hotel Rockaway, for night, week, month or season vacationists,
presided over by Mr. and Mrs. MacMasters. This is a favorite resort
hotel, not only for its scenic beauty, which is superb, but for the
quality of the meals which Mrs. MacMasters plans and supervises.

Ozar\ Playground Woods, Water, Fish, Food 55

Mrs. Mac was an instructor: in home economics before her marriage,
and what she learned to do with flour, sugar, spices, butter, eggs, meat
and vegetables is one of the reasons why a track has been beaten all the
way from Chicago to Rockaway Beach.

Another reason is the Jim Owen Float trips which make a new man
of the most jaded individual! You float down the river, fishing as you
go, and at nightfall trained guides set up a de luxe camp, cook your fish
and fill you with good food and tall tales of the hills! After three or
four days of this life you understand why hill people do not think much
of cities.

VI

*Peaches>-<with and without Legs

IF YOU are looking for peaches in Arkansas, you can find
them anywhere. O course, I mean peaches with legs, as Spider Rowland
of the Arkansas Gazette called them in his column about the Peach
Festival. And the sort of peaches you eat with cream and sugar are
almost as plentiful. Arkansas has long been a great peach state.

A number of years ago the region around De Queen was famous
for its fine orchards. When bugs and blight began to be a menace,
the orchardists seemed to adopt the idea that if you just didn t notice
them they would go away. But they didn t. They stayed and multi
plied, and finally they, instead of the growers, owned the orchards.

Then the region around Nashville began to come into its own as
a peach-growing district, and now its fame has spread throughout the
whole state until when one thinks of Arkansas peaches the name Nash
ville comes to mind instantly.

My peach hunting and eating, however, have been done mainly in
Clarksville, the seat of Johnson County. Not that its peaches are any
better, but I just got started going to Clarksville, and you know how it
is! Clarksville contains the College of the Ozarks, where boys and
girls may obtain a four-year college education* The Presbyterian
Church is the chief sponsor of this excellent school, and much credit
should be given to it for the good taste displayed in grounds and
building.

Clarksville has interesting slopes and scenic views that set It apart
from ordinary towns, and Spadra Creek which flows through it and

56

Peaches with and without Legs 57

forms a setting for its park adds more interest. It adds a bit of excite
ment, too, during floodtimes, for the busy little creek gets out of bounds
and whoops it up.

For more than a hundred years coal mining has been carried on
near Clarksville. The miners homes at Spadra mark the spot where
the first mining operations began, and expectations soared that coal
would become the chief fuel of the state, thereby making Johnson
County rich and important.

Although coal production never reached the heights anticipated,
mining is still an important industry in Johnson County. In fact, the
Sunshine Mine has been cited as prime example of modern coal
mining. Of course it is still far from being a white-collar job, but a
great deal of the backbreaking work has been eliminated

It is not unusual to find in lucky Johnson County country homes
heated and lighted with gas, for gas wells also have been found. This
seems the height of luxury for country living, at least to this Arkansas
Traveler. The hours I ve spent stirring gravy on a stove grown stone
cold because I forgot to put in wood would have given me time for
a dozen hooked rugs.

But mainly Clarksville has been important in my life because it
has nice people, and peaches, both with and without legs.

The first time I met a peach-growing family was on an autumn
evening. Jessie Mitchell, home demonstration agent of Johnson County,
took me to call on the Vern Browns. Mrs. Brown led us down cellar
to look at what they had canned during the preceding season. The
jars looked like something right out of the county fair. We walked
along the shelves examining spiced peaches, peach preserves, peach halves
and just plain peaches-without-sugar. Suddenly footsteps clicked
rapidly across the floor overhead. The back door slammed twice in
quick succession. Then from the back yard came loud calls. "Stay
back, Gyp! Head er this way, Bea!" "Look out, she s cutting back!"
Then a frantic wail: "Run, Betty, run. She s headed for the well "

We dropped the jars of peaches and rushed to the narrow window
set high in the wall That gave us a worm s-eye view of two Arkansas

58 Hurrah jar Arkansas!

peaches, with legs, aided by their dog Gyp, chasing a heifer who had
suddenly refused to go into the barn.

**Our calves are all registered Black Polls," said Mrs. Brown. "If

anything goes wrong with one of them, the girls go after it on high."

As we watched, the heifer suddenly became a demure little lady and

strolled into the barn she had previously been passing at a dead run.

The girls came into the house for milk pails.

The Brown girls lived in the house where they were born. It was
actually a storybook sort of home, perched high on a hillside overlooking
miks of Arkansas valley. From the front veranda they could look
down on hundreds of little houses scattered singly, or clustering in
towns like toy houses in a kindergarten sandbox. Their house was as
modern in its equipment as any city home. They had a piano, not
off in a lonely parlor, but right in the dining room, backed up to the
shoulder-high partition that separated it from the kitchen. Both the
girls at home Betty, sixteen, and Beatrice, twenty-one were camera
fans, and that made it easy for me to meet Verna Ree, twenty-three,
who was away from home studying to be a nurse at the time I visited
Aon. They had enough pictures of their sister to fill an album. The
camera had also helped their brother Selby keep in touch with doings
at home while he was in service with the Navy. One of the many,
many pictures they sent him was of his mare and the fine colt he would
find on his return.

I hated to think of the sad tales the world hears about Arkansas
girls and wished everyone could meet the Browns. They had beauty,
brains and ambition the sort of ambition that made them want to
forge ahead, not just each for her own sake, but for the sake of the
family. The registered calves were their responsibility, as well as their
father s. The canned peaches in the cellar had been a responsibility
they had shared with their mother. And ais for the growing of peaches
well, either of the Brown girls, at the drop of a peach stone, could
j^e you full information on starting and maintaining an orchard.

Behind their house were 3,000 trees, just coming into bearing.
Back in the time of the girls* grandfather, the same land had been

Peaches with and without Legs 59

planted to a peach orchard, but the old gentleman had given it up.

When peach growers began to pick the fruit while it was still as
hard as rocks, (1) in order to get the sky-high early price, and (2) to
ship it long distances before it became overripe, Grandpa Brown gave
it up in disgust.

"The market is ruined," he is reported to have said, and forthwith
let the woods and worms take over.

Three years ago the orchard was replanted and last season it pro*
duced what the Browns called a "half crop." By the time the trees
are five years old, they will be in full production, each bearing three
to five bushels per year. This will continue until the trees are well past
ten years old, perhaps even twenty, if they have good care.

Peach orchards, it seems, are one of those investments which keep
* you waiting for returns. And while you wait you work. It is work
even to find the land. You must look for a hillside with good air
drainage and a clay foundation. The air drainage is needed to guard
your precious trees from late spring frosts. Where the air can flow
freely over the mountainside, or on tableland, the frost is less likely
to strike. But plant those trees down in a hollow, where the frost and
heavy cold air can setde, and watch Jack Frost do his worst!

You will probably pay fifteen to fifty dollars an acre for such land
when, and if, you find it. From the time the trees are first planted,
the ground between them must be cultivated to keep down a rank
growth of weeds. That means plowing, disking and mowing ad
infinitum.

Commercial fertilizer must be put around each tree. In Peach Land
this isn t something you shovel out of the barnyard, dear children.
It is stuff you buy with good hard cash.

Each tree must be wormed. When I heard this, I showed my ignor
ance by asking how on earth one could get a tree to open its jaws,
like Judy, our Boston terrier, and swallow a worm pill. Seems that a
tree is wormed by cleaning off a spot under it all the way around, then
laying down a circle of some chemical and covering it with dirt. This
forms a gas that makes a barrier against the peach borer.

60 Ht&rah for Arkansas!

Besides all this, there is spraying, the everlasting fight against peach
ills. Each tree must be sprayed at least three to five times a year.

Last, you must choose and plant a winter cover crop. Winter vetch
is good, i you inoculate the seed. Austrian peas make another good
crop. They are disked down in the spring.

If you are a new peach grower, it will pay you to study up on con
tour fanning. Modern peach trees are planted on terraces, permitting
a slightly closer setting, but even so, twenty-four feet is the minimum
distance apart- And there is the worry of deciding which variety you
should plant. In Johnson County the favored variety has long been
commercial Elbertas. Now, however, a few farmers are planting Fair
Beauties, which ripen a trifle earlier.

What about frost? Sh! We don t talk about that in Johnson County,
said the Browns. Out of the last eleven crops, nine have been good
ones, and we don t want to spoil our luck. However, if you insist on
talking about f-r-o-s-t, you will be told about the peach grower who
looked out his window and realized that his year s work had been
rubbed out in one night by Jack Frost. He went right back to bed,
so the story goes, and stayed there three full days.

Frost is not generally combated in Arkansas peach orchards, possibly
because they cover so much space that the situation looks quite hope
less. Or it may be becaiise Ozarkians are so accustomed to taking the
weather as it comes that they carry it over into the peach-growing
business* Before the war, when old tires were not being used on auto
mobiles, one farmer was quite successful in smudging out frost by
burning those tires his truck had worn out.

But long before we had progressed to the peach harvest in our
conversation, the Brown girls carried in brimming pails of foaming,
warm milk. (The Browns keep Jerseys for milking. Don t think they
got brimming pails from those Black Polls.) Then they settled down
to tell the inside story of the harvest of those peaches you see in late
July and August. Even Verna Ree had kt the nursing profession
take care of Itself and come home to help*
"We were afraid Verna Ree couldn t stand the hot sun, because

Peaches with and without Legs 61

she d been working inside all summer. But she did fine," said Bea.

Betty picked up the story. "Verna Ree was row boss. It was her job
to boss the hands who were picking the peaches. Bea was under the
shed, because she was shed boss. She had a crew grading and packing
the peaches in bushel baskets. But there I was, out with that trailer
swinging bushels o peaches around as though I didn t have good
sense."

Sitting on the piano bench, Betty gave a good imitation of the swing
it takes to heft a bushel over the side of the trailer. The trailer, of
course, was hitched to the rear of the tractor which Betty, as her dad s
best hand, had driven all through the year in the care of the orchard.
And in case you never bothered to look it up, let me tell you an
orchard tractor is different from other tractors. It has wide wings over
the wheels so low-hanging peach-tree branches will brush over them
without losing a peach, unless it is the peach driving the tractor. The
seat and the steering wheel are set low, so the highest part of the tractor,
when it is in operation, is the driver s head.

"And you soon learn to dodge," said Betty.

Remembering glamorous pictures of fruit gatherers, I asked about
clothes.

"Anything you can find," chorused the girls. "Mainly we wore our
brother s old duds old jeans and faded shirts. And hats like this!"

Mrs. Brown brought in a squashed straw hat. There were gales o
laughter as the girls remembered how they had looked at harvesttime.
"Peach fuzz gets into clothes and literally burns one up, so the girls
had to have a fresh, clean outfit every day. Such washings!" groaned
Mrs. Brown. "And me cooking for half the harvest hands, too!"

Just to prove that Brown peaches were as good as they looked, Bea
went down cellar and brought up a jar of pickled ones. While we ate
the great golden spheres, preserved with just the right mixtures of
sweet-sour-spicy flavors, we asked more questions. Who were the
harvest hands? Mainly women, who had to be brought each day from
Lutherville over on Colony Mountain. For several days, when the
peaches were getting close to being too ripe to ship, a sawmill at

62 Hurrah for Arkansas!

Lutherviile closed down so the crew could help the Browns get in
their fruit. And when a neighbor had finished his harvest, he sent
crew and equipment to help the Browns with theirs.

The twilight faded while we talked. At going-home time we went
out into a world of enchanted beauty. The storybook house, with the
peach trees behind it, seemed suspended between valley and sky. Far
below us the lamps twinkling in the little towns seemed to be handfuls
of stars tossed down by a prankster angel. Deceptively close above, in
the velvety, night-blue sky, was a big Arkansas moon, set in a wide
glowing halo rimmed with luminous rainbow colors.

"That moon" I pointed "I ve never seen one so lovely."

Then I learned that peaches run true to form, in the North or in
the South.

"What good is a moon " sighed Betty.

Bea finished the question : " when there s no one here to look at it
with us?"

When the winds whistled and our heating plant went on strike in
die winter months, I thought of the peach trees in Johnson County.
Was there ever danger that the trees would be frozen? "Not if peaches
ive in Michigan," said the Jedge. When the early spiraea began to
bloom I wondered about late frosts. And still later, when hot weather
and I do mean hot came on in mid-March, I watched the thermom
eter, barometer and the Clarksville news items. "Looks bad," said the
pessimists. "We ve got to have our blackberry winter." Would a
blackberry winter be the ruination of the peach crop? The absence
of news from Clarksville was reassuring. No news about late frosts
was good news.

I wait down to Clarksville, just to see how things were, arriving in
time to behold the peach trees in full bloom. All was well. Even the
pessiiBists who shook their heads every time they looked at a peach
taree said the signs pointed to an early spring. Gracious me, it was spring!

Then, before we could do half the things we had planned for the
spring and early summer, it was late in July, and there was the Johnson

Peaches with and without Legs 63

County Peach Festival right around the next bend in the calendar.
Jessie phoned to remind me of the date, and a couple of days later I
motored down. The day grew warmer as the speedometer ticked off
the miles, and the thermometer was crowding 100 when I arrived
at the Looper Tourist Court, thirty-six hours ahead of the Peach
Festival. Too late to do anything about it, I found that my gabin
contained the uninsulated tank that supplied hot water for the row.

The warmth of this roommate and its cheerful automatic blaze which
flared high whenever one of my neighbors took a shower, roughly
about every fifteen minutes, will never be forgotten. Rather than stand
continuously under the cold shower to avoid heat prostration, I loafed
around town, hampering busy people. Never in my hill years had I
found busier Arkansans. Seems that a peach harvest would be enough
to use up a fellow s endurance, but Johnson County never does any
thing by halves. It stopped right in the middle of the busiest two
weeks of the year to stage a gala festival, with queen, parade and ball.
I was glad I had come down ahead of the big day. Seeing such a hum
of activity was more fun than the festival itself.

At my first port of call, the courthouse, I found County Agent Joe
Cox and Jessie planning the tour of Elberta orchards for Festival Day.
It would be headed by a recruiting automobile, equipped with a broad
casting device. Joe is a big smiling chap with a grand sense of humor,
and his personally conducted tour promised to be a high spot of the
day. They were writing up a set of notes to be handed to all the
occupants of cars participating in the tour, and were too busy to be
bothered with me.

At the restaurant where I dropped in for a cup of tea, cooks and
waitresses were busy with the turkeys and chickens they would serve
the next day. Good heavens, how many did they expect to serve! Oh,
a lot of people, they said with true Arkansas reserve. On the streets
around the square, crews of workmen were stringing banners overhead.
In the office of the Johnson County Graphic, a harried editor and his
sweating crew were printing and assembling a three-section special
edition. Just to be polite, I asked if I could help. Before I could with-

64 Hurrah for Arkansas!

draw the offer, I was Inserting the news section inside the part that
bore the Peach Queen s photograph, then putting both inside the section
with a peach rampant on the cover.

I was saved by the bell, you might say. When the noon whistle blew,
I went to lunch and didn t return. But I had earned a press card,
decorated with two peaches,, which my car still carries.

In the afternoon Jessie and I went out for a preview of orchards and
sheds scheduled for the tour.

"We d better see them now," said Jessie practically. "Tomorrow
everybody will probably quit work and come to town."

We started out to the Browns , but so many orchards and packing
sheds intervened that we never got there.

Johnson County peach growers operate independently, each owning
his own grading and packing shed* Each deals independently with
the truckers who flock in from all parts of the country. I discovered
that each shed had a mechanical device with rotating brushes that
defuzzed the peaches and a conveyor belt that carried the fruit along
to slots of varying sizes. Along the belt rows of women and girls
swiftly picked out all the peaches that were less than perfect. The slots
thrust them into different avenues of exit, and at each exit a hard-
muscled man stood holding bushel baskets into which the fruit rolled.

Then I learned how it happens that one always finds the biggest
and best on the top in every basket. As the peaches rolled down to
the basket, deft-fingered girls picked out the finest and arranged them
neatly in a metal holder that looked like a shallow pan. It was amaz
ing how they could place them so quickly and compactly. Here a
peach, there a peach, in this niche another peach, and so on until the
pan was filled with fruit that fitted together as perfectly as blocks. in
a quilt. A basket of peaches was upended on one of these hand-laid
layers, then turned over, leaving the layer on top. A lad with a claw
hammer adjusted the cover and the peaches were as good as on their
way to the dtty.

Here were all the things at which the Brown girls had hinted, plus
a kindred more. The shed! The shed bosssometimes a woman,

J

.a

a

S3

CJ

s^ 1 - 1
-B

Id

Of

o a

ir c-

-*- .9
00

2rS

O

"Coin" Harvey s amphitheater, with lagoon formed by ever-flowing spring
water separating seats and speaker s platform. You may visit it at Monte Ne s
near Rogers. *

Peaches with and without Legs 65

sometimes a man, sometimes a slip of a kid, male or female! The
orchard tractor with the big winglike shields over the wheels, some
times with a veritable freight train of trailers behind it, each filled to the
brim with great greenish-gold peaches! Grandpa Brown was right.
They did pick the peaches mighty green. But this year the help was
different.

The itinerant fruit pickers had begun to come back. Rows of tents
and clusters of trailers of all shapes, sizes and qualities stood near the
sheds, with grimy youngsters playing in the shade near them. Outside
the sheds, trucks were lined up, waiting for loads to be completed.
Some were from faraway places; others were "home folks" waiting
for peaches too ripe to be shipped. One truck was being loaded by a
man and woman who worked with amazing speed and efficiency.
The woman was not dressed in slacks or blue jeans, like most of the
feminine copilots on the trucks. She wore a print dress, and around
her neck she had a tightly knotted handkerchief. Perhaps the sun
had hit that spot on the back of her neck, but among all the bare
brown necks, arms, legs and chests, this bit of caution looked strange.

At all the sheds we visited we were cordially told, "He p yo se f ." And
I m not kidding when I say we did. We ate great golden, blush-
checked beauties (the overripes) until juice was fairly running out of
our ears.

We chatted with shed owners, too, for even a continuously running
mechanical device cannot stop Arkansas conversation. At the Taylor
Landthrip shed we found they had been packing an average of 1,200
bushels a day. Other sheds ran close to that. We heard of one woman
wife of a peach grower who rushed into a bank, plopped down a tea
towel full of bills and cash and hurried away. Over her shoulder she
called, "Didn t have time to count it. Think there s about $6,000
there."

Gene Tolbert s shed had already shut down when we arrived, and
would not be open until after the Festival. Workers sat around laugh
ing and joking, perhaps waiting until the owners had finished check
ing up the day 1 ? pay sheets. Some o the workers slid quietly out of

66 Hurrah for Arkansas!

view when I set up my camera. But that was all right. Plenty more
were left to laugh and joke about "breaking that-there thing!"

At Lee Ray s shed, formerly the Denton King orchards, we learned
how long-lived Elberta trees can be. Some of the trees planted forty-
four years before by his father-in-law were still bearing luscious fruit.
"The wood is becoming brittle, though," Lee said. "A heavy wind, or a
big loadj will crack branches right off."

Lee told us, too, of the forty-one baskets of Fair Beauties, the earlier
variety, which had been shipped to Minneapolis by plane at the start
of the peach season.

"Folks up there got some good peaches for once in their lives," said
Lee, never missing a leaf or a bruised peach as they started over the
defuzz brushes. "They were tree-ripened." Like Grandpa Brown, the
modern peach growers feel that the people who buy Arkansas fruit
at some distance never really know what they are missing. "Now that
this defuzz business has come in, we have to pick them greener than
ever,"%explained Lee. I watched the peaches tumbling over the stiff
brushes and realized they were indeed taking a beating. If a soft, ripe
peach got into that crowd, it would be mashed to a pulp in no time!
What a mess it would make of the brushes!

On our way back to town, we passed the home of the girl who had
been chosen the 1946 Peach Queen, Anna Jane Taylor, daughter and
granddaughter of pioneer peach growers. Her Majesty was not seeing
visitors, and everyone in town knew why. Immediately after her elec
tion Anna Jane and her mother began to worry about the royal gown
for the parade and ball. None fitting Anna Jane s new status, not to
mention her petite figure, could be found, in Clarksville. A dress was
ordered from St. Louis but when it arrived it was hopelessly shop-
soiled. They rushed it to the cleaners, who refused to be responsible
for it. It was too fragile for their apparatus. Anna Jane wired to
Tulsa for another queenly white dress. A ghastly pink affair came.
With that, Anna Jane and her mother gave up the search and grimly
set to work on a frothy white dress, although the Taylor peach or-
cha^ds, which reached right up to the windows of the sewing room of

Peaches with and without Legs 67

the big white house, were bustling with activity. Not for worlds
would we have barged in on royalty so beset with difficulties.

We returned to town and went over to call on the Claries. Clarks-
ville was not named for this family, although Mrs. Clark s forebears
were among the earliest settlers of Johnson County. Three separate
worries at the Clark house were striding along, threatening to become
nervous breakdowns at any moment. Nora, mother of the three Clark
youngsters, had been appointed a committee of one to insure the finan
cial success of the P.TA. booth at the Festival, where sandwiches and
soda pop would be sold.

"The ice plant has broken down! Imagine pop without ice!" wailed
Nora.

I couldn t imagine it. The thermometer had broken a hundred that
day and the next day threatened to be worse.

Chari Clark, fifteen, and her sister Betty, nine, each had cause for
concern. Clarksville has a riding club, like most Arkansas towns, and
it would ride in the parade in a body. Both girls were members and
naturally wanted to take part, but "hoss trouble" had developed. Chari
believed her trouble was worse than Betty s. Her mount shied at flut
tering pennants and umbrellas in Arkansas women still carry sun
shades and that very morning she had been forced to dismount and
lead him across the bridge. At best, he was not a very impressive horse,
just a long-legged, brown-and-white-spotted fellow she had borrowed
to ride until heaven could answer her prayers for a Tennessee walking
horse. To have such a horse "act up" and force his rider to the ig
nominy of dismounting before the Festival crowd would be the last
word in humiliation.

"Ill have to get off and lead him past every umbrella," mourned
Chari, as she finished giving Spot his -third bath of the day and letting
him nose an open umbrella in an effort to show*him how harmless it
,was.

Betty galloped into the shed beside the barn, leading a four-months-
old colt or perhaps I should say the colt galloped in, leading Betty.
Both were perspiring with equal vehemence, for they had just finished

68 Hurrah for Arkansas!

their tenth lap around the pasture back of the barn. Betty had been
teaching the colt how to wear a bridle, hoping with all the fervor of
her little heart that he would trot quietly alongside his mother in the
parade.

Betty s riding mare, named Precious, had presented the colt to
Betty as sort of a bonus. When the mare was purchased, no one
dreamed that a colt was expected. Betty prayed for a colt, and when
Christmas came, she asked for nothing but a bridle for it. In March
someone came to the Clark home and said a colt was in the pasture at
the edge of town with Betty s mare. The Clarks sent word to the
neighbors that someone s colt must have strayed into their pasture. Then
they went to see the youngster and behold, Betty s prayers had been
answered! Precious had a colt, which Betty promptly named Sugar
Sweetheart Honey Darling. Betty s family called him Spoiled Brat.

For the first four months of his life, whenever Betty wished to ride,
she would shut Sugar in his box stall, adjust the saddle on Precious and
indicate that she would like to gallop away. With that, Sugar would
put his front hoofs on the top of the Dutch door of the stall and cry like
any baby that ever saw his mamma leaving him. Betty s tender heart
couldn t take it. She would go back to the stall, put Sugar s hoofs down,
kiss his brown forehead and tell him she didn t want to ride anyway.

But that couldn t happen when the parade was scheduled. Betty did
so want to ride with the club! For days she had worried over making
Sugar unhappy. Then she decided on a plan. She would teach Sugar
to wear a bridle and on parade day he would trot quietly beside his
mother she hoped! When I saw them, the baby had advanced to
having bracelets of clackers on his front feet, so he would lift them like
a thoroughbred.

At the shed where the floats were being constructed, activity was
mixed with scornful tolerance of all parades and parade watchers. So
much work for just an hour s gawking by a lot of country jakes!
Ptiooey! A weazened chap named Pete and a pretty girl named Sally
brought memories of the fairy godmother who transformed a pump
kin into a coach for Cinderella. Pete would hitch his drooping trousers
over a hipbone and stretch white cheesecloth over rough lumber at-

Peaches with and without Legs 69

tached to a grubby peach trailer. The trailer would straightway become
a misty castle or throne. A moment later Sally, in a brief playsuit,
would hoist a ladder alongside the superstructure and wallop wallpaper
paste across it. Then she would mass filmy tissue paper, white, green,
pink or lavender, on the moistened cheesecloth, and miraculously it
stayed.

At midnight, when I was still trying to get nerve to go home to my
hot-water tank, I drifted by the float shed again. There was Sally, still
crumpling and pasting, while Pete drank tall glasses of a certain soft
drink spiked with something from a flat bottle.

"Got to keep ourselves goin ," he said.

Then came the dawn. Bright hot sunshine, plus the breath of the
booming water tank, got me out early. Already Festival arrivals were
on hand. Countrywomen with babes in arms and tagging toddlers.
Wide-eyed boys and girls. Farmers in straw hats and spotless overalls.
Pretty girls in sleek dresses made from flowered feed sacks. Charac
ters of all kinds, the most amusing lined up in front of the town pool
halls. As I passed by I caught the plaintive question, "Is he the only
boodegger in town? * and the sad reply, "Yupp! We hain t got airy
other onel"

A pitchman set up shop under a tree on the courthouse lawn and
drew a great crowd. On the courthouse steps a band played merrily,
and between numbers political speakers viewed with alarm and pointed
with pride as the thermometers climbed through the nineties. On the
sidewalk leading to the sheriff s entrance to the courthouse, Nora Clark
crouched on her knees and painted P. T. A. SANDWICHES with black
shoe polish on a square of white cardboard. Ice was in the pop tub.

Under the noonday sun we toured the peach orchards, with dust
pouring over us in clouds from the car ahead, and Joe Cox broadcast
ing bits of information from the recruiting car at the head of the
procession.

"Only fifty-three years ago, the first Elberta Peaches were planted in
Johnson County. Now we have a million-dollar peach industry," he
boomed in his Gabriel voice.

It was easy to believe. On the slanting hills thousands of acres

70 Hurrah for Arkansas!

seemed to have been given over to peach trees, and every tree was trying
to prove what a good producer it was. Great greenish-gold peaches, with
faintly flushed cheeks, hung like decorations on Christmas trees only
these decorations were so heavy many of the trees had battalions of
props under the branches. It was lucky we had had our preview. Only
one of the sheds was in operation, and we could spare time only for a
quick look. The workers couldn t even take that much time to see the
gawking tourists who had so little to do they could attend a festival
in the middle of the season.

At the Arlington Cafe we gorged on a delicious noonday turkey din
ner and answered, "We will," with emphasis, when the waitress smiled
and said, "Hurry back!" Then through the early afternoon hours more
band music and more political speeches filled the air, but the crowd
was too excited to listen. At intervals a gaily decorated float would
whisk into the square, the contribution of some neighboring town or
village to the parade. Occasionally a strange bus would stop at the
corner, and a group of strangers would disembark and attempt to min
gle with the crowd. They could mingle all right, but one could spot
them a mile away. They were cityfolk from Fort Smith or Russell-
ville. Shucks, we could tell! The men had on their coats. The women
wore city darks, with hats and gloves. And stockings!

When the thermometer reached 102 degrees, the murmur "Here it
comes" sounded through the massed crowds. Five paradeless war years
had made Johnson County hungry for gaily decked floats. But you
would never have guessed it. As the floats with fluttering fringes, beau
tiful girls and amusing groupings passed by, not a sound was heard.
Except for the bands and an occasional low whistle at a pretty girl, the
procession passed by in spellbound silence. Even when a group of
lovelies on a float made to represent a great barrel of peaches threw
luscious fruit at the audience, there was only a ripple of amusement. In
Arkansas silence denotes complete satisfaction.

Surely the parade was a success from the first tootling band to the
eighty-one horseback riders. Not a shred of tissue paper came loose.
Spot didn t shy at an umbrella. The Queen, in a gown brought from

Peaches with and without Legs 71

Kansas City by a local store owner at the eleventh hour, would have
graced any royal gathering. Wearing his shining new bridle which
Betty had received from Santa Glaus, little Sugar trotted obediently at
his mother s side, while the eyes of Betty and Precious were filled with
maternal pride and anxiety.

Suddenly it was all over except the Queen s balL I had intended to
stay for it, but the thought of pressing a travel-weary evening dress
alongside the hot-water tank got me down. Anyway, I needed to get
home and can those peaches to which I had helped myself.

Each season of the year presents a lively new reason for visiting
Johnson County. One of my happiest visits was in late autumn, when
our blue and gold Arkansas days seemed to be lavishing all the beauty
of the hills across the landscape as summer s final curtain call. My
chief reason for being there at that time, however, was to see how the
folks were going to get through the winter. All summer long Jessie
Mitchell had been promoting a project she called "Live at Home"
and like it, I presume and I was eager to see how she had succeeded.

This phrase, as interpreted by Miss Mitchell, means that farm families
should produce all the food they will need through the year, canning
and preserving meats, vegetables and fruits, putting down lard, making
soap, gathering honey, drying onions and storing potatoes, turnips and
carrots. Under this plan, when food is needed for the table, the farmer
or his wife just goes to the celler or out to the smokehouse and brings
in whatever is desired.

It seemed an ambitious plan for any family, particularly near-Ozarki-
ans who are constandy "laying off" to do something that is never actu
ally accomplished. When Jessie wrote me that the county extension
clubs were prepared to stage an autumn parade o pantry stores, with
caravans of housewives going from house to house in their respective
communities to examine their neighbors 1 food supplies, I made prompt
reply. "That I must see," I said.

Just as a warm-up for the big parade, Jessie and I visited a few homes

72 Hurrah for Arkansas!

in and near Clarksville, to see what urban homemakers can do when
they really set their minds on preserving food.

Mrs. Dovie Moore and her husband, a retired railroad man, had a plot
about a hundred feet square just at the edge of town. On this small lot
they had a comfortable house and regulation outbuildings, including a
poultry house in which they had raised 150 chickens. Of those, fifteen
hens were kept for winter eggs and the others had been canned for
winter eating. They had also raised a pig, which was lying con
tentedly on his fat side, apparently happily unaware that butchering
day was just around the corner.

They had a tiny bam for a cow, which was pastured at the moment
on a vacant lot across the road, so their milk supply was assured. The
loads of fruit which had lately bent low the peach, cherry and plum
trees had now all gone into shiny glass jars, and the small garden had
produced so many vegetables that Mrs. Moore s cellar would more than
keep their table supplied all winter.

At the smartly furnished town house of Mrs. R. Y. Fulbright we
found the same abundance of canned fruit and vegetables in her base
ment cellar. Surprisingly her garden was tinier than even the average
city garden. But she had the advantage of long beautiful Ozark
autumns. A "fall garden" was doing well under the October sunshine.
Then, too, Johnson County soil may be extra good! Mrs. Fulbright had
raised tomatoes that weighed two and a quarter pounds each, and row
upon row of brilliant red cans stood on her cupboard shelves.

Mrs. Fulbright has a way of canning tomatoes which makes them
taste like fresh, she says. On canning day she fills a wash boiler with
boiling water and puts pint jars in it. She fills the hot jars with toma
toes, adds salt, puts on the jar tops and returns them to the boiler. She
adds more boiling water until it stands two inches above the jar tops,
then she covers the boiler with a blanket to keep the steam inside, and
sets it aside overnight. The next morning she puts the rich, red canned
tomatoes down cellar. Never loses a jar, she said. Probably because
she cans only pints that way, says Miss Mitchell.

At the Askins house a short distance from Clarksville, we found

Peaches with and without Legs 73

canned pork, beef and chicken on the meat shelves of the cellar. And
on the vegetable shelves were Kentucky Wonder beans canned length
wise in quart jars. When we marveled at the length of the beans, Mrs.
Askins said, "I had to snip off the ends to get them in the jar*"

Along with the beans were corn canned on the cob, carrots, beets and
all the other familiar vegetables, as well as honey and sorghum for
sweetening. For winter pies she had jar after jar of mincemeat. And
for cleaning up, there were about three dozen bars of creamy home
made soap.

We returned to the house to see what Mrs. Askins did in her spare
time, and there was another surprise. While her son was in service, she
eased the pain of separation by filling a hope chest for the girl he
would some day marry. Not that he was going steady with anyone, but
she knew he would marry in good time, she said, and in the long
winter evenings it was sort of comforting to sit before the fire and
embroider or quilt or crochet something that would be his bride s.
It kept her thinking of the time when he would return, marry a nice
girl and have a comfortable home not so far away but that he could
bring his wife and the children home for Sunday dinners. That was
much more pleasant than just sitting before the fire with clenched
hands wondering . . . wondering . . . wondering! In a big cedar chest
she had packed away twenty-two pairs of embroidered pillowcases,
nine handmade quilt tops you should have seen Solomon s Temple
done in purple and white crocheted doilies, chair sets, pillow tops,
dresser scarves and tea towels by the dozens.

This did not represent all her handwork. Mrs. Askins had another
son who was married, and she didn*t want to show any preference.
Every time she made a piece for the hope chest, she made a duplicate
for the daughter-in-law she already had. When her small grandson
expressed admiration for something she was making, she would make
three of that item, so she could give one to the little boy for his "hope
chest."

The next day we went to Lutherville, on Colony Mountain, where
the Denny Extension Club was having dinner with Mrs. Pomrenke

74 Hurrah for Arkansas!

before going out to look at neighborhood cellars. When we turned ojBE
the road to drive through the pine forest that fronts on the Pomrenke
property, Jessie told me of the community.

Back before the turn of the century, a group of German families had
come to this country to settle on land they had bought from an agent.
The land was Colony Mountain, with soil very much like that of
southern Michigan.

There the good German fathers built sturdy homes and beneath
them dug deep, wide cellars, with jutting banks of earth. They had
good reason for such wide banks. Soon they were stacking them with
huge wine barrels which they filled from their own vineyards.

We came to a low white house far off the main road, and crossed to
it over a wide lawn. Inside I found a dwelling as functional as a jeep.
Stout, sturdy, wooden rockers without cushions, bare unpainted floors,
a big round table covered with oilcloth! Everything was shiningly
clean. The heavenly fragrance of chicken and dumplings hovered on
the warm air as we said how-do-you-do to the dozen guests present.

German mottoes were on the wall, German books in a bookcase, and
the guests bore German names, but the welcome was a true Southern
one. Four leaves were put into the table, and when Mr. Pomrenke
and the hired men came in, we all sat down and ate a chicken dinner,
with chocolate cake and coconut-custard pie as finishing touches. After
dinner we washed the dishes and restored the table to its former size
before going sight-seeing in the neighborhood wine cellars.

Cellar after cellar of those sturdy German homes were packed with
meats, fruits and vegetables, canned, dried and preserved. In many I
found big barrels silvery gray with age, but I was told that no one
made wine any more because of the sugar shortage. However, when I
poked some of the ancient barrels lying on their sides on wooden
frames above the cool moist earth, they didn t roll!

At the home of Albert and Annie Pomrenke a great flock of ducks
scuttled across the lawn at our approach, "They will be stuffed with
celery dressing and baked for the boys," said Annie. The Pomrenkes
had four sons in service during the war. Mary Ann, thirteen years old,,
was her father s only farm hand.

Peaches with and without Legs 75

"I didn t know whether to laugh or cry when I saw that little thing
driving our great big tractor," said Annie.

We went on to the home of Mrs. Lenhardt, widow of a Spanish War
veteran who had six children in school and a seventh at home. Two
of them got hot lunches at school. The other four must have din
ner buckets packed for them. Mrs. Lenhardt s cellar proved that all
summer long she had been thinking of dinner buckets, and the hot
suppers hungry school kids must have. Her cellar was a treasure cave
of canned greens, wild berries, vegetables, meats and fruits. In it I
found also a wine press that looked as though it had come out of some
old monastery. I tried to buy it but Mrs. Lenhardt wouldn t let me
have it. Some day, she said, sugar might be plentiful again.

Mrs. Lisa DoepePs home was as beautiful as a city suburban home,
with wide windows and well-tended lawn. But in the matter of pre
serving food for the four members of her family, I found her all Colony
Mountain.

"I need a lot of canned stuff," she said. "Sometimes for one meal I
open as many as six jars. Count them up meat, two vegetables, fruit,
relish and tomato juice. It soon goes," she added,

Mrs. Doepel s cellar was particularly colorful. Bright scarlet jars of
tomato juice were so abundant the shelves reminded me of red polka
dots on an all-over print. When we commented on them Mrs. Doepel
laughed and explained, "Whenever I opened a jar in the summer and
had nothing else to put in it right then, I filled it with tomato juice."

At the home of Martha Doepel and her mother I expected a let
down in the Johnson County canning enthusiasm. They were still
living alone, for Martha s brother had not returned from service. Along
with caring for her deaf mother, and keeping up the spick-and-span
house, Martha had to feed out a herd of beef cattle and do the field
work. I couldn t expect a girl with her hands so very full to have
done much canning. But I hadn t counted on that "Live at Home"
urge. Martha s house hadn t suffered in spite of the farm work. I
saw snowy counterpanes and scrubbed floors, along with gleaming
cherry drop-leaf tables, cupboards with pierced tin panels and other
precious possessions.

76 Hurrah for Arkansas!

Then, whoa we carried a kerosene lamp into the cool, dark cellar,
we looked at curtained shelves of fruits and vegetables which would
have sustained a family of ten through a year s siege. Down the middle
of the cellar was a table ten feet long and at least three feet wide. It
was loaded with filled glass jars and bottles of various sizes. "What
are these?" we asked.

Those?" returned Martha. << Why, that s my sour stuff!"

And so it was! A ten-foot table filled with kraut, pickles, relish,
catsup and chili sauce, all made by good old German recipes.

Yes, Johnson County proves it. The bounty of the Ozarks and a
woman willing to work make a combination practically unbeatable.

VII

Riceland^Fields of Qolden (grain

WHEN I think of the Arkansas ricdand, two pictures come
to mind. One is an early spring picture when the rice fields lay bare
and sodden under a dull gray sky. Sometimes water stood in narrow
channels between wormlike banks, so that a field gave the impression
of monotonous stripes, shiny ones where the water caught the reflection
of the sky, and dull ones which were nothing but just plain mud. Miles
on miles the land lay level as a floor, broken now and then by clumps
of trees that reared dull leafless branches above muddy water. It would
have been a depressing sight to an Arkansas Traveler, but leave it to
good old Mother Nature to dress up the landscape with a cheerful note.
Everywhere in the fields, in the branches of the dead-looking trees,
on the fences were red-winged blackbirds.

Although the rice farmers were lying awake nights wondering how
to get their spring planting done, with the rain pouring steadily down
long after the seedbeds should have been prepared, spring business was
going on as usual among the redwings. The males had their new
spring outfits the glossiest of coal-black feathers, set off by epaulets of
bright red edged with yellow. There were so many of the bright-
winged birds and so few of the less conspicuous females, I wondered if
the females were deliberately staying out of sight, or if I had chanced
to arrive in the rice country just at the time when the redwing papas
were gathering to start their northern migration, leaving the mammas
to follow when the weather would be warmer.

77

78 Hurrah for Arkansas!

I asked Bob Howe, vice-president o the Walton Rice Mill of Stutt
gart, if "those beautiful birds" were around all year.

"Yes, they are," he replied. "But don t say beautiful birds to any of
the rice farmers. They are a pest."

So it goes. Even Mother Nature can t please everybody.

The second picture of a rice field which I carry in my mental film
file was "captured" in mid-August. It was a picture of such intense
brilliance, such clarity of color, I sometimes wonder if I saw the actual
scene, or if it was a Gauguin glimpsed on somebody s wall. Under a
sky of lustrous blue which only Arkansas can achieve on a broiling
hot day, a field of rice lay like a canvas spread with wet green paint
the greenest paint one might squeeze out of a giant tube* Above this
green paint, in the foreground, emerged the head and shoulders of a
thoughtful Negro man. His black skin was shining with perspiration,
his eyes were cast down, and his red mouth was drawn in as though he
were thinking the deep, deep thoughts of a burdened race. The straw
hat, pale cream against the blue sky, and the faded blue shirt that rose
from the green canvas, only accented the black sheen of his skin.

I might have photographed that scene, but it was one of those whicK
even the best photographer often misses, so quickly do they come
and go!

"A darky walking the rice levees," I murmured to my traveling com
panion, and drove swifdy along the highway.

Sometimes I fear the rice-growing section of Arkansas is taken just
as lightly as I passed by a picture which might have been a master
piece. We are not a nation of rice eaters. Here in the United States
we eat a paltry five and a half to six pounds of rice per person per
year, compared with the 150 to 300 pounds consumed in the Far East.
Even in Europe, twenty-five to thirty pounds are contained in the
yearly diet. Naturally in this country we would not send up loud
hurrahs for the people who devote their farms, their machinery, their
lives to the growing of rice. However, there is a chance that the
scarcity of rice on the grocer s shelves during the war and the postwar
era will create a bigger demand for it.

Riceland Fields of Golden Grain 79

In our liandcraft shop at Eureka Springs throughout the summer
we had a ten-pound sack of rice on display, feeling that it deserved
a spot along with other Arkansas products! We were obliged to turn
down would-be purchasers a dozen times a day. This should be an
encouraging note to rice growers and millers. Perhaps when rice is
back again in the United States, the dear public will consider it good
for something else than a foundation for chop suey or throwing at
brides! When that happy time comes, perhaps the public will grow
more discriminating in its rice tastes, and Arkansas rice will get the
spotlight it deserves. Of course I may be just a bit prejudiced, but I
believe the quality of Arkansas rice is something to rave about. Back
in the days when the Japanese population of California was something
one could mention, the little men who knew rice best would eat only
the Arkansas variety.

A lot of Japanese may be eating our rice now, for all we know. At
the Walton Rice Mill in Stuttgart I saw hundreds of sacks being sent
to government agencies which would forward them overseas. My pride
glowed to realize that Arkansas, the state that gets such a walloping in
song, story and radio chatter, was contributing so direcdy to the needs
of war victims and, furthermore, contributing a food that was popular
back in the days when the Orientals could make their own selection!

The Arkansas Traveler can learn a lot about rice down at Stuttgart.
Now there s the idea that rice is grown in swamps! It may be true in
China or Japan, or even in parts of our own country, but it isn t true
in Arkansas, The Grand Prairie, in which Stuttgart is located, is a
high, dry, comparatively level prairie. It was never a swamp! In fact,
it was a country in which corn and other familiar farm grains were
grown before rice was cultivated there. The water in which the rice
grows does not seep in from any unwholesome source. It is pumped
in from deep wells, or from reservoirs built especially to conserve sur
face water for the rice.

To a hill farmer, rice growing seems a snap. The rice plants stand
with their feet in nice cool water, serenely indifferent to a drought
that may be drying up the tomato plants on the hills farther north.

80 Hurrah for Arkansas!

Actually the lush greeness o the rice plants seems almost a mirage,
like the wet spots on pavement which turn out to be perfectly dry.
And imagine growing a crop that requires no hoeing! Rice growing,
however, like any other farming venture, requires something more
than the will to do. It requires quite a financial investment, hard
work and the patience that enables one to sit quietly on the side lines,
taking what comes in the way of hard luck.

For instance, there was one rainy spring. I know many a business
man who would have been tearing his hair if things had been going
as badly with a shop or office, but the rice farmers were just repairing
tractors, looking after pumps or mending fences. If the rain keeps up,
-&j$d, we may have to sow the rice with airplanes. Yes, it could

The initial investment of a rice farmer is no small item. The model
farm consists of 640 acres which will cost, around Stuttgart, from $70
to $100 an acre. The land must be cleared of trees and undergrowth
and must be fairly level. And for a farm like this, you must look below
the surface of the earth. You must be sure that each acre has hardpan
or a clay subsoil. That is what holds the water that grows the rice that
builds the house that Jack intends to put up with his rice profits.

You will not plant all your land to rice each year, since crop rotation
must be practiced even in Riceland, but only one-third; for good farmers
say you should rotate with wheat, oats or cowpeas. This should be proof,
if any is needed, that rice is not planted on swampy, unhealthy land.

You must prepare the same sort of seedbed for rice as for corn. Then
something else must be added. Throughout the rice field, you must
make levees from four to eight inches high, working out a contour
system that enables water to be sent to all parts of it by gravitation.
The system seems a highly complicated maze of mains and laterals like
something thought up by a sadistic psychologist for an IQ test. If you
are stumped on this when you buy your rice farm, just ask one of the
neighbors or write to your congressman. They just looked like ditches
to me, and why they went this-a-way instead of that-a-way I couldn t
understand.

Riceland Fields of Goldm Grain 81

When all this has been done, the seed is sown by drills, with two
bushels of rice seed going into each acre, Stuttgart is very proud dE
its rice-seed laboratory, for the wise farmer knows the Importance of
selecting and using the best possible seed.

When the plants are about six inches high, the field is flooded. From
that day until harvesttime, 100 to 120 days, they stand in five inches of
water. The roots secure air through tubes in the outer leaves.

The rice grows rapidly, and soon the plants stand so thick and high
that the Arkansas Traveler, if he didn t know about rice, would never
dream that they were in water,

Mr. Howe explained the difference between rice culture in tbfc coun
try and in China. There rice growers have no water source, and n
motor-driven pumps, so instead of bringing water to the plants, they
take the plants to water. After they have grown to the required so:
inches on dry land, they are transplanted, one by one, into the murky
waters of a swamp, or into some land which can be easily inundated.
This ancient practice is the source of the old idea that rice must be
grown in swamps.

During the 100 days growing season many a stout, sturdy farmer
becomes haggard and worn, and occasionally a sober-minded, church-
going man is known to take a glass of beer, just to get his mind off
his worries. All of the rice growers* eggs, you might say, are in one
basket, and a fragile one at that. Should a hailstorm come when the
heads have formed, the crop would be beaten into a watery grave. If an
early frost should come, as has been known between the cutting and
the drying, the crop is lost. And worst of all is the worry that the
pumps will fail. The sound of those pumps is the heartthrob of the
rice belt I

Two schools of thought argue the question of water source every
year in the rice belt.

Some say the reservoir is preferable. Others ding to the idea that
one s own well is. Each has its own points.

In the early days wells were used, and it is a pleasant fact that many
of them are still going strong after twenty years use. However, it costs

82 Hurrah for Arkansas!

at least $5,000 to sink a well, and if the farmer is just starting with
the proverbial nest egg, it may prove to be too much of an initial in
vestment. Add the fact that wells must be sent deeper and deeper to
tap the hidden layer of water! With more land being devoted to rice
culture, it is not inconceivable that some day the water layer will be
exhausted. Then what will the rice farmer do, poor thing?

He will turn to reservoirs, which save the surface water!

Right now many a reservoir is being built in the rice territory.

The Arkansas Traveler can see them from the highway vast shal
low lakes, often with trees still standing in them, surrounded by low
mud walls. Naturally the reservoir maker selects a piece of land that
is unfertile, probably covered with scrubby timber, since it would be
poor policy to take rich black land that could be used for rice culture.
He also chooses a piece that is low, for he wants to get into it all the
surface drainage that can possibly be obtained. Then he builds dikes
about this piece of land to hold the water like a vast pond. If this seems
Eke "going to a lot of bother," remember he has yet to put in the
pumps that will send life-giving water along canals to the rice fields.
Of course he puts in electric pumps. But sometimes a storm disrupts
the electric service, or a pump will suddenly develop a cough! Those
are hazards that may make the farmer suffer the loss of his crop. And
they are no picnics for the reservoir man either. He has contracted to
furnish water for his neighbors* crops, and he has to make good in a
big way. If he is foresighted he adds Diesel engines to his equipment
and may sleep untroubled on nights when the wind blows and the
lightning flashes.

Another hazard presents itself when a prolonged rainy season shows
up. Then the dikes may give way.

Even if a small boy should come along and spend the night with
his thumb pressed tightly into the leak in the dike, it couldn t save the
reservoir man s store of water. In a rainy season a mudbank crumbles
like chocolate cake a la mode in a hot kitchen. Of course the water
runs OBI, and eventually it may find its way to the small creeks from
which it can be diverted to aid the rice crop. But that is a faint hope.

Ricdan d Fields of Golden Grain 83

The creeks have a way o emptying too fast to be tapped by hastily
constructed emergency methods.

Even when the sun Is shining brightly and not a doud crosses the
bright blue of the Arkansas sky, the reservoir man may sit on his front
porch moaning the rice belt blues. Every hour that is bright, hot and
sunny and many of them can be counted in an Arkansas summer
means just that much less water in his reservoir. Evaporation does it!
Thousands of gallons may evaporate in a single day, and if the hot dry
weather persists, it can lower the water to a dangerous point.

This is the unhappy side of the picture, however. Actually, seasons
come and seasons go and the reservoirs stay filled to the brim (or
almost), the pumps never fail ... or if they falter, the electric and
repair companies, which are on the job day and night, get the water
flowing in less time than it takes to get a shave and haircut in an
Arkansas barbershop and the rainfall, which averages fifty to sixty
inches, is so nicely spaced that the reservoir supply receives constant
additions.

The rice fields which have been supplied by the reservoir have
grown and flourished, and everybody loves everybody else. Then when
the crop is harvested, the reservoir man gets paid for all the worries
which did or did not materialize. He gets one-fourth of each rice crap
for which he has supplied water.

Then it is only natural for the farmer to wonder if he doesn t do all
the work while the reservoir man gets all the gravy! I have heard them
voicing such wonder.

When we buy rice at our grocery stores, it has passed through nine
teen cleaning, hulling and polishing operations. The rice-milling ma
chines, which, look so tough, but are oh, so gentle, are a sight for any
Arkansas Traveler to behold. Rice milling is just the reverse, in many
respects, of wheat-milling technique. In wheat milling everything is
designed to crush the little grain into the finest, softest powder that can
be made. In rice milling everything is designed to keep the little grain
from being crushed, bruised or even dented. When it emerges from

84 Hurrah for Arkansas!

myriad shaking, straining, pounding and vibrating operations, It must
not only be clean and whole. It must also have a beautiful polish, so
that each grain looks like sugar candy. That is the only sort of rice
American housewives will buy.

Of course most housewives put a cupful of the beautifully polished
rice in a kettle of lukewarm water, then set it on to cook, giving it a
good vigorous stir every time they pass the kitchen range. A guest of
mine was caught stirring the rice on my stove one day, and when she
had tied up her broken arm well, I almost broke it she explained
tearfully that at her house everyone in the family took turns stirring
the ricel She also said they didn t like rice very well, for it was always
such a soggy, heavy mess. She didn t see how Chinese chop-suey
makers could keep the grains separate! Smart people, those Chinese,
she said. She was right. The Chinese, who eat up to 300 pounds of
rice per person every year, know how to cook rice. You wouldn t
catch them stirring beautiful polished rice as it cooks. They know that
it must be cooked in a large amount of water, which will be drained
off when the grains are soft, just as the excess water is drained off
potatoes that are to be mashed. Then rice should be placed over gentle
heat, or in a warm oven to steam until each grain achieves its own dis
tinct identity, large, fluffy and delicious.

Unfortunately, polished rice provides considerably less than maxi
mum nutrition. During all that cleaning and polishing, seven layers
of bran were removed from the rice grain, and with them went most
of the crude protein, fat and carbohydrates that can make rice prac
tically a meal in itself.

Ah, but Riceland has an ace up its sleevel

During the war, a Persian-American GI cook, Sergeant Milton
Yonan-Malek, discovered that rice may be processed in a way to retain
all the food elements that have previously gone with the bran hull into
stock feed. It is not a terribly complicated process, although it requires
precision machinery and a great deal more milling room. In simple
terms, the process consists of giving the rough paddy rice a steam
bath, then drying it at controlled temperatures. This drives the nutri-

RicdandFidds of GoUen Grain 85

rive qualities of the outer layers into die innermost part of the kernel:
There they stay undisturbed by all the cleaning and polishing opera
tions.

After milling of this sort even the roost careless housewiEc wiU not
be able to ruin good rice by poor cooking. It will not stick to the pan,
so she will not be tempted to use a stirring spoon. And when h conies
out of the boiling water, each grain wiU be separate and io%* It wii
not be necessary to steam it. The new process will benefit the miller,
for rice that has been subjected to such heat will be less subject t*
spoilage, either before shipping or on the grocer s shelves*

Strangest of all, the new process will benefit the grower also. His
rice will not have to dry in the field for two weeks as it does now. He
can harvest his crop and haul it to mill in one operation* Often the
two weeks drying period has meant the loss of a crop. If heavy fall
rains come while the rice is in the stacks, it may mold and mildew.
If frost comes, it is good-by to the crop!

Now with combines which cut and thresh the rice, and the new
process which permits it to be hauled to mill the same day, the millenni
um seems to have dawned for rice farmers. However, there s still Ac
need for water, and water comes from Mother Nature, and sbe is ful
of practical jokes.

The new rice-milling process is rated so highly that a new $350,000
addition at the Walton Rice Mill at Stuttgart will be devoted to it. It
is a beautiful building, modern in design, and with an interior color
scheme featuring two shades of gray-blue that make a perfect back
ground for the snowy white rice. The structure has 71,000 feet of
floor space, with storage capacity for 200,000 bushels of rough rice.

The history of rice culture in Arkansas is a fascinating story. It dates
back to 1896, when W. H. Fuller, a bearded old Arkansan who had
farmed all his life, drove a team of horses down to Louisiana on a
hunting -trip. His was no overnight visit; he went down early in the
fall, prepared to stay all winter. Along the way, he saw great green
fields of some sort of grain that he had never before seen growing. He

86 Hurrah for Arkansas!

asked what it was. They told him rice I While Mr. Fuller was hunting
wild ducks and other game, he kept thinking about his farm back up
on the Grand Prairie. It looked much like the land with the wonder
ful rice crop. By golly, maybe he could grow rice! There was a creek
that could be diverted. And he could grow a crop without hoeing, one
that wouldn t be hurt by drought. Hallelujah! He brought back
enough rice to plant two acres on his prairie farm.

The farmers on Grand Prairie had not been having an easy time.
I have talked with pioneers who raised corn and wheat in those days.
Some were Czechoslovakians who came down from Milwaukee in the
early nineties. They still speak their native language, and drink beer
instead of iced tea, but now they are growing rice instead of wheat.
One of them was Grandma Dolney, a beautiful old lady with snow-
white hair who, even though bedfast, was the life of the party when
Bob Howe took me out for an evening with her!

Memories came thick and fast in her cheerful family as they began
to recall the early days on the Grand Prairie* Money was almost un
known, and the only time they had cash was after the wheat crop was
sold. Johnny Garrich, son of Grandma Dolney, was a little boy in the
days when wheat was their money crop.

One day, when he was about twelve, Johnny and his sister were sent
to market in Stuttgart, with a wagonload of wheat and ten cents with
which to buy their lunch. The sister was two years older than Johnny,
but Arkansas being Arkansas then as now, Johnny was boss of the
expedition. That s how boys rate in this country! They started at day
light, for roads were mere trails in those days, and the horses were
slow. All went well until they were about two miles from town. Then,
as they were driving off a bridge, the wagon wheel dropped into a
hole, and some part of the underpinning was broken. Johnny tried
mairfully to repair it, but it was beyond his boyish efforts. His sister
sat and cried bitter tears, which didn t help at all. If they didn t get
their wheat to town, the buyers would go on, and they would be out all
around. It was a moment that called for feminine tears.

Finally Johnny unhitched one of the horses and rode it into town.

Ricelan d Fields of Golden Grain 57

He returned with a kindly neighbor, who had long since driven in his
load o wheat, and the wagon was soon fixed. The kids drove on.
They found they had lost their dime in all the commotion. They had
no lunch. But they sold the wheat.

Late in the afternoon they started home, just two children driving
the team of horses and an empty wagon across the wide prairie. Sud
denly a fierce rainstorm came up. Lightning flashed. Thunder roared.
Rain poured. The children were without shelter on the wagon seat,
and they had been taught to stay away from trees in such a storoi. To
add to their fears they were scared about the horses. One of them had
a way of turning tail and running for dear life when a storm devel
oped, and whether or not he could be held back by the other horse
and the youthful driver, they didn t know. They headed the team into
the storm and doggedly forced them along.

Somehow they managed to get to a house. They drove the horses
right into the clearing and up to the house until their noses touched
the log siding. There the kids sat in the rain, holding the reins, until
the storm cleared.

By that time it was dark, and in their wet clothes they were chilled to
the bone. They were country kids, too, with good healthy appetites and
they had had no food since daybreak. They started on toward home.
Mile after mile the horses plodded along with the two children on a
jolting wagon seat growing more weary at every step.

At last they reached home. Johnny drove the horses into the barn
yard. He and his sister jumped down and ran into the house. Both
threw themselves down in front of the blazing fireplace and burst into
loud weeping.

"Why did you cry after you had reached home safely?* This was
my question when Johnny, now a prominent rice farmer, told me the
story of that terrible day.

"We were afraid we would be scolded for losing our dime.**

With money so scarce, it is easy to understand why farmers on the
Grand Prairie watched the growth of Mr. Fuller s first rice crap with
mingled anxiety and disdain. The Arkansas farmer is not quick to pick

81 Mmr&h for

up He has a tot of "outsiders * come ia and try this or

dial, up their shirts to get back to the city. The

rice drop n> be of those get-rich-qaick schemes

p by ia the face of God and Mother Nature. Their

tree. The rice crop was a failure. Mr, Filler was
a disappointed man indeed. He was no longer young, and his idea
had met with little encouragemeaL If he failed to Eve long enough to
rice grow on the Grand Prairie, then possibly no one would ever
try iL

A year passed before he could make the trip to Louisiana again.
Then be wait down and worked in the rice fields,, learning where he
had failed, and absorbing all the knowledge he could get from Louisi
ana growers. Then, just five springs from the time he had made his
first try, he brought back more rice and sowed it on a seventy-acre
fidd. Again he was met with laughter and derision. In feet, the citi
zens of Hazen and CarEsle, now prominent rice centers, offered a re-
warf of f 1,000 if Mr. Fuller coidd raise an average of thirty-five bushels
an acre on that seventy-acre rice field. Reward, my hat!

They can call it a reward if they like, but anyone familiar with
Arkansas knows those good citizens were just betting $1,QOG it couldn t
fee JUmet AH summer long, they haunted that rice field, watching the
green sprouts grow taller and taller. Then they saw it become truly a
field of golden grain, waving gently in the early autumn breeze, until
it looked like a golden sea rippling in the sunEght. Then the rice was
harvested.

Mr. Fuler collected his "reward** without question. On his seventy-
aone rice field he had raised an average of seventy-five bushels to the
acre.

So rice came to die Grand Prairie.

Each year a Rice Carnival is held at Stuttgart, witih all the towns in
die, rice belt foining in the fun. Always, tie parade includes one
bearded old genddna% presenting Mr. Fuller, driving a pair of
worn and weary horses hitched to a mud-sEneased wagon. la die
wigoa to a couple of sacks containiixg seed for two acres. The weary .

Riceland Fields of Golden Grain 89

old fellow means more to the rice belt than the bearded gentleman who
traditionally drives eight fleet-footed reindeer hitched to a glittering
sleigh*

In his two sacks of rice seed Mr. Fuller brought good homes, auto
mobiles, tractors and college educations.

As a by-product of rice farming, Stuttgart and other parts o the rice
country offer duck hunting. In fact, this has become such a famous
duck-shooting region that it attracts such sports-world celebrities as
Bob Becker, of the Chicago Tribune, and Spider Rowland, of the
Arkansas Gazette. Not that it is any easier for a duck to be shot by a
celebrity than by some Arkansas farmer with a 22 rifle, but the names
look good in the Stuttgart paper. At the Riceland Hotel in Stuttgart
one is practically confronted by the sign: BOB BECKER SLEPT HERE!

Just to see how uncomfortable duck shooting can be, I spent a
windy, cold, rainy spring day, quite comparable to autumn weather, at
a reservoir where Bob had done most of his hunting. It was a new
reservoir, which meant that the trees had not yet lien killed by standing
with their feet in water the year around. This is the sort of place ducks
like best. They fly in at dawn and float around on the water, confi
dently believing the trees will shield them from all enemies. But just
as they fly in, bang, bang, bang go the guns of Bob and his fellow
hunters.

Long before dawn these hunters must be up and out in the murky
darkness, securely wrapped in all the high-priced garments one sees
advertised in sports magazines or displayed in the windows of the
smarter sportswear shops. They drive to the reservoir and then He in
wait for the unsuspecting game behind a screen that, in my opinion,
would fool only a subnormal duckling. When the ducks fly in, the
hunters bag their limit, if lucky, and then go back to the hotel where
they spend the rest of the day thawing out and telling why they didn t
get the big one on the left. It must be very interesting or perhaps they
just like to wear the particular brand of sports clothes that go with duck
hunting. I once knew a fellow who took up horseback riding in Chi-

90 Hurrah for Arkansas!

cago because his roommate left a pair o jodhpurs behind when he took
a job in another city. The fellow tried on the jodhpurs and thought
them so becoming that he went out and hired a horse. By the time the
jodhpurs were worn out, he had become the sort of horseman people
photograph on bridle paths and had married the daughter of a promi
nent stable owner.

For several years, I was associated with a radio program which
starred Bob BeckerI wrote the commercialsand every Sunday his
delightful little blond wife sat in the studio throughout the rehearsal
and program busily knitting on the thick wool socks Bob wore on his
hunting trips. They were not the sort of socks one would wear in a
normal life, I often wondered if perhaps Bob took up duck hunting
just to get a chance to wear them and in that way keep from hurting
his wife s feelings.

Perhaps not! I often see pictures of duck hunters, and occasional!)
they aren t Bob.

Duck hunting has brought about a peculiar situation in the rice belt.
Although the reservoir owners and rice farmers are associated in a
business way throughout the rice-growing season, they get along very
nicely. Occasionally one hears a farmer voice a well-spoken gripe be
cause the reservoir owner gets one-fourth of the rice crop without lift
ing his hand, but it isn t often. However, when the shooting season is
on, jealousy rears her ugly head.

When one hears about the ducks flying "in" at dawn, scarcely a-
person gives a thought to where the ducks have been I Were they flying
in from "de Nawth?" Nope! Were they flying in from a lodge meet
ing, or sitting up with a sick friend? Nope! Were they flying in from
a night in the ducks cafeteria, the rice farmers fields? That is correct,
Oswald! From dark to dawn the ducks were gobbling up gallons of
the farmers rice, but the laws protect ducks on the feeding grounds
so stringently that the farmers furnishing the feed can t even take a pot
shot at them. At dawn, when the laws allow, the ducks rise and fly
straight into the muzzles of the city slickers, who are paying the reser
voir owners fifteen dollars a day for the privilege of sitting behind a

Riceland Fields of Golden Grain 91

makeshift blind. There ain t no jestice, say the farmers. Again they
do all the work, and the reservoir man gets all the dark meat!

Stuttgart is a thriving little city of 5,628. It is clean and pretty, with
a broad main street and at least one crackin* good hotel, the Riceland.
Many of the houses are attractive and spacious, with beautiful lawns
and the sort of shrubbery that grows in the Southland. On the street
one day I saw a pony phateton filled with laughing youngsters and a
beaming colored nurse. Somehow I can t help liking a town that has
a pony phaeton in it.

VIII

jQ Slick Chicki~-*and ^Diamonds

IF I HAD my way, every school child would be required
to study a good stiff course in geology. Even if Johnny will never have
any closer association with rocks than a temporary term of making
little ones out of big ones, it won t do him any harm. And maybe
who can tell? little Johnny* may some day be an Arkansas Traveler.
Then as he tramps over the rocks in the Ozarks and the Ouachitas, he
will know whether he is tramping on beds of potential necklaces, gold
pieces, or just plain Arkansas.

In Eureka Springs lives one of the most interesting of the Arkansas
rock hounds, John Jennings. Several years ago John set about learning
why one rock is red and another blue, and what the difference can
mean to the world at large. Now he is a recognized authority on the
sort of stones one sets in rings, and museums all over the country con
tain specimens which he has gathered up from creek beds, chiseled out
of great old dark caves, and dynamited out of beetle-browed cliffs,

John is easy to find. Just stand on the funny little main street that
curves around the mountain and soon you will see a big man coming
along with a gunny sack over his shoulder. You ll notice his strong
handsome features and the tanned blondness that tells of his outdoor
life. But youll find it hard to think of him as a rock hound. John will
be inching a crippled leg along the sidewalk, making his way with the
aid of a great hickory staff.

Back in 1937 John fell on a Chicago street and dislocated his hip. He
returned to Eureka Springs where he had lived as a boy in a big white

92

A Slic^ Chicl^ and Diamonds 93

house on the mountainside. There he recovered his good health and
the use o his crippled leg. He was just about ready to go back to Chi
cago when he tripped on a faulty sidewalk and dislocated his hip again.
Now to all appearances he was hopelessly crippled and every step was
slow and painful. But that didn t get John down. He began to study
the rocks in the hills about him. He studied books on semiprecious
stones. He wrote to other rock hounds and found what they had to
say. He subscribed to magazines that devote pages to items about inter
esting and valuable rocks. As he grew more and more interested he
began to go out in the hills to collect semiprecious stones. It was cer
tainly a difficult task he had set for himself.

He was unable to drive a car, so he inched his way along over hills
and through valleys, supporting his huge frame with his heavy staff,
and resting when the effort tired him to the dropping point. But these
painful journeys into the hills enabled him to send out into the world
beautiful rich deep-red jasper, blue chalcedony, creamy onyx and pic
ture agates, as well as blue creek flint, red flint, crystal, jaspachate and
many other stones of interesting texture, color and figuration. Some
are fine and hard enough to be polished for use in jewelry; others
become paperweights, book ends and novelties.

In beautiful Diamond Cave, in Newton County, which contains
breath-taking displays of onyx, and in the entertaining Marvel Cave
in southern Missouri I have become acquainted with this attractive
stone. In both cave trips, however, the owners watched me like a
hawk, apparently to see that I didn t slip a six-foot stalactite in my
pocket, and I realized that any jewel collecting I might do would have
to be carried on out in the open. For that reason I hunted up John
Jennings and asked if he wouldn t let me go along on a stone-hunting
trip. He agreed, and suggested that we go out to Hog Scald Holler.

I remembered seeing Wilbur Bancroft s movies of Hog Scald Holler,
and I couldn t see myself driving my little blue car along the stony
bed of a creek or descending a mountainside that went straight down.
We convinced Joe Parkhill, who owns the Basin Park Hotel, that he
should take a day off. Joe was having help difficultiesas who

94 Hurrah for Arkansas!

hasn t? and he decided that it would be a relief to get away where
guests of the hotel couldn t phone him that the elevator had broken
down, the hot water had suddenly turned cold and the maid who made
up No. 13 hadn t left any towels. His decision was helped along by
the fact that I offered to make a panful of gingerbread and fix a picnic
lunch for the three of us.

Just before we reached Hog Scald we saw the cliffs with veins of
jasper and chalcedony. Even I would have known they were different.

Most of the bluffs of the Ozarks rise sheer from the valleys, with
niches in which grow hardy plants or frustrated trees. These bluffs,
however, had rounded, projecting surfaces, as though a heavy weight
had been put on the mountaintop when the rocks were soft and hot.
There was no place where a bit of soil might lodge and a determined
fern take root nothing but the hard, rounded rock surface. Marks
made by John s chisel on a previous stone-gathering trip showed bright
blue along the narrow fold. I looked my fill a whole ledge of chal
cedonyenough for necklaces that could be placed end to end and
reach around Arkansas. Who wanted that many necklaces? I didn t.

We drove on, with John pointing to this valley or that ravine, where
jasper and agate could be found if one wanted to get one s jewelry the
hard way. At Hog Scald we stopped to ponder on the old story that
gave the odd name to this locality.

Back in the days of the War between the States a band of Confed
erate soldiers camped at the point where a broad, lively, spring-fed
creek flows over a bed of sandstone. Food became low and the^nen
had to butcher some hogs. Now a hog must be scalded before the hair
can be scraped off the hams and sides of bacon, and in those days
armies didn t carry barrels in which a 300-pound hog might be ge-
dunked.

The army seemed to be stymied until one of the boys in gray had the
bright idea of scalding the hog in the creek s icy waters. At the time
it must have seemed like the neatest trick of the week, and it suc
ceeded, believe it or not! One group of soldiers hastily constructed a
crude dam and temporarily diverted the flowing water of the creek. A

A Slic^ Chicleand Diamonds 95

second group built a great fire and began to heat rocks. As the stream
was turned aside, the smooth deep hollows in its sandstone bed, worn
by years of erosion, were left filled with still, clear water. Into these
basins, the soldiers dumped the hot rocks, after they had eased them
to the edge of the bank with stout sticks. As the rocks cooled the
water was warmed, and by the simple process of rolling in more hot
rocks and taking out the cooled ones, the water eventually became
scalding hot. Since the basins were wide and deep, even the biggest
hogs could be scalded successfully, and to this day the region is known
as Hog Scald Holler.

John could point out the direction from which the soldiers had come,
and the mountain over which they climbed when they resumed their
journey with a wagonload of fresh pork, and I almost forgot why we
had come. At last John began to make his painful way up and down
the stony road, picking up bits of jasper and fossil specimens, while I
walked along beside him, finding nothing except some ordinary bits of
stone and funny-looking bugs. Joe discovered the gingerbread and did
some research toward seeing if the next piece would taste as good as
the one he had just finished.

Suddenly I realized that my urge to collect a bucketful of jewels had
collapsed. It was spring in the Ozarks. The sunshine was warm and
bright on my bare head. The water was deliciously cool on my feet as
I stood in the creek to take pictures of my companions and of a queer
little waterfall that had worn a corkscrew path in the hard white
sandstone. And it had been a long time since breakfast.

We got back into the car and drove another mile along the creek.
There, at a point where the stream became a broad sparkling river, and
we could look upstream to a lively, glistening waterfall, we made camp
and set the coffee to boiling in the enameled pot.

A black walnut log lay handy for sitting, and a bad case of spring-
feveritis soon had us hating to get up, once we had got down! I had
brought along a precious pound of bacon, expecting to cut branches on
which it might be broiled over the fire. However, the effort of finding
green brandies among the yet-winter-bare bushes and trees that lined

Arkansas hills are still dotted with quiet little towns reached by winding
wooded roads. In foreground: ties cut by Arkansas woodsmen in hill forests.

% H#m& f&r Ay

the rmr was too much for us. luckily wo ink girls came wading
af the crtek on their way home from the mailbox, They wore
chums who Eved abng the river and tact* was pretty as a picture
Mary Elkn, eleven, with blue eyes and dark hair, and Ldb May, thtr-
tern, with bfoad hair and the peadhes-and-cream complexion of an
English beauty. We asked if they knew where we might borrow a
skillet In which our bacon might be fried! Oh, yes* they would go
lo Mary Ellen s house and get one, Where was Mary Ellen s tense?
Right up there! They pointed straight up and there at the top of the
sheer mountainside was an unpainted little frame house that seemed
to pear over the edge.

We watched the girls skip nimbly up a cEfi that would have baffled
a mountain goat. Suddenly we heard a mighty clatter and clanging
and a wide tin skillet bounded into our midst, A few minutes later
the girls came down the mountain, with Mary Ellen rubbing her
elbow and other portions of her anatomy. She had fallen down and
dropped the skillet, which came on under its own power.

We fried the bacon, heated the baked beans and settled back to cat*
The girls sat on the walnut log, smilingly interested in aH our gay
chatter and awkward cooking efforts. We urged them to stare our
lunch, but they turned down everything including the gingerbread.
Later, when we had grown to know one another better, I insisted on
knowing why they had turned down our food.

**There was jis enough for you-uns/* they said.

As we ate, we talked of the jewels that may be found in the hills
and of the pearls that are found in White River.

John told of a farm near by^-he spoke as though it might be within
five 0iiks of our ctmpfire where there is a deposit of the blue day in
which diamonds are found. Once the owner dug down six feet, looking
for diamonds. When none had been found at that depth, his burst of
enthusiasm was "plumb wore out/* so he said to hdl with this diamond
business and went fishing. John told us, too^ of his belief that gold
may be found in Arkansas. At one time he leased what he called a
dE land 5 * for a year, paid twenty-five dollars for the lease, and

A SlicJ^ Chicf^ and Diamonds 97

actually prospected for gold. He found some. But just how much, he
didn t say! Now he is interested in looking for jade, which he is sure
he can find in these rocky hills.

Lunch over and plates scraped, Joe tilted his hat over his eyes and
settled himself for a nap where no irate guest or disgruntled employee
could disturb his slumbers. John went off along a ravine on his search
for the elusive jade. The girls and I wandered down the stream look
ing for any sort of stones that would interest us. We finally settled
on three different kinds (1) Indian Dream Stones, mottled black and
white stones that are said to make dreams come true if you slip them
under your pillow at night. I wasn t much interested in these rocks,
for sometimes I dream I am back working in a city and heaven knows
I wouldn t want that dream to come true. (2) Wishing Stones. These
have a hole worn through them by the action of running water, and
are found only in creek beds! If you wish on one, particularly one
found right in the water and not up on the bank, your wish is simply
bound to come true, say hill girls. (3) Just any pretty stones. These
we expected to keep for ourselves. The others we would pile up and
hold for city visitors who need wishing stones and dream stones more
than we do.

While we waded in the clear cold water, or trudged along the sliding
white stones that had been left exposed, when the river narrowed its
channel, to look like the whitening bones of animals on the desert, the
girls talked to me. They told me of their yearly twenty-four weeks of
school, which let out in February. It seemed like a very small amount
for a year only six months and many days must be missed because
the creek is often too high to wade across. But schooling does not give
one all the education needed in the hills. I found the girls could teach
me much.

They taught me to stay clear of piles of driftwood because water
moccasins lurk there. They showed me clear, deep pools under over
hanging rocks and told me of the big fish that could be caught in
them. They showed me a natural swimming pool and pointed out the
sheltering rock behind which a girl could change her clothes without

98 Hurrah for Arkansas!

being seen from the rocky road that ran along the riverbank. They
called me "Margie" because the name Marge seemed hard and un
friendly alongside their double names, and my years rolled away.

We piled our rocks along the creek bank, then retrieved them in
basket and bucket on our way back to the camp site. There John
identified those we didn t know. Many were of the type that might
be cut and polished, if we had known anyone who could cut and polish.
Others, usually the ones we had cherished most, were not worth throw
ing at a calf, he said. If he had found jade on his solitary rambling, he
didn t let us in on the secret.

Perhaps this happy-go-lucky day of jewel hunting explains why semi
precious stones can lie undisturbed in Arkansas for countless years.
What do we need with jewels? We have our jade in the new green
leaves of the willows. Our turquoise is the sky. Our gold is the
bright sunshine. Our diamonds are the sparkling ripples of clear,
spring-fed streams. Our rubies are the brilliant cardinal flowers and
the birds that bear the same name. And for pearls well, John, Joe
and I would say, "Just look at Lula May s teeth."

The discovery of a diamond mine near Murfreesboro, in Pike County,
as told to me by Tom Shiras, Walkin 5 Editor of the Ozarks and one
of the publishers of the Baxter County (Mountain Home, Arkansas)
Bulletin, is one of the classics of the hills.

A part of the farm owned by John M. Huddleston, a little more
than three miles beyond Murfreesboro, was, a complete loss as farm
land. It was clay of a peculiar bluish color, and probably the most
unfertile bit of soil in all the Ouachitas. Mr. Huddleston had owned it
for six years, and it grew no better year by year. He had formed the
habit of walking over it frequently, and occasionally he picked up bits
of stone and carried them home funny-looking bits of stone, sort of
shiny-like.

One day he noticed the baby playing with one. The dirt had been
rubbed away, and even Mr. Huddleston, whose knowledge of dia
monds was not what you might call professional, recognized the stone

A Slic\ Chic\ and Diamonds 99

as something out of the ordinary. He got on his mule to ride to town
and have it looked at" by a jeweler. He dismounted at the gate to
close it behind him, and there at his feet was another of the peculiar
stones. So he had two to show the jeweler. The jeweler promptly said
he believed they were diamonds, but wanted to send them on to Little
Rock for a more expert opinion.

Mr. Huddleston mounted his mule and rode home, and we can only
guess at the thoughts in his mind. Perhaps he had visions of a life of
travel, a playboy life, with boxes at the opera and horses running in
the Derby, and obsequious bows from headwaiters at all the smartest
places. Perhaps he planned a model farm, with milking machines or
were they invented before 1906? and underground sprinkling sys
tems. Or maybe it was raining and he had to watch where the mule
stepped to keep it from stumbling.

At any rate, he had worked out a financial plan by the following
day. Early in the morning he went to the spot where the stone had
been found, that strange spot with bluish clay, and there he was soon
approached by a panting stranger, who had run a zigzag course
through the farm.

"How much do you want for this farm?" asked the stranger.

Mr. Huddleston, according to Mr. Shiras, knew exacdy how much
he wanted. He had figured out how much it would take to set himself
up on a nice little 160-acre farm, one without any of that dad-gummed
unfertile blue-clay stuff, and a farm for his son, and a little over to
keep him in eatin tobacco if there came a time when he didn t feel
like farming. He answered promptly, "Thirty-eight thousand dollars"

The stranger managed to sputter that it was highway robbery, that it
was outrageous to ask so much for such an ornery old farm.

"All right/ returned Mr. Huddleston, "effn you don t want to pay
it, I reckon that feller over yander behind that tree will give it."

The panting stranger had thought himself quite alone when he made
the trip to the Huddleston farm, but he had been followed by another
eager would-be purchaser who thought cannily that he would hide.
When Mr. Huddleston s sharp eyes detected the man, the first stranger

100 Hurrah for Arkansas!

drew out his checkbook and wrote a check for $38,000 without a mo
ment s hesitation.

This is the story as Mr. Shiras told it to me. If it turns out that the
"baby" who was playing with the diamond was eighteen years old, and
the man behind the tree was in cahoots with the first man, I ll still take
this story in preference to the less spectacular ones that have found their
way into public print.

For many years the mine was open to visitors. The Arkansas Trav
elers of those days could pay five dollars and be privileged to keep all
diamonds they picked up, if any! Diamonds were mined steadily, and
while they were not spectacular, still they were diamonds. Some,
according to tales that have now become legends, were as big as forty
carats, and quite usable as sets in rings, necklaces and tiaras. Others
were the type that can be used in tools that require hard cutting
surfaces.

For the past few years the mine has been closed, and, so the whispers
went through the hills, it was owned by foreign diamond interests.

"And do you know why they keep it closed?" the whisperers would
murmur in your ear. "Because if they let our diamonds get out into
the world the bottom would drop out of the market! That s just how
many there are shut up in that old mine!"

Recently American interests are reported to have purchased the mine.
We hope the report is true. It gives Arkansans an opportunity for
button-snapping boasting: Arkansas the state of bare feet and appal
ling ignorance, in the opinion of the world at large has the only
diamond mine on this side of the globe.

If you drive along the highway toward Hog Scald Holler after the
road graders have been at work, you will see more of that strange
bluish clay.

A recent clipping from the Arkansas Gazette gives a hint of the vast
mineral resources of the state. "Included in the mineral resources,"
runs the clipping, "are both bituminous and semianthracite coal, lig
nite, lead and zinc ores, copper and manganese; also marble, slate,

A Slic\ Chic\ and Diamonds 101

granite, and a valuable honestone. Bauxite ore is also mined in large
quantities."

The modern Arkansas Traveler is just a few years, perhaps a gen
eration., late in visiting the lead and zinc mines of Arkansas. The
miners of the hills were a different breed from the farmers. The farm
ers plodded along, frugal and thrifty, knowing that it took a year to
produce a crop and why should they hurry? They tqok no chances,
not even in prophesying about the weather. To this day you can ask a
native Arkansas farmer if he thinks it is going to rain, and nine times
out of ten he will say cautiously, "Hit might do it. ... But I hain t
a-sayin* what it will do. I ain t neither a fool n r a newcomer!"

Miners who were prospecting for the fabulous lead and zinc known
to be hidden in the hills had an entirely different philosophy. It is
true they were poor on Tuesday, but on Wednesday they might find a
mine and be rich! That made frugality and thrift look like unnecessary
virtues. Phooey! "Spend what we have today. Tomorrow . . ."

Oh, blissful tomorrow! For many of the miners it never arrived.
For some it came, bringing the longed-for riches, and whether or not
riches brought happiness was a personal matter. Sometimes, according
to stories told in the hills, a group of miners would own a mine col
lectively and work it together. At the end of the week they would
gather all the money coming to them from the men who had bought
their ore. Then they would sit down with the stack of silver dollars
and change before them. One of them would deal out the dollars as
he might deal out cards. One for you, Shorty, one for Tom, one for
Bill, one for me, one for Shorty, one for Tom, one for Bill, one for me
and so on, until the stack, down to the last penny, had been equally
divided. Perhaps that is where we get the term "cash on the barrel
head"!

Few of the zinc mines are in operation now, and again there are
whispers about the price being kept up by limiting the supply* In
Newton County are seen the decaying remnants of old shafts, and piles
of odd stones that have been brought up out of the earth. Undoubtedly
the tree-covered hills hide many a fortune in this or other minerals. A

102 Hurrah for Arkansas!

Chicagoan has invested many thousands of dollars in an ore crusher
at Jasper, but it stands idle. He has long been convinced it would be a
simple matter to ship out the pure mineral, rather than incur the ex
pense of shipping tons of limestone for every ton of pure mineral.
He has a good idea, particularly for Newton County, where hauling
must be done by trucks because no railroad crosses the county.

If the honestone mentioned in the Gazettes news item refers to the
familiar whetstone, you can bet your bottom dollar it is found in
Arkansas. And the old-timers say the best whetstone rock is always
found on the north side of a mountain at an angle of forty-five degrees.
That is one of the superstitions May Kennedy McCord, a KWTO radio
star, relates in her Hillbilly Heartbeats, but even so, it is probably based
on some fact, like most hill superstitions. What a campaign an adver
tising agency could whip up for a whetstone firm if it could prove that
all its whetstones came from a forty-five-degree angle of an Arkansas
Mountain! I can fairly see the long-whiskered, barefoot mountaineers,
a la "Esquire f who would be drawn by chuckling city artists to illustrate
the campaign. And the last laugh would be a loud heehaw from the
mountaineer who had received big money for the whetstones he had
once given for free.

The bauxite of Arkansas was one of the great surprises of the war
years. Our state had long been known to contain the only worth-while
deposits in North America. Small secondary amounts had been found
in Alabama and Georgia, but they were peanuts compared to the mine
here. In fact, Arkansas had a town called Bauxite because of the rich
deposits found near by. Bauxite, as of course you know, is the principal
ingredient of aluminum. In spite of the fact that a great deal of alumi
num was made in this country in prewar years, very little of our Arkan
sas bauxite was used, because it could be obtained more cheaply from
foreign countries. Ships returning from the far-oflf places where bauxite
was mined could bring back loads of the valuable mineral as ballast,
and unload it for practically nothing in America. The Arkansas prod-

A Sticl^ Chic^-and Diamonds 103

uct was used chiefly as a club to keep down the prices of the imported
product or perhaps that was another of those whispers. At any rate, the
plan worked very well, until the war came along. Then enemy sub
marines consistently picked off ships loaded with bauxite.

With the foreign supply of bauxite suddenly shut off, United States
engineers began to look toward the bauxite supply down there in
Arkansas. With all possible haste they set to work to locate additional
deposits in the vicinity o the original one. When evidences were found
near Little Rock, A. J. Hoffman, of Louisville, Kentucky, formerly of
North Adams, Michigan, was engaged to drill test holes. It was not the
first time Mr. Hoffman and his rig had been called on to work in
Arkansas, but it was the first time he had met Grandma Gracie Lorey.

Granny Lorey had lived for years back of the small white country
church a few miles from Little Rock. Never in all those years had
she thought someone would bring a great big chugging machine into
her front yard and commence digging holes. And least of all did
Granny suspect that she would turn out to be the richest woman in
her aid society. In her seventy-five years she had never asked for more
than just her chickens, her garden and the little money folks paid her
for bringin babies into the world. To her it probably looked like
the work of the Devil himself when those holes began to show up.

Mr. Hoffman never expected to dig holes in Granny Lorey s yard,
or in the churchyard. It was just one of those things that happen in
the mining business. The chain of events began when the workers who
were helping drill the holes established a trailer camp in the grove of
pines that stood behind the pretty little white church. Back of the pines
was Granny s ramshackle cabin and chicken coop. The trailer people
meant no harm to the church, or to her they just asked to live and
let live until the test holes had been established.

The government, however, has a way of looking after the health of
its workers, and it was decreed that the trailer camp needed a bigger
and better water supply.

The man in charge of the camp came to Mr. Hoffman and said he
had been told that a well must be drilled at once, or the camp would

104 Hurrah for Arkansas!

be disbanded. Would Mr. Hoffman, he pleaded, bring his drilling rig
over to the pine grove and drill a well? In the emergency the govern
ment officials who had hired Mr. Hoffman willingly gave permission.
Since the church stood to get a nice deep well free, the trustees likewise
gave permission. Mr. Hoffman rolled the rig over and drilling began.
Only a short distance down, the crew ran into signs that pointed to
the presence of bauxite. Hastily the engineers were called in. They
could hardly believe it, for the point at which they had expected bauxite
was quite a distance away. However, when tests were made, it was
bauxite all right, and furthermore, the new deposit had all the earmarks
of being greater than those uncovered in the other test holes. The
engineers began further investigation of the new area. For the next dig
ging spot they chose Granny s front dooryard. What would she say

about that?
Mr. Hoffman went to call on Grandma Lorey. He asked if he could

buy her cabin.

"No, suh," replied Granny indignantly. "When Paw died, he said
to me, Maw, the Lord put you here in this cabin and don t you move
until the Lord tells you to. So I ain t a-goin to move out of this-yere
cabin."

It looked bad for bauxite.

Mr. Hoffman began a lecture on patriotism. He told Granny how
desperately Uncle Sam needed airplanes, and to make them he needed
aluminum. But he couldn t make aluminum unless he had bauxite, be
cause four and a half pounds of bauxite go into every pound of
aluminum. There in the Lorey dooryard the Lord had seen fit to put
enough bauxite to fill the sky with airplanes. Now was she going to
sit back and refuse to let Uncle Sam have that bauxite, or was she
going to be patriotic and give it up ? Uncle Sam was willing to pay
her well. She would get something for every pound of bauxite dug
out of her dooryard, and besides that, he would build her a nice new
cabin at any spot she saw fit to choose. She would have a lot of money
maybe as much as $20,000.
\ "How much real money is that?" asked Granny.

A Slic\ Chic\ and Diamonds 105

When Mr. Hoffman explained what could be done with $20,000,
Grandma Lorey was almost persuaded.

"Paw said I shouldn t move oflPn this farm until the Lord said I
orter! But, maybe Uncle Sam s got jis as much to say about things
as the Lord!"

Apparently Granny was weakening. But suddenly she was reminded
of one more thing her husband had said. He had told her she must
always ask Uncle Mack s advice when problems came up.

"Who is Uncle Mack?" asked Mr. Hoffman.

"Who s Uncle Mack?" repeated Granny indignandy. "Why, he s the
smartest man in Little Rock! Every time the Governor sees him on the
street he stops to ask him bout things."

Uncle Mack proved to be a smart legal adviser. He told Granny to
give the farm to Uncle Sam. Mr. Hoffman brought over a government
engineer as Uncle Sam s personal representative, and the deal was
made.

The contract with the church was made with less effort. Of course
it meant giving up the beautiful grove of pines, but when sentiment
was weighed against patriotism, with considerable financial reward
thrown in, sentiment hadn t a chance. On Tuesday morning the rig
was moved over to Granny s farm and the work was about to begin.
Granny, who had been permitted to stay on in her house until a new
one could be built for her, came tearing out, her faded old blue eyes
fairly shooting sparks. "You git that contraption away from here! No
diggin* till Friday!" she said, firmly. "My old hen s a-settin in that
coop. All that poundin and thumpin is bound to addle them aigs."

Mr. Hoffman laughed and put his hand in his pocket. "I ll just buy
that hen and those eggs," he said.

"No, sir," returned Granny. "She s my best dominecker. And be
sides, ain t Uncle Sam a-sayin for us to raise all the eats we can ? You
jis wait till Friday when that dominecker gits them aigs hatched."

Arguments about the pressing need for airplanes went unheeded.
They waited.

Later, when the drilling was under way, another problem arose. The

106 Hurrah

more adventurous young chickens fek compelled to investigate the
sticky, slimy waste product from bauxite drilling. One little fellow ven
tured ioo far and became engulfed. Granny fished him out and hunted
up Mr. Hoffman.

**See what you done," she said, holding the very dead chicken in the
palm ol her hand. * 6 The best chkken in th* whole flock. Dead as a
doornail! He d argrowed up a mighty fine rooster. Wouldn t he
a-tasted good, all fried brown an* cracklin*? Mmm! Mmmm! 5 *

Mr. Hoffman fished a dollar out of his pocket and gave it to her.
A couple of days later she came up with another thoroughly slimy
dnckep, apparently breathing his last She got another dollar. After
that it was a daily occurrence for Granny to receive a dollar for a
half -dead chicken. At last one of the workmen noticed that thougjh a
chicken apparently died each day, the flock remained the same. A
Btrfe sleuthing went on. It was discovered that Grandma Lorey and
the chicken had developed a well-paying racket. The chicken got in the
mud and Granny collected her dollar, Then she washed off the dis^
tressed chick, dried him out in the oven, fed him well and at bedtime
returned Kim to frns mother,

As tests in the state laboratory established Grandma Lorey s royalties
oe. dbc bauxite, the daily dollar became literally chicken feed. Shebegan
to make so much money that Uncle Mack had to give up his job an/f
set up a cot in her kitchen so he could be on hand to ofiEer financial
advice at all times. Various nephews and nieces gave up their Jobs in
factory and field and came "home" to "take care" of Grandma. That
was all right with the kindly old hill woman. She loved the bustling
activity of her new household and as for folding money well, she
had enough for all!

Eventually the cabin and the chicken coop had to go. Mr. Hofiman
his word good. On a bustling highway where Grandma can
Ac cars whizz past, he bcrik a nice home for her. There
ives today m peace and affluence, surrounded by her kinf oiks
and the doimaecker and a brand-new brood. Who of us can say that

A Slic\ Chicly and Diamonds 107

Paw was mistaken when he told Granny the Lord had put her in that
little cabin behind the church house?

As for the church, it has been moved across the road and there it
stands with a mountain of bauxite as backdrop for its countrified white
ness. With financial success, other successes have come. In the old days
it counted twenty-eight loyal members a big congregation. Now it has
sixty who attend regularly. Preaching was held every other week in
the old days, now there is preaching every Thursday and Sunday.

With his job near Little Rock finished, Mr. Hoffman went on to
further testing. He drilled for and found titanium at Magnet Cove,
manganese at Wildcat Mountain, and both lead and zinc near Jasper,
The last time I saw him he was drilling for oil on top of Carrolton
Dome, eighteen miles from Harrison. The job seemed very dull be
cause he was fairly certain oil wouldn t be found. Besides, he said, he
missed Granny Lorey!

IX

Crossetfr Child of the Forests

I HAD been in Mississippi on my way to the azalea show
at Natchez, and suddenly I was homesick for Arkansas. Possibly I
had grown weary of the Mississippi landscape where miles of be
draggled cotton patches, sodden under March rains, were spotted with
scabby little brown unpainted shacks. I tried to vision it as it would
look later, when the beautiful green cotton plants with their lovely
white and rose blossoms would make one think of all the Sunny South
songs one has ever heard, but somehow I was an uncompromising
realist that day. To relieve the boredom of the long trip, I turned
off the highway when I saw a sign reading: LYON 1 MILE. (Or maybe
it was two miles.) My name is Lyon, and it suddenly occurred to me
that it would be fun to send cards postmarked Lyon to all my friends
back in the hills.

I found the post office with little trouble a drab little building in
a funny little town. The woman behind the window handed me a
sheaf of cards, on which I wrote messages and then the addresses of
friends. I asked the clerk if she would be very, very careful that the
postmarks were legible. She started to practice on a piece of blank
paper apparently it had never before been necessary to make post
marks clear. With great care she laid a circular rubber stamp down on
an ink pad and then, holding it gingerly, pressed it firmly on the paper.
Possibly she was seeing how many impressions she could get from one
moistening I wouldn t know. A couple of stamp customers had
drifted in and stood at the window waiting.

108

Crossett Child of the Forests 109

Suddenly a small boy rushed in. "Didja know they killed three
snakes at the house next door?"

"Three snakes! All at one time!" The clerk was visibly impressed.

"Yup! Right under the window. Right in the flower bed."

The two customers dashed out, either to see the snakes or because
they feared the neighborhood might be infested with reptiles. The
postal clerk waited on another customer or two and then went back to
stamping practice marks. Another woman came into the post office
and went through the door into the sacred precincts behind the barred
windows. The exciting news was relayed to her, and she peered
anxiously behind mailbags. She busied herself with some packages that
had come in while Clerk No. 1 at last ventured cautiously to put post
marks on my cards.

Suddenly Clerk No. 2 began making little exclamations like "Ugh!
What s this?" She shook one hand as a cat shakes a paw after it has
dipped into a fish bowl. Then she wiped her hand on a dustcloth,
looked at it, sniffed it and exclaimed, "I declare to gracious! The colored
woman who just brought in that package has pasted the label on with
molasses!"

Often in my childhood, when sorghum molasses was as common as
second-grade brown syrup is nowadays, I had wanted to substitute it
for paste, which had to be "boughten"! Somehow I never had the
nerve of that woman.

I thought of more friends who might like cards postmarked Lyon. I
bought another sheaf of them from Clerk No. 1 and wrote my messages
while the elderly woman, who seemed to possess the greater authority,
washed her hands and repasted the label, sputtering with annoyance.

At intervals, someone would come in and exclaim, "Killed three
snakes next door!"

At last I had the cards written and seemed to have no more excuse
for hanging around. I took the cards to the window for their post
marks. For some reason Clerk No. 1 had busied herself with some
thing else, and the woman who had had molasses on her hands came to
wait on me. I explained to her why I wanted the postmarks to be clean

110 Hurrah for Arkansas!

She was still in a sniffing mood. The whole idea seemed utterly ridic
ulous to her. What a morning! she seemed to be thinking. Three
snakes next door! A label pasted on with molasses 1 And now an idiot!
She seemed overwhelmed with the lousy deal fate was handing out to
her. She inked the stamp, spread the cards on the table and thumped
on them just as she would have if I had not given her my long personal
rigamarole. Bing! Bing! Bing! Bingl BING!

I asked if I might see the cards. They were just what I had expected.
The first one was quite good, the second less so, and the others were
almost entirely illegible, both from lack of ink and from the force of
the blow. Oh, well, the first ones were O.K.

I got into my car, peering at the house next door. It was a very
attractive little brick house, with a neat lawn iii which spring flowering
shrubs were foaming with bloom. Not a snake in sight!

Later, when Mademoiselle had printed one of my stories, I received
a long letter from Mrs. Olive Edwards of Lyon, Mississippi, and dis
covered she had long been an ardent Ozark fan. I m sorry I didn t
know about her that morning. I would have enjoyed lingering a few
hours to see if any more snakes turned up or if another colored woman
got another bright idea.

Late in the afternoon I turned off toward Greenville, where a bridge
would lead me across the river and into Arkansas. At Greenville I
found a good tourist court, with a restaurant where food was both
good and moderately priced. I found also an antique shop equal to
any in the South. Into my already loaded car I put a big punch bowl that
had stood on a table in Jefferson Davis house! When I brought it
home the Jedge couldn t see a bit of the Jefferson Davis glamour; it
would have been a hell of a lot luckier all round for the Lyon family,
said he, if I had found a good coffeepot standing on the table that had
stood in Jefferson Davis home.

Crossing the Greenville Bridge is well worth the dollar it costs for
you and your car to make the trip over the Mississippi. It is a high,
curving bridge that seems to sweep you right up into the air above the
mundane water and earth. It was muddy, swirling water on that

Crossett Child of the Forests 111

March day, and earth that steamed beneath the hot sunshine. I longed
to stop on the bridge and take a picture, but signs told me to keep
going and looked as if they meant it. After I d crossed the bridge it
was a different matter. I parked the car at the incline on the Arkansas
side, and took pictures from above and below the bridge. As a tip to
photogs, I might add that the one below was the better of the two and
it was interesting when projected on the screen.

It seemed good to be back in Arkansas, although the flat country
bore little resemblance to the hills in which I live. Before I had gone
many miles on Highway 82 I met a herd of catde. Never on an
Arkansas highway have I seen so much beefsteak on the hoof. They
were white-faced Herefords the popular Arkansas breed and made a
beautiful picture in the sunshine. I drove to the side of the road and
stopped. By chance I was just opposite the gate through which the
catde would be driven. When a man on horseback turned them into
the gate, they seemed to flow through it like water in the channel I had
just crossed. Another man, who stood at the gate, counted them as
they passed him, and prompdy rolled off the score: Two hundred sev
enteen cows. Eleven calves. Three bulls. I had tried to count the
shining red animals, but had bogged down hopelessly when I ran out
of fingers.

Twice more on the road I stopped for pictures.

Once I found a little building draped with a most enchanting growth
of wisteria. Not a sprig of green could be seen. Orchid and pale
purple blossoms cascaded across the entire front, the long clusters hang
ing like great pendants from the edge of the shading tin canopy.

Again I stopped when I reached a little red school for colored chil
dren. It was recess time, and the youngsters were whooping it up in
the schoolyard, with gleaming white teeth shining from dusky faces.
Their teacher smiled from the doorway and gave me permission to
take a picture. A youngster about six years old shyly peeked around
the door and then darted back like a litde quail. I begged her to come
out. The teacher joined me in urging. "She s the cutest litde thing,"
she said.

112 Hurrah for Arkansas!

I felt that teacher was cut out for her job. When I held up the light
meter to take the necessary reading for the operation of my camera,
she came close. She had never seen one and was eager to learn just
what it was and what purpose it served. I felt inadequate trying to
explain, for to me the light meter is something like the radio and God.
But I was delighted with the eagerness of her mind, and the speed with
which she grasped the value of such a photographic aid. I know sh$ is
a good teacher.

Farther along I came into hills, beautiful hills around which the
graveled highway swept with widened curves. Then there were pines,
tall, straight, lovely trees that grew close to the edge of the road and
gave it the effect of an avenue lined with towering green walls. Occa
sionally I passed a rutted road that slipped through the forest to the
highway. Often these little roads had piles of great logs waiting at their
mouths, thick-trunked logs of amazing length. In our hills we have
only scattered trees of such size. . . . Trucks piled high with enormous
logs rattled past me as I stopped to drink in the beauty of those wooded
hills. Here was the forest primeval bless its darling heart!

Suddenly, as I swept over a hill, I blinked at the scene below!

A big truck, the sort used by farmers rather than by commercial
concerns, was lying on its side in the ditch at the left of the road. Com
ing through the window of the cab was a young fellow in shirt sleeves.
His speed was incredible. First his head popped up like a Jack-in-the-
box, then his shoulders, and before I could count three he had swung
up his legs and leaped nimbly to the ground. He sat down on the
bank and rubbed his arm, without taking his eyes off his load of logs
listing sidewise.

I hurried down the road, stopped my car, jumped out, ran to the
man, asked if he were injured. He said he thought his arm was broken!
But he could move it all right, and I had seen him support himself with
both arms while he swung up his legs. He explained his haste in get
ting out. He was afraid the truck would catch fire. Apparently new,
the truck was not going to go up in smoke. He said he had no ex
planation for the wreck. He was just driving along on the smooth

Crossett Child of the Forests 113

road, the end car of a group of three, when all at once the car just
started to turn to the left and nothing he could do would stop It. In
another instant it had gone over to the ditch and lain down, like a
tired dog. The other two cars were so far ahead we couldn t signal
them. In an instant they disappeared beyond the last hilltop. As we
talked, a man who lived near the wreck came down the hill and spoke
to the young fellow, calling him by name.

Crossett was just ahead. I passed other log trucks with caution, fear
ful that one might take to the ditch without giving me time to get
out of the way.

Crossett is a town of perhaps 5,000 people, situated alongside the
great mills that give it life. Somehow the scene reminded me of our
Plymouth Rock hen sitting quietly under the hydrangea bush while
her busy little white chicks scratched away in the lillies of the valley.
Perhaps the comparison wasn t apt, for only a few of the houses were
white. The others were pale gray. Without reservation I can say that
Crossett is the cleanest town in Arkansas. I couldn t find an alley
where rat-infested, sagging buildings threatened to crumple at the next
storm. The streets were wide and pleasant. The business district had
the air of an unusually neat suburban town. Lawns were tidy. The
whole ensemble, one might say, was reminiscent of the idyllic villages
one builds under a Christmas tree.

In 1900 men came to the region to buy timber. They decided to
build a mill twelve miles west of Hamburg. Families came with the
men who worked in the mill and for years they lived in tents. Then the
mill owners founded the town of Crossett and planned it wisely with
wide streets, straight and regular. The company owns every house on
every street. The town governs itself, has aldermen and a mayor, a
Junior Chamber of Commerce and a Rotary Club. A country club with
a nine-hole golf course flourishes, and the women have a thriving club.

The school buildings are excellent, beautiful and modern one grade
school for the white children and one for colored children, and a con
solidated high school.

114 Hurrah for Arkansas!

During the war 1,030 Crossett boys went into service, and the nine
teen who were killed in action are perhaps the only ones who failed to
come back home after the war.

The retail stores are leased and operated independently, but since
practically all the clerks belong to families of mill employees, they are
far from being "outside" concerns. Of the four groceries, two are
chain stores and two are independently owned. The movie theater is
owned and operated by an experienced showman. The pulpits of the
two churches, Methodist and Baptist, are occupied by ministers paid by
the congregation.

The Crossett Companies cut 65 percent yellow pine and 35 percent
mixed hardwoods, including oak, gum, sycamore, willow and other
woods. Their Arkansas holdings in Drew, Ashley and Union
Counties, and in Moorehouse Parish in Louisiana, are divided into
districts. Each district has its own trained graduate forester. Fire
towers are located in each, and fire hazards are decreased by an
educational program. The old idea that woods should be burned
over each year to kill ticks is hard to destroy, but with heart and soul
the Crossett Companies are trying to tell their neighbors it is a gross
misconception.

They are pioneers in managed forests. Systematic reforestation is
being carried out. Only trees above twelve inches are cut; the others
are left to grow into big fellows. It is a sort of religion with the
Crossett Companies to keep the forests coming on for the benefit of
future generations. The old idea of cut and get out, which has made
naked waste o acres o hill land, is as repugnant to them as it is to
the rest of us who love trees. Probably more so! After all, they must
have trees in order to have business.

In the Crossett Mills there is no waste! Every splinter of every tree
is utilized. Lumber-size logs go to the sawmill, the thinnings to the
paper mill, and the scraps to the chemical company. In the research
laboratory new processes are constantly being developed to put the
bounty of the magnificent Arkansas forests to utmost advantage.

In 1933 the Crossett Companies deeded 1,600 acres to the U. S.

Crossett Child of the Forests 115

Government Southern Forest Experimental Station. They have been
divided into plots. Here the government is learning more about
systematic cutting and reforestation. The findings are, o course, avail
able to all other growers. In 1937 the paper mill was established.
Throughout the war, cartons for ammunition and other materials were
manufactured, and the sawmill division was given an E award with
three stars. The employees are unionized with the American Feder
ation of Labor, and through the years a fine record of amicable rela
tions has been maintained.

The mills are awe-inspiring in their vastness. A mile-long loading
deck alongside the railroad seems to extend right into the heart of
Arkansas. The machines for handling the logs and lumber seem some
thing Rube Goldberg might have thought up. Lumber is piled into
great bunks, containing, I presume, a certain amount of footage. When
a bunk must be moved from one spot to another, a machine that looks
like an oil derrick or the tower of a windmill on wheels straddles the
great cube. Hoists are attached to the chains binding the lumber and
it is lifted high enough to clear the platform. Then off goes the jitney
to another spot where it lays the lumber egg.

On this deck one sees boards that will become fine wood flooring,
furniture, woodwork, station-wagon bodies or houses. Sometime I
shall go back to Crossett and find out all about those amazing trans
formations. I shall investigate the rotary limekiln which they say is the
longest in the United States. Inch by inch I shall watch the process by
which pitch from, the logs is salvaged for automobile casings. Years
ago it was just dumped for lack of a market. Now billets of wood are
sent to tanks where they are mixed with digesters. They turn into
pulp, and the black liquor produced is pumped to a recovery room
where it is cracked.

I took notes like mad, for I was most impressed. In technical matters,
however, I speedily bog down. I found myself veering off to the
sprightly observation that lilies are growing in the Crossett log pond.
That makes me recall that logs are dunked in the pond before they go
into the mill, and the pond is cleaned out periodically. But why logs

116 Hurrah for Arkansas!

should be dunked, and for how long, will remain two of the many
questions that puzzle me. Well, after all, I have no thought of starting
a mill. I am willing to leave such an ambitious endeavor to the enter
prising men who built a town back at the turn of the century. If they
have whipped up new methods for hemstitching logs into picot-edged
shingles, who am I to try to ferret out the hows and wherefores?

As an Arkansas Traveler, I was far more interested in the fact that
the hotel, the Rose Inn, is a honey. Usually I am an unobtrusive guest,
taking what is given me in the way of rooms with only the minimum of
complaint, and going my quiet way. At Crossett I appeared at my
worst. Against my will I had to ask many favors. I had Judy with me.
She had caught cold on the trip and developed a bad cough, which
sounded like a mule starting a large and obnoxious bray. One time at
the English Inn, at Hollister, Missouri, someone had pounded on the
wall when the Jedge and Judy were doing a snoring duo in the twin
bed next to the wall. That was pianissimo compared to Judy s cough.
When the absence of tourist courts in Crossett forced us into the hotel,
I had visions of sitting up all night administering cough medicine
whenever she began the gende wheeze that preceded her wracking
cough. With that in mind I asked for a room as far removed from
other guests as possible. Instead of the fishy eye which implies you ll-
take-what-we-give-you-and-like-it, I was given a large corner room at
the back of the building, next to the room in which the waitresses
changed clothes. Probably my own confident assurance that Judy
could cough her head off without disturbing anyone was the reason
why the little dog slept peacefully and quietly all night. Or possibly
the pure country air had a beneficial effect!

I had had trouble getting food for her! She is a meat eater. Many
eating places I had encountered along the way had the number of meals
they could serve limited to the portions of meat they could get. When
I went into the Rose Inn dining room, I found the food delicious and
well served. The waitresses seemed to feel that a lone woman who might
leave nothing but a thin dime was not just cluttering up a table that
might otherwise be occupied by great big generous males. I was

Crossett Child of the Forests 117

cheered to the point of asking the pretty girl in the snow-white uniform
if I could be assured of meat for my dog when I ate my supper. Point
two for the hotel! Judy feasted on roast beef and fried liver, plus one
of my chicken croquettes, and perhaps this too had something to do
with her quiet sleep.

In addition to these woes my car had developed a unpleasant tend
ency to "flood," if I left it standing out in the rain. When a cloud
hovered over the hotel in the late evening, I went about town seeking
an empty garage. None was available. Even the garage where repair
work was done was filled to the doors! Again I took my troubles to
the hotel desk. I was told that I might put my car in a stall of the gar
age back of the hotel. I took the car around and put it in No. 5, and if
the regular occupant came home in the night and did a nip-up at find
ing a little blue Ford in the wrong spot, no one told me about it.
Although the storm fortunately failed to materialize, another load was
lifted from my mind.

The fourth step in acquiring a master s degree as Pain in the Neck
to a hotel manager! I went to Monticello to visit the textile mills and
returned long, long after the hour of checking out. I offered to pay for
the night s lodging, but they wouldn t permit it. In fact, I was allowed
to stay for another of those good dinners and got another man-size
portion of meat for Judy before shoving off. In going through a stack
of Forest Echoes, the Crossett Companies house publication that I
carried away with me, I learned that Mrs. Lloyd D. Jacks acted as
manager of the Rose Inn while her husband saw the world through
a porthole. During the war she was favorably recognized at a meeting of
the Arkansas Hotel Association for keeping in operation one of the
best hotels in the state. This bit of information, which did not surprise
me, was gleaned from a prize-winning theme on the "Little City among
the Trees," written by Melba Maxwell, a Crossett High School sopho
more.

Miss Maxwell had many interesting facts to tell about Crossett, but
she neglected to say that strangers can find a given house there more
quickly than in any other town in the country, except perhaps Gary,

118 H&rmk for Ar%mi$&$l

Indiana. ETCH that is a debatable question, for in Gary one must know
the succession of Presidents ID go right to Monroe Street, or Jeflbrson
Street, since the streets are named in presidential order. In Crossed: if
a li^b school girl should wish to give her address to a member of the
El Dorado football team, she would simply give htm a number Eke
753 aad follow it with a letter designating a direction E, W, N or S.
If he should say, as I did when given a number, "753 E what?" she
would say, "Just 753 E! That s all there is to it!" The letter would tell
htm to start east from the street or railroad forming the dividing line.
The 753 would mean that the girl lived in the third house in the fifth
block on the seventh street from the division. The odd number would
indkate the left-hand sick of the meet! It s as simple as that.

Of course, one who doesn t know east or west in a strange town
can t go dinecdy to a given address even in Crossett. When I was sent
fio see Mrs, Erwin, president of the women s dub, I drove into a part
o town where houses were the same uniform gray. Colored women
woe going in and out, visiting over the fences, calling little young
sters in for midmorning lunches or bringing in bags of groceries.
At last I stopped a pleasant-faced colored woman and asked where I
could find the number I had written down. Obligingly she pointed it
out to me. I asked if that was the home of Mrs. Erwin.

The woman must have had an inkling of the confusion in my mind.
*Is she white?" she asked suddenly.

"Oh, yes!" I replied. "She is president of the women s club.**

She laughed gaily. "This is the colored section."

When I finally found Mrs. Erwin, she was in an attractive six-room
Ibouse with a double garage, woodshed, garden spot and wide lawn.
The house had a bath, a floor furnace, built-in cabinets, hot and cold
water and a beautiful fireplace with an automatic gas heater, lite
living room was twenty-four by sixteen feet, and the walls were deco
rated in pastel colors. Rent was paid to the company, and every four
years the house was redecorated. Mrs. Erwin was already planning
redecoration, for the next year would be the year.

Mrs. Erwin came to Crossett to teach school, but before she had

Crossett Child of the Forests 119

taught long, she was snatched into matrimony by one of the Crossett
employees. Now she had been married twenty-one years and for all
but three of them she had lived in Crossett. During those three years
she had lived in Chicago. They were years that had been "exciting,"
she said, and then she added that it was pleasant to come home.

She explained the social life of the community. While it has its little
groups of similar tastes, no group sets itself apart from the others. When
a new family comes to town the women make the newcomers wel
come, and introduce the wife to everyone so she will soon feel herself
part of Crossett. A bridge luncheon for nine tables is not at all unusual.
When a shower is given, it is usually a community affair, with every
one uniting to honor the new bride or the new mother.

Mrs. Erwin seemed to have no regrets that she could not own her
home in the pleasant little town. The rent, she felt, was no more than
they would pay for maintenance and upkeep of a home of their own.
The cost of a house could be saved against old age. Then they would
take their savings and go to some happy spot where other couples had
retired. There they would buy a house and settle down.
"But away from the friends you ve always known!" I exclaimed.
"I wouldn t like to live in a place where everyone was working," said
Mrs. Erwin.

The satisfaction of Crossett people was one of the nicest experiences
of this Arkansas Traveler s visit. It was no surprise to find the execu
tives enthusiastic. They had good positions with a substantial com
pany. They worked in surroundings that varied from delightful to
magnificent every inch of every office building was shining clean and
some were superbly paneled and polished. No one rushed about, get
ting upset and developing ulcers, and no one seemed to nurse a gripe
against anything or anybody. Smiles were ready, voices low and pleas
ant, and the business of the Companies appeared well in hand.

In the stores I found many of the younger generation working as
clerks. They were as quick as the office workers to express complete
satisfaction with Crossett. They had grown up there, been educated in
the schools; now they had taken jobs in Crossett shops.

120 Hurrah for Arkansas!

"I wouldn t want to live anywhere else" was said over and over to me.

In the mills many second-generation workers are starting careers as
employees. And as one might expect, Crossett was experiencing a
housing shortage. A large plot o land had .been bought by a bank at
the north edge of town, and there people might buy land and erect
their own houses. Preference in purchase was given to returning vet
erans. Two residential districts had been opened up: Westwood, a
district of small housing units; and the Forest Park addition, made up
of frame and brick buildings. These houses are built on solid founda
tions and are painted white instead of the conventional gray.

The Chase Bag Company of New York will be operated under its
own management, strictly separate from the Crossett Companies. This
is a step toward the industrialization of the South, and mighty impor
tant to the economic development of this region. The bag factory will
use approximately 10,000 tons of paper per year, according to Ben
Posey, who usually acts as official spokesman for the Crossett Com
panies. This paper will be purchased from the Crossett Paper Mills,
which have been in operation since 1937. Of course the paper mills
get their supplies from the Crossett Sawmill, and the sawmill gets its
supplies from the forest ... so there is the Crossett circle! It doesn t
take a very bright mind to figure that the life of Crossett depends on
the conservation of the forest! And in this it is a shining example to all
America! Reforestation is such a devotion that Crossett Companies
are known as the greatest tree farmers in the United States. May
every seedling grow to magnificent stature!

X

The Ouachitas,

with a Suite for a Queen

SOMETIMES tourists make sad mistakes. They see a little
town that looks like many another little town, and they say, "Oh, see
the little town! What does this remind you of, Mamma?"

Mamma looks at the house high on the hilltop and says: "Why, it s
just like Galena, Illinois. That could be the very house where the nice
woman was selling all those wonderful antiques for next to nothing."

" Next to nothing, she says," Papa scoffs. "Remember you paid
seven dollars for the old cofiee grinder!"

By that time the little town is far in the distance, and no one ever
thought of stopping to see if it had a heart and soul. Here in Arkansas
where towns are strung together along the highway like beads on a
chain, you will find that each is completely different from the others.
Not physically different, perhaps, but definitely individual in character.

Take Mena for example. I had no intention of stopping at Mena.
At De Queen I had heard all about Mena that I cared to know. It
was named Mena for the wife of the same Dutchman who gave his
name to De Queen. It was a town where a great many retired couples
came to live, because of its unique location in the hills. Good scenery,
small-town living costs, good climate, neither too hot nor too cold! Not
as busy as De Queen, perhaps, for the hills naturally cut down the
productivity, of the land, but a fair town.

Then suddenly I was passing through Mena headed for the hills of
home, my own bed and the glorious bottle filled with Eureka Springs
drinking water that always stands in the refrigerator.

121

122 Hurrah for Arkansas!

The next instant I was driving up Mena s main street.

Something had reached out and snared me. I m terribly glad, for
now that I know Mena, I shudder to think how easily I might have
missed that friendship.

I only wish I could have been in Mena the day an Eastern magazine
writer (female), intent on writing about a former Arkansan, dropped
in at the Chamber of Commerce office, looked over Norma Lee Cran-
ford and said in- mock surprise: "Why, you do wear shoes!"

I m not surprised that the writer went back to her nice cozy East
marveling that anyone as bright and intelligent as the young business
woman whose background she was hunting down could have come
from a town so crude and dull. Norma Lee gets annoyed like the rest
of us when Arkansas is played up as a stooge, and she probably
wasn t much help to aa enterprising but tactless writer that day.

The fact that Norma Lee is the paid secretary of the Chamber of
Commerce is proof that Mena businessmen recognize ability even
when it is camouflaged with blue eyes and honey-blond hair. With
or without shoes, Norma Lee is mighty, mighty purty, but she can pick
up and lay down a dizzying lot of facts about Mena.

If you count all the babies and half the dogs and cats in Mena the
population would still be under the 5,000 mark. Aside from these
nonvoters, all citizens are voluble boosters for the town in which they
live. And well they may be. Mena is a pretty town, clean as a whistle,
with a broad Western-type main street such as one finds in several
towns at the western edge of Arkansas. It is the seat of Polk County,
almost due west of Hot Springs.

All about Mena are the beautiful mountains of the Ouachita Na
tional Forest, the only range in the United States, I am told, that runs
east and west. They are separated from our Ozarks by the Arkansas
River and have the same wooded contours that feature the hills in
which I live. Perhaps the peaks are a bit sharper, but they rise just as
abruptly from fertile valleys. Some of the valleys are so narrow a
railroad and highway must run closely side by side. Others are broad
enough to be dotted with little farms.

The Quachitas, with a Suite for a Queen 123

The prosperity of those farms is the proudest boast of Mena. Within
the summer months some farmers have made as high as $500 an acre
on blackberries. In one day a canning factory paid out $22,000 for
blackberries, and that is big money in this part of the country. Of
course, berries zoomed to eighty cents a gallon in 1946, but even in
normal years the crop yields big returns, for Mena seems to have what
it takes to make a blackberry supergood. Long, hot days and cool,
dew-laden nights seem to be the recipe for turning hard green little
blackberries into nice big red ones that are still hard and then a few
days more of sunshine and the dew of a few more nights fill them with
luscious juice and turn the color a rich deep black. It takes the right
amount of moisture, too, at the right time, to effect this transforma
tion, and Mena has the weatherman on her side. Or maybe s it s
another of the miracles Norma Lee seems able to accomplish. Mena s
annual rainfall is so well distributed that even August and September,
the proverbial dry mountain months, have more than four inches each.
According to the weather bureau, Mena enjoys a mean minimum
temperature of 613 degrees, with a mean maximum of 71.8.

When I was in Mena the temperature was a bit meaner than that,
if you know what I mean. It was a hot 92, and even though I was told
that the nighttime would undoubtedly get down to 68 or 69 degrees,
night seemed too far in the offing to take any of the sweat off my
brow at the moment. With such a heartening climate truck gardening
has naturally become an important industry, with second crops on
many vegetables bringing even higher prices than they command in
the spring.

Since pastures get the blessings of sufficient rainfall and mild winters,
the raising of pure-bred Herefords has come to be another leading in
dustry. Quite naturally in such a wooded county, lumbering is still
another. Even the National Forest provides a certain amount of lum
ber each year, and the forests outside the confines of government own
ership seem to have an inexhaustible supply.

The trees are of infinite variety. In one square mile on Rich Moun
tain, a naturalist and timber expert found forty-seven kinds of trees,

124 Hurrah -for Arkansas!

twenty-seven wild fruits, seventeen sorts of medicinal plants, and more
than a hundred different flowers, mosses and ferns, some of which
are subtropical A slab of pine-tree trunk, cut down by the CCC camp
that built beautiful Skyway Drive through the mountain, showed the
tree to have been a flourishing sapling when the little Lord Jesus lay
down His sweet head in the manger at Bethlehem. Another tree that
had withstood the mountain storms and winds until a few years ago
was found to be 1,800 years old.

As I said earlier, a great many retired couples have been attracted by
the fine climate and beautiful scenery of Mena. The tourist doesn t
have to put up with accommodations that send him out of town vowing
he will never darken Main Street again. There are two good courts,
good enough to be havens for vacationists who like the quiet of a
small town which makes no pretense to being a resort. A third court
was to be opened as soon as the proprietor could get sheets and pillow
cases. The town had no vacant store buildings when I was there. The
annual sales-tax figures were a boast of the pointing-with-pride Norma
Lee. Bank deposits were unusually high, due perhaps to those retired
citizens!

As in many other parts of Arkansas, electricity was badly needed in
localities near Mena. However, the hope of almost complete electrifica
tion was just around the corner. A rural electrification line 350 miles
long was soon to be brought in by the Southwestern Gas and Electric
Company. It would extend to all directions out into the hills and
valleys. Then just watch deep wells and electric pumps go into action!

I have reason to hand out delayed compliments to the men who
planned towns like Heber Springs, Magnolia and Jonesboro. For those
city fathers who laid out Mena, I have orchids and salaams. A ten-
acre wooded tract, right in its heart, was set aside and labeled City
Park. A fine old log cabin that had been built in 1851 stood in the
middle of the tract. I can imagine that some of the founders wanted
to tear it down. I can fairly hear the argument.

"Men, we re a-goin to have a high-class city here, fust thing you
know. How s it a-goin to look to them city people that ll be a-clamorin*

The Ouachitas, with a Suite for a Queen 125

to come in here and set up factories if we ve left a danged oF log cabin
a-settin right squar in the middle of the city park? I vote to tear
the oF thing down and use the logs for far wood."

Then probably some quiet-voiced chap scratched his chin through
his beard and replied, "Sam, I reckon that when all them factories is
a-belchin* smoke, and we ve got the trees all cut down to make room
f r them brick buildin s, an the streets is all paved from hell to break
fast, a lot of oF fellers like us will be kind o glad to mosey down to
the park of an evenin and take a look at that old log cabin."

So it still stands in the center of the Mena Park, and in all the hills
and valleys of Arkansas I have seen no finer example of pioneer crafts
manship. Of course the pioneer had pretty good stuff with which to
work. For instance, he had logs that could be squared into timbers
eighteen inches across. And as for length well, he had a couple of
squared timbers so long they extend the width of the cabin and jut
out at the ends far enough to support wide porches at both the front
and back.

The cabin has been used as a meeting place for the city council. Peer
in the windows and you see the long council table surrounded by fine
old mountain chairs in front of the great fireplace. Probably the cabin
has something to do with the public spirit of Mena citizens. In such an
assembly room a council could never be mean or conniving.

When I visited the cabin a couple of baby beds with pink blankets
stood on the shaded front porch. Only that morning I had been hear
ing a spirited argument that America doesn t begin training diplomats
in their youth. The thought ran through my mind that Mena had
taken the matter in hand and provided the city council with a couple
of youthful students in diplomacy. Most probably, however, the young
sters were wading in the spring-fed pool, a delightful spot for small
fry, or feeding candy to the animals in the zoo.

Mena doesn t have the sort of zoo one finds in big cities terrifying
lions, tigers, wriggling snakes and such-like. Here is the sort of zoo
that children of a small town may appreciate. There are squirrels that
look one in the eye, a raccoon that washes its food daintily before eat-

126 Hurrah for Arkansas!

ing, and a deer oh, yes, a very, very important deer! His name is
Jim, and everyone loves him. Once Jim got loose and went up on the
mountain. There he was found, looking very frightened and lonely
because it was the first time he had ever been out alone in the great
woods. He stood gazing at the rescue party, and the rescue party stood
gazing at Jim, each wondering what to do about the other. Suddenly
one of the rescuers held out a candy bar. Jim trotted over, licked the
bar and then climbed into the truck that had been brought for him.

Mena has claim to national fame. She is the home of the radio come
dians, Lum and Abner. She is proud of two local boys who made good
in Hollywood in a big way, but no one is surprised. After all Lum and
Abner were doing all right in Mena. When the radio offer came along,
Lum walked out of his job as cashier of a bank, and Abner walked out
of an equally responsible job in his father s wholesale grocery. The
setting of their mythical grocery store in a mythical Arkansas town is
based on the Dick Huddleston grocery in a village a few miles from
Mena. Originally the town was named Waters as a compliment to the
man who owned the farm on which the first post office was located.
After the store gained national prominence, and radio fans began
writing in to ask if there was such a place as Pine Ridge, citizens of
Waters did some quick thinking. Why not rename the town Pine
Ridge? According to G. C. Konkler, a Mena groceryman who takes
time to write things down, they did what we are so often counseled to
do. They wrote to their congressman! Along with their letters they
sent a petition signed by all the characters used in the Lum and Abner
programs and fifty others around Waters, asking that the name be
changed to Pine Ridge. They followed this up with a threatening
message to Mr. Farley. They told him that if the request was refused,
he would be "e-rested" by Grandpappy Spears for neglect of duty, and
Lum, the Pine Ridge justice of the peace, would "sure pour it on him"
in court. After such a bombardment, it isn t surprising that permission
was granted.

Mountain people, as well as urbanites, like Lum and Abner, because
their rural dialogue and expressions are not overdone. Furthermore,

The Quachitas, with a Suite for a Queen 127

they do not base their comedy on the foibles of imaginary relatives.
They d better not! I bought a belt for the Jedge from a pleasant-faced
lady who is Lum s sister and Abner s sister-in-law, and she is not the
stuff on which radio comedy is based. When she was secretary of the
Chamber of Commerce some time ago, she was careful throughout
her term of office not to speak of her relationship to the two famous
personages. One day someone let the cat out of the bag when a group
of tourists, including an eight-year-old boy, were in the office.

The small boy looked her over carefully and then said flatly, "I don t
believe it."

As the tourists were going out to their car, he said, "I still don t be
lieve it."

In 1897, when Mena was one year old, the editor of the Mena Star,
grandfather of the present editor, Ernest St. John, wrote to Mena de
Goeijen in Holland, inviting her to visit the town that would "forever
bear her honored and charming name." Unfortunately she was forced
to decline, but her letter was so tactful and agreeable that it is still pre
served. After that the Star was sent regularly to the de Goeijens except
during the war. The first copy that went over after the invasion of the
Netherlands was returned with the curt note: "Service Suspended."
Now the Star is being sent again, Mr. St. John told me, and it has not
been returned, but no word has come from the de Goeijens. No one
knew whether they had survived the war and were getting the paper or
if someone else just liked to read the goin s-on in Mena.

Once in the Gay Nineties Mena practically touched the hem of
Dutch royalty. Upon the crest of Rich Mountain a group of capitalists
from Holland built a resort hotel, a hotel that was the show place of
the whole region. Nothing like it had ever been seen out in the wilder
nessa place where people could be truly rural in the midst of culture,
refinement and downright elegance! The hotel was designed along the
lines of Dutch architecture, and both stone and wood were used in
its construction. It was named in honor of the Dutch Queen Wilhel-
mina, and a corner suite on the second floor was furnished especially
for Her Majesty. It had a fireplace and here in the hills a fireplace

128 Hurrah for Arkansas!

on the second floor is not only rare, but practically unknown. Few
women want to carry wood upstairs!

The hotel was the scene of great gaiety. People came from far and
near to enjoy its gracious hospitality. The train stopped at a station
called Rich Mountain, and there men and women mounted little don
keys and rode to the mountaintop in style. As we swept up to it in her
car, Mrs. St. John recalled a picnic she had enjoyed there. She had been
one of a party of young people who had risen at 4:00 A.M. on a summer
day and taken the train to Rich Mountain. There they missed connec
tions with the donkeys for some reason, and the party had to walk up
the mountain.

"It wasn t a road like this," said Mrs. St. John, indicating the com
parative smoothness of the gravel way. "It was merely a trail through
the woods, and practically straight up, it seemed to us."

The picnic party arrived at the hotel and spent a delightful day. The
time came for them to make the evening trip down the mountain to
the station where they would catch the train back to Mena. They must
have been weary. The boys brought around a wagon which was the
forerunner of the station wagon of today, a good old Studebaker, and
took the girls down in bone-wracking comfort. They found the train
was late. The hours went on! The train was still later! The picnic
dragged on interminably. They finally reached home at 4:00 A.M.
making it the longest picnic on record, exactly twenty-four hours.

Today the Wilhelmina Inn is reached by following Skyway Drive,
which is a continuation of Mena s Main Street, Those fifteen miles
will take kinks out of the most careworn body, the most harassed mind.
In places the drive reaches the height of 2,800 feet, but the roadway
climbs so gradually that even the prairie driver may scoot right along.
"Scoot" is hardly the word, for even the person accustomed to moun
tain scenery, like this Arkansas Traveler, has to stop and stop and stop
to drink in the vistas which lie on either side of the road. Here in
the Ouachita National Forest are some of the most impressive views
that one finds in all Arkansas! Even in mid- July, when the world
burned under a copper sun, the soft blue haze swathed cool-looking

r -

Rice is the white, gold of Arkansas Grand Prairie. Hard pan holds water
pumped into the fields during the growing season. Scene showing threshing
o rice.

The Quachitas, with a Suite for a Queen 129

green hills and valleys under an incredibly blue sky. The whole scene
seemed a painting that one might hang over a mantel.

High above the world, with puffy white clouds in an azure sky, and
soft green clover underfoot, were the windswept ruins of the majestic
old building that once contained a suite fit for a queen. It was a pitiful
sight. Stark chimneys loomed above ten-foot fireplaces that had fur
nished romantic light and practical heat in the ninety-foot dining
room where gay crowds danced throughout the mountain nights. The
kitchen and butler s pantry could still be traced in the skeleton wreck.
In the great cement-floored cellar that had stored hotel supplies lay a
small, very dead skunk which must have fallen into the ruins and
finally starved to death in his open-air prison, leaving only a faint
ghostly odor to remind one of his lonely last hours.

One wing of the inn still stood locked and forbidding, with shutters
so tightly closed that I couldn t see what wreckage time had made of
the interior. About it were terraces, inviting small woods animals to
play in the shadow of the ghostly pillars when the moon rode high.
Only the moon, the sun, the trees, the soft summer rains and the wild
sweeping winter storms remained faithful to the palace that was built
on a mountaintop.

Even in its heyday, Wilhelmina Inn knew little loyalty. In spite of
all the money and effort that went into its construction, it was used
but a few years historians say only three years. The reasons given
for its sudden decline range from the possible to the ridiculous.

"It was built right at the close of an era, when people would accept
outdoor plumbing and other inconveniences without question," said
Mrs. St. John. "Then all of a sudden everyone began to be scornful of
them!"

Perhaps the burro and the Studebaker wagon lost their rural charm
after three years, and no one cared to make a return trip.

A story popularized by groceryman-author Konkler has given a more
fantastic reason. The wife of one of the high railroad officials, so it
goes, brought her little dog with her to the hotel. At mealtime she
insisted on taking the dog to the table and feeding it bits from her

130 Hurrah for Arkansas!

plate. It was a well-behaved dog that conducted itself in a very genteel
manner at all times, and possibly its table manners were no worse than
many a guest s. But a dog had never been given such attention in
Arkansas. The management of the hotel protested that it should be
fed from a pan on the floor, or out in the back yard, as mountain dogs
were, and still are, fed. The lady refused, but definitely! Someone tried
to break the stalemate by wiring her husband. Back came the reply:
"WHATEVER MY WIFE SAYS, GOES!" That was that!

The management, to the last man and boy, packed their bags, shook
down the fires in the big kitchen range, emptied the water out of
pitchers in the bedrooms, and departed. The guests, including the
woman with the pet dog, had no recourse but to follow, since this was
before the time when guests would pitch in and keep a hotel going after
the help moved out. The doors of the fabulous Wilhelmina Inn were
closed, and that was the end of its glory.

In other years other owners and other managers took the hotel over,
but its glamour was lost. No longer did the rich and famous come to
sit on its moonlit terraces or dance on the smooth, firclit floors. But
somehow, even in ruins, it retained for me an air of majestic aloofness,
wearing its scarf of mountain haze as an impoverished old woman, once
the town s richest, might wrap a moth-eaten fur cape about her shoul
ders and go down to a cafeteria to lunch.

Perhaps the whole history of Mena might have been different if the
Queen of the Netherlands had come to visit at Wilhelmina Inn. And
who knows ? the history of Holland might have been different. If she
had come in her youth, she might have found a young Arkansas lad
who liked to ride a burro, to dance in the firelight and to hold hands
on a moonlit terrace, even with a queen! And now, instead of being
burdened with the cares of a war-weary empire, she might be helping
Norma Lee Crawford run the Mena Chamber of Commerce. Not that
Norma Lee needs help but wouldn t a queen impress small boys?

XI

Where Arkansas fleets Texas

IF YOU, too, still cherish the Schoolcraft idea that all
homes in ArkaAsas are shacks sitting in the midst of straggling scrub
oaks, you are definitely in for a surprise when you come to Texarkana!

One Sunday noon at a smart roadside eating place a young couple
sat in the booth ahead of me. I could see them from the waists up,
and as always when I see well-dressed young couples, I silently admired
their good taste. Dressing up for Sunday is a nice custom in my
opinion. When the man arose to pay the bill, I noticed his shoes. They
were high-heeled cowboy boots of fancy design. Ah! The glorious
West!

The broad streets make Texarkana a motorist s joy, but the low
buildings of the business district, spread out over a wide area, must
put a strain on one who shops on foot. Only a few of the buildings
reach the height of six stories; others rarely top the two-story level

Dominating the entire town of Texarkana is the post office which
sits squarely on the line between Arkansas and Texas. It is a beautiful
building in itself, and its beauty is accented by the avenue leading to it.
Traffic flows toward it, then divides and encircles it, to meet again. It
looks like a figure in a square dance.

The monument dedicated to the mothers of Confederate soldiers,
which stands in front of the Federal Building, is the most photogenic
spot in the city. Photograph it both against the blue sky and with the
Federal Building in the background, if you take kodachromes. While

131

132 Hurrah for Arkansas!

you are there, be sure to memorize the inscription: "O Great- Confed
erate mothers, we would faint your names on monuments that men
may read them as the years go by and tribute pay to you, who bore and
nurtured hero sons and gave them solace on that darkest day when
they came home with broken swords and guns!

It is a forty-nine-word chant of grief for the South that is gone. A
new South is rising in its place, and I am proud to be a part of it.

Texarkana has parking meters on the streets, but they are shut off
at 6:00 P.M. This is well, for the movie houses are good, and one is
likely to forget the meter that gnaws the minutes away. Traffic laws
are not fussy; otherwise I would have been arrested at least twice. In
finding my way about the city I turned wrong fairly often, but no one
flagged me down or even glared at me. Perhaps lawbreakers have
always been so common in Texarkana that one more or less makes little
difference.

Back in the old days the region was the haven of gamblers, adven
turers, cattle rustlers, war-weary soldiers, settlers looking for cheap
lands and just plain ordinary tramps of both sexes. They fought like
stray dogs and preyed on both legitimate citizens and one another.

As the West was tamed, Texarkana gradually settled down. Of
course, occasional flare-ups in lawlessness occur, but where is the city
that does not have them?

State Line Avenue in Texarkana follows the border, but many of
the streets are laid out along the Missouri Pacific tracks. The town
grew from construction camps set up at the western end of the Cairo
& Fulton (now the Missouri Pacific) Railroad and at the eastern ter
minus of die Texas & Pacific. Then in 1882 the Texas & St. Louis
Railway, now the St. Louis Southwestern, came through and Tex-
arkana s future as an important commercial center was assured.

Timber and agriculture have contributed to its success in the past,
and now the oil fields which creep up to its borders put many a dollar
into the cash registers of its merchants.

Although Texarkana is really two towns, with separate school sys
tems, police and fire departments and governments, it makes a single

Texarkana Where Arkansas Meets Texas 133

town of more than average wealth. Four railroads naturally render it
an important travel center, and its well-marked highways swing thou
sands of tourists through its broad streets.

Factories and warehouses provide employment for many of the 3,500
Negroes who make their home in Texarkana, but the larger proportion
are in domestic service. Negro sections are in the outskirts of the city
where they have their own schools, churches and hospital.

As one who grew up in a town one-fourth of which was in Missouri
and the other three-fourths in Iowa, this Arkansas Traveler was nat
urally interested in finding how two states handled the matter of crime
and arrest. Someone could shoot a fellow in a saloon on the Missouri
side of our old town, hop across the sidewalk into Iowa and thumb his
nose at the officers of the law as they carried out the body. It took
collaboration between Des Moines and Jefferson City to arrange mat
ters, and by that time the accused had sold his team and wagon and
taken out for the West, where he stayed until he got homesick. Some
times that was only a couple of weeks, but one man held out for fifty
years. When he returned, his identity could not be established, and he
lived to the end of his days a stone s throw from the scene of his crime.

Texas and Arkansas police have worked out an efficient arrangement
for getting their man simply and quickly. They can make arrests on
either side of the border. If the day is warm and the police officer does
not feel like a chase, he can phone to his fellow policemen across the
line and ask them to pick up the culprit.

Membership in the Texarkana Chamber of Commerce, businessmen s
clubs and other civic organizations are made up from both sides. All
boosting is done in the name of the city and not on the basis of indi
vidual states. In population the Texas side has the edge by perhaps
5,000.

Several good tourist courts are available at Texarkana. The Lane had
been suggested to me, and I found it comfortable in spite of the heat
of the day. Or perhaps I should say, of the week, since it was one of
those times when Brother Williford, weatherman at Station KWTO,
was fairly weeping into the mike over the long siege of high tempera-

134 Umrah for Ar $&&&*$!

tone. And he was up in the hills hundreds of miles north of Tex-

The Lane Tourist Court had a window fan that whirred busily
Aroiigii0t& the night and in time became a familiar noise like the
hum of tfac oil burner or the electric refrigerator which pass unnoticed
while the buzz of a mosquito brings us out of a sound sleep. The fan
cut down the cloying heat of the room by thrusting it out into the
garage occupied by the car of my next-door neighbor. The garage in
which my car stood received the heat from my neighbor s room. It
gaire me a onions feeling of familiarity, although I neither saw nor
heard him.

The tourist cottage had an electric refrigerator and a dinette table,
bill: none of the other common kitchen trappings like stove, sink or
dishes. Somewhere between Hope and Hot Springs I had acquired a
small basket of large, tree-ripened peaches and a sizable box of fresh
igs. By the time I readied Texarkana they had become limp and
soggy, exhausted, like their owner, by the heat. I took them from the
car, put them in the refrigerator overnight, and the next morning
%rery mouthful of the cool fresh fruit gave southern Arkansas an
other boost in my estimation!

When this Arkansas Traveler approached Texarkana and spotted all

Ae beautiful farmhouses with white-painted fences, the wonder grew

that anyone could ever think Arkansas had only cabins for dwellings.

Here were places that smacked of OP Virginny, suh, with a touch of

Barrington, Illinois, and Sedalia, Missouri, to boot. When I hinted to a

dozen people throughout a stretch of fifty or sixty miles that I would

be completely desolated if I didn t get into one of those country places,

everyone mentioned a particular home as a Must-See. It was the farm

stead of Arthur Helms. Somebody told me I could find Mr. Hdbos s

brother at the Texas liquor store, and from there I would be on my

own in getting out to the Helms place. At the Texas liquor store I was

told the brother was at the Arkansas liquor store which is a sample

of the way things go in a town split down the middle by a state line.

Texarfona Where Arkansas Meets Texas 135

Both liquor stores were owned by Arthur Helms, who also owned the
farm, but he seemed to find the farm more fun. According to word
at both stores, he rarely came into town except on business.

Could I phone out to the farm? Sorry, but I must know how the
phone business is. They didn t have a phone! It would be all right if
I went out to the farm, they saidjust a matter of six miles, right on
the highway. I couldn t miss it.

Indeed I couldn t! Just after the speedometer showed six miles, I saw
a lush pasture on the right, and a big sign bearing the picture of a
bull, fullface, told me it was Pasture No. 4 of the Helms Hereford
Farm. Then in succession I passed Pastures No. 3 and No. 2. At the
gate on the left, which led to great barns, the sign told me it was Pas
ture No. 1 and gave me the good news that Visitors Are Welcome.
Across the road from the barns was a white country house with a
screened porch and green shutters. From the gate I reached the house
by driving past a solid bank of crepe myrtle, bearing feathery wands of
delicate pink blossoms. I hesitated a long time before sending my dusty
little blue car along that avenue. Maybe the mistress of that beautiful
home was entertaining; maybe I d find a porchful of guests in cool
white linen or pastel sheers sipping long cool drinks of fruit juice
laced with something out of the liquor store. I would go in all grubby
and soiled from a day s driving, and even if they offered me a drink
I couldn t take it, because alcohol gives me hives. Then I realized that
I could see just one car ahead in the big garage, and none in the
driveway. I looked around for little one-woman planes, but could
see none of them either, so maybe there were no guests after all. I
drove along the bank of flowers, parked my car and went to the front
door. No one was on the porch. After a moment a blond woman
in a cotton playsuit came to the door. She was Mrs. Helms, and I
liked her at once.

The Helms Hereford Farm is as far removed from the forty acres
and house-in-good-repair which one reads about in Arkansas real-
estate advertisements as day is from night. Mr. Helms has 1,280 acres
on which he raises registered cattle. Most of the cattle he sells to other

136 Hurrah for Arkansas!

breeders. Herefords, in case your bovine education has been neglected,
are dark red with white faces. They are built along the lines of a
brick schoolhouse, square-cornered and close to the ground, with a
massiveness that makes a cow-shy Traveler just a bit wary unless there
is a good fence between the animal and herself.

At the times my notes were taken Mr. Helms had 165 registered
cows and bred heifers. I am sure the number was increased within
the next twenty-four hours, for the small amount of knowledge I have
gained in cowology told me that some were scheduled for motherhood
mighty soon. Mr. Helms gets an average of $150 for calves a year old.
At a sale of cattle the year before, breeders had come from all over the
country and the bidding ran higher than the proverbial cat s back. One
old-timer listened to the bidding, then spat a mouthful of tobacco juice
on the closely clipped lawn and said, "Good Lord A mighty, I couldn t
git that f r my oP woman!"

Of the 400 acres comprising the farm 275 were in corn. The preced
ing year Mr. Helms had planted hybrid corn, G46, and produced
seventy-two bushels to the acre. This year he expected to do better.
He had planted 7-11, and like the G46 almost every stalk had two
ears. However, the ears were all a little bigger, so he was convinced
the yield would be larger.

A great many tourists pass the bountiful cornfields, then stop at the
house to ask Mr. Helms if he is from Iowa. Somehow they get the idea
that a man from Iowa can produce Iowa-type corn wherever he may
choose to plant it. I gathered that Mr. Helms was not exactly insulted
by such questions which speaks well for Iowa. Well, southern Arkan
sas has an edge on Iowa in the matter of climate if hardly in soil. At
the Helms Hereford Farm, corn may be planted up to the middle of
July and still produce a crop.

Forty acres of the Helms farm were in cotton. They would produce
a bale to the acre. Mr. Helms was not particularly proud of this record.
"At Blytheville they get two bales to the acre/ he said, with a trace
of wistfulness. The difference is that boll weevils must be fought in
the Texarkana region. When the summer is dry, they may be fought

Texar^ana Where Arkansas Meets Tex&s 137

with fair success. The plants are sprayed with arsenic by an eight-
row duster. But when a rainy spell comes on, the dust is washed off
and the boll weevils have their fun without restriction*

Besides the corn and cotton Mr. Helms and his helpers had put out
four acres of fall tomatoes, which would bring between 500 and 600
bushels an acre. Fall tomatoes bring better prices than spring ones.
They can be picked up to Thanksgiving, and then the vines may be
pulled and put in the shed and the Helms family and helpers will enjoy
fresh tomatoes up to Christmas. Cantaloupes, watermelons* eggplant,
cauliflower, parsnips, Brussels sprouts, collards and all the other fanuliar
garden products grew in the Helms gardens. Many of them have
produced two crops each year in this long season even of potatoes and
onions. In fact, the fall garden is one of the most important food
supplies, even in northern and central Arkansas.

Don t let me minimize the importance of the spring crop. One cl
the Helms neighbors, Kelly Budd, thirty-six, of Ogden Switch, had
shipped out sixty cars of sweet corn (roasV ears, we call them) during
the preceding weeks, starting the fifteenth of June and ending on the
Fourth of July. This brought him a reported $3Q,QOQ, and he still had
the cornstalks to make ensilage for his beef cattle. That was the second
year young Mr. Budd had tried this project. In the first he shipped out
twenty-six cars. *

Sweet corn is not an easily produced crop. Mr. Budd kept eight
tractors going night and day during the season, and he was down to
skin and bones when the last ear of corn was shipped of! to Northern
markets.

This young farmer is proof that ideas pay. He is the son of a truck
farmer at Ogden Switch, and while still a youngster he went with his
father to take produce to market. He got acquainted with produce
men, learned about the crying yearly need for good roasting ears, and
as soon as he could build up his farm equipment, he started growing
them. The variety of sweet corn is the delicious lowanna.

Mr. Helms preferred raising livestock to farming. His cattle grazed
on the luxuriant pastures till Christmas. In late July, under a burning

138 Hurrah for Arkansas!

sun, hay was being cut in the pastures where the fat cattle were
grazing! From Christmas to March, a hundred days according to Mr*
Helms s calculation, the grazing they picked up in the fields must be
supplemented with cottonseed or soybean cake and hay. This is re
markably cheap*

"I figure it doesn t cost over six dollars a head to winter a beef cow,"
said Mr. Helms.

The water supply at the Helms farm was more than abundant. Two
deep wells supplied the house and barns. In the pastures two large
lakes supplied the livestock and added picturesqueness to the land
scape. One of the lakes covered forty acres, and provided fine bass
fishing for the Helms family and guests. A few years ago the lake was
stocked with 25,000 young bass. After that, when the Helms gave a fish
fry, they caught the fish in their own lake and took them to the house,
where they were fried over the outdoor fireplace. Then the fish were
eaten outdoors, hot out of the frying kettle, in the open air, exactly the
way all fried fish should be eaten.

Only two so-called share croppers or tenant farmers lived on the
Helms place, and they made excellent neighbors. The rest of the work
was done by day workers. As a rule, share croppers were too much
trouble, said the Helmses. Their tenant farmers had a pasture in which
they ran their own cattle and seemed to live a complete farm life of
their own.

In addition to the Herefords which would be sold to other breeders,
and the beef cattle, which were periodically raised, eight Jerseys were
maintained on the Helms farm for the milk supply.

Mr. Helms owned Golden Jim, a Palamino stallion which was the
pride of his life. Eight Palamino mares and eight golden Palamino
colts were feeding on the green pastures.

Across the road from the beautiful country home Mrs. Helms and I
found the major-domo of the stables at work prettying up a half-dozen
Herefords for the fair at Springfield, Missouri. With Raindrops and
Duz he was washing the faces and white forequarters of the square-

Texarfana Where Arkansas Meets Texas 139

at-the-corners animals. I they minded it, it did no good, for Mr. A.
Virdon had been dealing with animals long enough to know how to
get the upper hand, and keep it. Mr. Virdon was born in Middlesex,
England. At the age of fourteen he led his first grand champion into
the ring of the International Stock Show at Caledonian Road, Islington.
At forty-six he came to America, and from that time on had been
associated continuously with agricultural colleges and the finest stock
farms in the nation. According to him, he had never taken an animal
into the stock-show ring that " adn t taken ribbons."

Mr. Virdon s personal life had been as surprising as his professional
career. He was a cautious chap when it came to matrimony, and not
until he was fifty-eight had he found a girl who measured up to his
specifications for a wife. Perhaps he kept a score card for women, as
judges do for show animals. At any rate he married a young woman
with the strength, vigor and good looks that proved he was a good
judge of human beings as well as animals. At seventy-six, the wiry
little Englishman had a tall, handsome son sixteen years old to help
him in his work after school hours, and at home there was a pretty
ten-year-old girl who was her daddy s pride and joy. Mr. Virdon told
us about them as he showed us through the big red barns with the
white yard fences. But at the moment they were second in importance
to the animals that he was grooming for the fairs at Springfield and
Sedalia. He pointed out the beauty of Teddy Domino, born just a year
before, which would undoubtedly carry off blue ribbons at the stock
show.

"Look at im," said Mr. Virdon, beaming like a proud grandpa.
"Beef right down to is ocks."

Another was H. Bucinta the First, half brother of a $50,000 bull that
belonged to the Lazy D Ranch in Oklahoma. Then there was the
seven-months-old "*al brother" of Teddy, and another which Mr.
Virdon caressed with gentle hands, as he said, "I like this little gur-rl
here!" She was a beauty deep red and soft, shining white, with long
eyelashes curling over dark eyes.

Mr. Virdon ran his hand down her broad level back. "See what

140 Hurrah for Arkansas!

your rolling pin did!" he said to Mrs. Helms. "It loosens the ide!"

He explained how he had massaged the backs of the show animals
with the rolling pin to give the hide a loose, rippling effect. Mrs.
Helms said it wasn t necessary to return the rolling pin to the kitchen.
Fortunately she had a second one, a glass rolling pin, she said.

We strolled to another pen to look at twins, stocky, sturdy animals
that made me think I was seeing double. Then we went on to still
another to see three more eifers and a cow, and I learned that a great
many of the Hereford mothers give so little milk they cannot nurse
their own babies. At the Helms farm nurses were provided for fancy-
priced Hereford babies.

Seven barns made up the animal buildings of the farm, most of them
built of lumber from trees cut right on the farm. Then there were a
blacksmith shop, an implement barn, a mule house. And down in a far
pasture, a hospital barn stood in its own pasture beneath a giant pecan
tree.

Trees grew to mammoth size on this beautiful farm. The land was
rich in limestone, which made it valuable in the production of rich
pastures for raising cattle. On the lawns about the big white house
Mrs. Helms helped me identify the trees and shrubbery, for many of
them were unknown to one who lived in northern Arkansas. A bush
beside the kitchen door had clusters of blossoms that glowed like flame
in the sunshine. They were pomegranates. Fig trees, laurels, pecans,
peaches; pears and apples were growing in the lawn and garden. At
the rear of the house, beside the long, screened back porch, Mrs. Helms
had gardenias and cape jessamine bushes for her dooryard shrubbery.
Beside the smokehouse, where she kept the trappings that went with
the outdoor barbecue pit, she had a garden of tuberoses. Altheas in
pink, blue and white, crepe myrtle in rose pink and golden-tipped
Nandina bushes formed the background for the rose garden beyond
the driveway.

At the rear of the lawns the chicken yard was frosted with the white
of a couple of hundred fryers which had been raised under electric
brooders for the Helms table. While I watched, Myrtle, a little

Texarfana Where Arkansas Meets Texas 141

colored woman, came out and caught two of the biggest chickens.
Then, so quickly it seemed to take only a moment^ she had scalded
them, ripped off the feathers and had the fowls ready for the refrigera
tor. As she went out to the incinerator, she was followed by a flufFy
yellow cat, intent only on the pan Myrtle was carrying, although a big
mockingbird continuously swooped and dived at his back, obviously
paying off an old score. When Myrtle had the chickens in the re
frigerator, she picked up a milk bucket and went out to milk a couple
of the Jerseys for household use. I tried to curb my all-enveloping envy
for the feminine Admirable Crichton but with little luck!

Inside the big house evidences o careful planning were everywhere.
The spacious living room, the picture window in the dining room, the
ample pantry off the large kitchen and the family sitting room next to
the kitchen, I recognized from experience as examples of architectural
wisdom.

Mrs. Helms said she could take no credit for them, since she hadn t
wanted to move to the country in the first place. The house had been
built on another location several miles off, but it proved "so far away
from everything" that even Mr. Helms couldn t take it, in spite of his
devotion to farm life. They tore the house apart, carried the materials
to the new location and rebuilt it. It was even more successful than
Mr. Helms had dared hope. Except for ten feet of hardwood flooring,
all the materials that went into the first house could be re-used.

Although Mrs. Helms was not completely in sympathy with the
move to the farm, she has certainly done her part toward putting
beauty and livable comfort into the house. Many of the beautiful bed
spreads and other interior-decorating treasures came from her sewing
machine or were whipped up by her nimble fingers. Her collection of
salt and pepper shakers added interest to several rooms.

Fortunately, Mrs. Helms had the hospitable spirit that goes with a
country home. In the corner room upstairs her husband could entertain
his friends to his heart s content. The big room had a fireplace, a com
fortable davenport and man-style chairs, and all the necessary equip-

142 Hurrah for Ar~kan$asl

ment for making and mixing drinks. Although Mr. Helms owned two
liquor stores he drank very sparingly and Mrs. Helms, since a fairly
recent operation, had been a teetotaler. However, for guests there was
everything the heart could desire even to sparkling ice water.

After the November sale Mr. Helms had had a stag supper for
out-of-town buyers who came to Texarkana especially for the fine ani
mals which had gone on the block that day. Mrs. Helms prepared
barbecued chicken, baked potatoes, hot apple and mince pies. Then
she put bowls of cherries and lemons, buckets of ice and botdes of
soda water within easy reach, and after a final look around to see that
all was well, she retired to her own room with a good book. After all,
she had had a busy day. With the help of the wife of one of the
tenant farmers, she had served a free lunch to more than 600 people.
Thirty gallons of coffee had been made in great vats. Coleslaw and
potato salad had been made by the tubful. The piece de resistance of
the lunch was a great barbecued beef cooked over a pit of live coals
prepared by one of the men who work on the place. A tent was set up
near the barns where the auction was taking place, paper plates were
stacked head-high on the counters, and when noontime came, there
was a meal that rivaled anything the guests could buy in town, ten
miles away even to cookies for dessert.

"We had a barrel of fun," said Mrs. Helms. "Although it was the
nineteenth of November, it was a warm, sunny day and no wraps were
needed."

Yes, Texarkana must be a nice place in which to live. And maybe
one might find another Myrtle there to help make life completely
beautifujL

XII

The De Queen Bee Tells All]

THE Arkansas Traveler who motors north from Tex-
arkana conies into De Queen, the town with the newspaper, De Queen
Bee.

Since 1897 the De Queen Bee has been published by a series o own
ers, but none of them has allowed the paper to miss a single issue. The
companion paper of the Bee, the De Queen Citizen, is a daily news
paper. Both are the property of Wallace Burns, publisher and editor, a
hard-working citizen who took time to spend a Sunday afternoon in
his office with me across the desk asking questions.

"Nobody ever leaves this country permanently unless he dies," said
the De Queen editor, and meant every word of it. "Sometimes they
go away but they always drift back!" Not if they have to stay in that
tourist court where I m installed, I added to myself, but of course I
didn t say anything like that to Editor Burns. I sat quietly and listened
while he told of the 50,000 pounds of poultry shipped out weekly, of
the strawberries, radishes, tomatoes, cucumbers and other garden truck
that go out of the country each week headed for cities.

At one time the greatest orchards in Arkansas were located near De
Queen. One peach orchard covered 5,000 to 6,000 acres between Hora
tio and De Queen. This was known as the American Orchard. Then
the Highland Orchard was set out on the hillside, covering several
thousand acres. That was in the good old days, however, when spray
ing was unknown. When more and more orchards were planted, and

143

144 Hurrah for Arkansas!

pests began to make greater headway, near ruin came to the orchards.
The fruit growers hadn t been educated to spraying, and as the seasons
went on, bugs took over the trees. However, the region about Nashville
is still considered one o the prominent peach-growing districts of
Arkansas.

Editor Burns told of the good business that De Queen merchants
enjoy throughout the year. In ten years, he said, he had never seen an
empty building on the square! Even during the depression of the thir
ties, no business failures occurred. He had a vision of a splendid
future for De Queen, for more and more farmers who had been content
with just a mule and a cow or two were now taking up livestock raising
in a big way. During the preceding five years, it had taken a strong
hold on the country, and in the years to come Editor Burns thinks
Sevier County will make great strides.

He told me of an oddity. De Queen, he said, was a strictly gentile
town. Only one Jewish man lived there, and he was a member of the
Baptist Church.

Before I left the Bee office I almost said hive Editor Burns gave me
a copy of the Arkansas Centennial Edition he had published ten years
before, along with several recent copies of the lively little paper. I
didn t try to read them that night. The blinds didn t cover the tourist-
cottage windows, so I couldn t read in bed, and I was too tired to sit
up, after killing time by seeing two movies. Then I found that
the cozy eating place just behind my cabin had what was laughingly
called curb service. Actually, the customers blew the waitresses out
of the building by the force of their horns! Then, after giving the
order, they sounded the horn at intervals to ask them how the ham
burger was coming along, or to come back with another coke. The
horns and waitresses seemed to speak a language all their own, but long
before the wee small hours I could understand it quite well. I could
even estimate to the second how long it would be after a particularly
vigorous blast until I would hear the customer speak cuss words care
fully modulated to the ear of his feminine companion. After another

The De Queen Bee Tells All! 145

moment a car door would slam as he went in "after them dam* sand
wiches, b God." At last the cars were all gone and I saw the lights of
the eating place go out. I had pulled my bed across one door and had
put a chair under the knob of the other, because neither door had a key,
and wearily I settled myself for a summer-night nap.

In an instant a dull roll of thunder and a brilliant flash of lightning
brought me up with a start. In any rain the front end of my car
floods, as maybe I have mentioned, unless the engine runs constantly.
The rear deck also leaks. To have it happen now would be a calamity.
I had the rear filled with character dolls, extra clothes and all the yard
goods I could buy from Sears, Roebuck in Little Rock.

I arose, dressed and went out to the car. By manipulating it as best
I could, I was able to get its nose under the shelter, taking the paint off
only one fender. The manager had said that great big trucks were able
to park under that shelter! Flashlight in hand, I investigated. One of
the posts had been knocked galley-west. It must have happened the
night a "great big truck" got itself under. Then I carefully unloaded
all the boxes and packages from the rear of the car, carried them into
the cabin, put the chair under the doorknob again, undressed and went
to sleep. When I awoke the next morning, I found that not one drop
of rain had fallen.

Weeks later I opened the Centennial Edition and read the headline
on Section D: DE QUEEN TYPICAL FRONTIER TOWN IN EARLY DAYS . . .
SETTLEMENT KNOWN AS CALAMITY PRIOR TO 1897. What could one ex
pect of a town that began life with a name like that?

That Centennial Edition is a lesson in the history of early Sevier
County. Settlements were few in the western part of the state. But a
store, a saloon and a few other buildings had sprung up along the East
Towson Road. When the Kansas City Southern Railway came
through, these buildings were about halfway between the roundhouse
and the north part of the yard. The setdement was known as Hurrah
City. Another community was established facing the railroad near the
present site of the Clements Hotel It was about on a par with the

146 Hurrah for Arkansas!

first one, a few stores and a saloon doing a thriving business. For
some reason the settlement was called Calamity, Each of the two
settlements wanted to be the nucleus of the town the railroad was
planning to build. For some reason Calamity was chosen.

How this town received the quaint name of De Queen is an Ozark
legend. It goes back to the building of the Kansas City Southern. Long
before it was completed it was tie over rail in debt. Through some
connection which I have not been able to establish, a group of Dutch
capitalists came to the aid of the struggling little railroad. They were
represented in this country by a J. de Goeijen. When the railroad
was finished, Mr. de Goeijen was told that he might have the privilege
of naming some of the new towns that had sprung up along the track.
Overnight Calamity citizens found they were living in a town called
De Goeijen. I wish I had been around to hear them try to pronounce
it. For a long time the citizens tried hard to say De Goo-ween, Finally
it was shortened to De Queen, and when the settlement was incor
porated by an order of the county court on June 3, 1897, it was for
mally so named.

The town grew rapidly, but disaster struck in earnest just two years
later. On the night of Sunday, October 1, 1899, all but three of its
fifty business houses were destroyed by fire. In 1909 another fire de
stroyed the Dierks Sawmill, which was a severe blow. However, the
company still maintains general offices and operates a large retail lum
ber mill in De Queen.

The finger of calamity that touched all towns during the depression
was particularly tough on its old namesake, despite the fact no busi
ness buildings were empty. In the center of the square stood the
framework of a fine new courthouse begun in 1930. The proceeds of
the bond issue for it were promptly tied up when a certain bank
closed in Little Rock, and for two years it seemed they were lost
forever to Sevier County. The framework became a veritable bat
roost, and the rickety ruins had the depression practically sitting in the
laps of people who might otherwise have been able to ignore it. Then

De Queen Bee Tells All! 147

all the lawyers in De Queen had a conference with County Judge
Custer Steel. They decided to make a fight for the funds. Today a
handsome building stands in the center of the square as the result ot
their consistent co-operative scrapping.

Through the years the sting of Calamity grew less sharp. New De
Queen is a prosperous little town, with thriving communities all about
it. In the Bee I noted that correspondents had sent in news from
Mineral, King, Central, Stringtown, Frog Level, Horatio, Nettle Hill,
Silver Ridge, Lone Oak, Bella Creek, Cane Creek, Avon, Walnut
Springs, West Otis, Kingree s Chapel, Ultima Thule, Wright s Chapel,
Beacon Hill, Fall s Chapel, Geneva, Lyons, Rock Hill, Woffords
Chapel, Gillham, Kellum, Cowlingville, Union, Norwoodville, New
Bethel, Provo and Lockesburg. The Silver Ridge correspondent was
my favorite. Apparently he had been on the job for a long time, since
the literary style of the items from that community dated October 22,
1936, was exactly the same as in the most recent issue. In the ten-
year-old paper he wrote, under the heading SILVER RIDGE (COLORED) :

Our Sunday school fell off several points last Sunday but
the squirrel hunting in the Saline bottoms was in full blast as
we could hear the guns shooting just like week days or the war
in Spain , These lawbreakers are not friends of society and
should be prosecuted.

The writer had a question that he wished some Bible student would
answer. He worded it carefully.

One of our citizens got tanked up on liquor in our city and
did some tall boasting and the law cooled him off with his
club. The other citizen came home in the late afternoon from
Church and ate too much peas with pot licker and the result
was a bad case of indigestion. Which one cimmitted [the spell
ing is the correspondent s] the worst crime?

148 Hurrah for Arkansas!

He

The masses dE our group of people just can t stand these
prosperous times. Just last year our school board asked for
bids on 30 ricks of wood and in three days the writer was
flooded with bids, but this year we have asked for bids on
forty ricks the second time and not one bid has come in yet.
Bot the trend will soon change, because the most of our people
arc living in Arkansas and boarding somewhere else and their
board is cash.

Ten years later, in the De Queen Bee dated Thursday, July 25, 1946,
the Items under the heading SILVER RIDGE (COLORED) read:

A million-dollar rain fell in this section last Friday after-
Boon, just in time to save the late crops.

Several of our high top folks have just about lost their dig
nity and gone on the begging list ... begging for lard, meat
and clodiing, with money to buy, but out of stock.

The writer marketed canteloupes in De Queen last week
and visited the new station and was surprised to see such a nice
Itmch room and seats to accommodate our group of people. I
am wondering, will our home people appreciate this favor to
the traveling public. I would like to see a sign in the colored
department to read: "No loafers allowed. Buy a ticket or get
out."

The Chapel Hill community, from which items come regularly to the
De Queen Bee, was the site of the first public school in Sevier County.
The building was made of hewed logs and had a puncheon floor. One
log was taken out the full length of the house. This served as a win
dow for the writing shelf. The students wrote with good goose-quill
pens as they pored over their great flourishes. The benches were made
of split logs. The fireplace, located in the end of the room, was eight
feet wide. The principal schoolbook was the Blue Back Speller. School
lasted about three months, and Teacher took "turn about** staying with
the families of various students. Now, under the system of consolida-

The De Queen Bee Tells All! 149

tion, a four-year accredited high school is available to every boy and
girl in the county, and the grade schools have made equal progress.

The Paraclifta Seminary, in 1862, had progressed to the point where
it could advertise in the Southwestern Democrat. The town got its
quaint name from an Indian chief. The advertisement is sms}} but
potent. It reads:

Paraclifta Seminary,

Samuel Stevenson, Principal,
Mrs. HL A. Owsley, Assistant,
Miss Fannie Pryor, Teacher of Music.
The Third Session of this Institution will commence
August the 4th and close December the 19th.
The Principal would return his most hearty thanks
for the very liberal patronage received; and, relying
upon Divine aid, will endeavor to merit the highest
degree of human confidence.
For terms, see circular.

From the Centennial issue of the De Queen Bee, I have gleaned one
of the ghost stories that are told in Arkansas on stormy nights when
the wind howls down the chimney. It was told by Laura D. Cole, of
Grannis, Arkansas, and is a good illustration of the way the past creeps
into the modern life of the state.

In 1849 litde Laura came to Arkansas. She lived with an uncle and
an aunt who had a daughter about her own age. One night soon after
her arrival, her uncle set out trotlines in the Cossatot River. The next
morning he awakened his daughter Genevieve and litde cousin Laura
very early so they might go to the river with him. They found a
fine catch on the hooks, and uncle decided to take some fish to the
home of a married son, who lived near the Rolling Fork Shoals ford.
The trio went up the riverbank, intending to cross Pigpen Bottom,
then return home past the Bayou schoolhouse. It was still early in one
of the beautiful gold, blue and green Arkansas days, and they were
enjoying the trip immensely.

150 Hurrah for Ar^a nsas I

However, when they entered the Bottom, little Laura became very
nervous. She shuddered and looked around, saying she had a strange
feeling. The others joked about it, and even Laura was able to smile
wanly. Suddenly, to the utter consternation o her companions, she
went into wild hysterics* Laura s uncle picked her up and hurried to
the road, where she soon recovered. She went on with the others,
probably very much ashamed of the scene she had made.

A few days later her uncle questioned her closely about the incident.
What had frightened her? Had she seen something terrifying? She
could say only that when she had turned the corner at the entrance,
she had a sensation of being surrounded by evil. This feeling in
creased to such an extent that she was suddenly overwhelmed by a
wave of fear and utter horror and lost all control of herself.

"Did you notice that pile of rocks on your right?" asked her uncle.

The little girl said she had seen no rocks, and asked what the rocks
had to do with her fright.

Ck They once formed the fireplace of a man who was killed at the
exact spot where you had hysterics/ he replied.

So, because a little girl was frightened, the story of the Pigpen Bot
tom mystery has been preserved through the years.

Long, long before little Laura was born, a gold mine on what be
came known as the Campbell tract was worked by Spaniards. During
that time, a bearded man from the Eastern settlements arrived with a
string of pack animals. The Spanish settlements lay toward the trading
point somewhere in the vicinity of Lockesburg. The man settled in the
bottom and, with help from the miners, built a fortresslike cabin. He
had no companion, but the excellent outfit carried by the pack animals
showed him to be a man of means and good taste.

He cleared land, which he farmed in summer, and in winter he ran
a trap line. He traded his furs for supplies at the Spanish trading
post, but when he was offered work in the mines, he refused. At no
time did he seek human companionship. In fact, when wayfarers
stopped at the log house to ask for a night s lodging or victuals, the
bearded man would slip from the house and hide until they had contin-

The DC Queen Bee Tells All! 151

ued on their way. Often weeks would pass during which no one caught
a glimpse of the strangely unsocial settler.

One day a party of hunters, white men and Indians, were passing
the cabin. No smoke came from the chimney and the odot of death
was all around. The door was closed, but the iatchstring was out.
The men went inside and found a strange scene. The white man had
been horribly mangled to death. The interior of the cabin had been
completely ransacked.

Although the murder was the talk of the countryside for years, no
one ever learned the identity of the bearded man, and no one had a
clue to the murderer who came and went unseen.

The uncle of Laura D. Cole was Dr. Ferdinand Smith, W!M> had
moved into the Falrview community in the early eighteen hundreds.
He had come from Frankford, Missouri, where he had been a prac
ticing physician. In Arkansas he resumed his practice and was soon
serving Choctaws and white settlers. He liked the study of geology,
and by tracing unmistakable signs he became convinced that the valley
of the Cossatot had sunk at least two feet in recent geological times.
He believed that he had uncovered enough evidence to prove that the
New Madrid earthquake, which occurred in 1811, had caused the
sinking. Naturally, with a mind like that, the traces of an old log
cabin there in Pigpen Bottom would pique his interest. Who had
accumulated the pile of rocks that had obviously been a fireplace at
one time? What had become of him? To all inquiries he got only
complete silence. Then at last an aged Indian told him the story, as
the tribe had heard it from Indians then living in Arkansas. Later,
from another source, he was able to verify the information. It must
have been a surprise to the good doctor when his small niece went
into hysterics at the old cabin site because she felt herself surrounded
by evil!

Where Wildcats Mean Wealth

IT is dollars to doughnuts you never dreamed so many
possibilities were wrapped up in Arkansas the state that gets nothing
but ridicule from her sisters. Look at the Riceland, the Cottonland,
the Timberland, the Land of Oil and Gas, the Wild West Land with
its great ranches and fine livestock, the Deep South, with its antiques
aad bitter memories, the Fruit-Producing Regions, and last but most
important to visitors, the Land o the Free and Fun-Loving Vacation
ists*

Mountains, valleys, rivers . . . diamonds, pearls, jasper * . . blue skies,
sunshine, fleecy clouds . . . springs and swift-flowing waterfalls * . .
minerals and metals here they are, in Arkansas.

You should wish to heaven this land were indeed filled with bare
footed, ignorant galoots, so you could come down here and get some
of this rich booty!

For instance, how would you like to have a baby wildcat in your
back yard? I mean, of course, a wildcat oil well.

One of the surprises that greet an Arkansas visitor is the presence of
gas and oil wells in impressive numbers. During the war, fuel oil was
not rationed in this state, and it was one time when Arkansans could
be doubly thankful for the bounty of their home state. Not that we
need any emergency to prod us into proper gratitude* * . . I just men
tion that in passing.

Of course, any sort of oil well in one s back yard would be vastly
exciting, but it seems to me that a wildcat well would put a lot more

152

Where Wildcats Main Wedth 153

zest Into the pride of ownership. You have a farm, let us say, ia
southern Arkansas. Scenically, it doesn t amount to much* in contrast
with the mountains of northern Arkansas. But suddenly you strike oil!
Cheers! Recently I ran into a mighty lively baby wildcat down in
southern Arkansas a very young baby, only twenty-four hours old, and
my head is still reeling from the figures that were tossed around. Even
T. V. Yates, the redheaded driller, was proud of the new arrival!
Since it is his business to go around the country making dreams come
true, or dashing fond hopes to earth, one might think oil wells would
be a dime a dozen to him. This new well will pump 200 barrels a day,
and, with oil at $120 a barrel, you can figure out what wealth this
represents.

Of course, the income from a well has to be divided several ways.
The state takes a hunk of it for taxes. The oil company that made the
gamble gets some, and of course, the man from whom the land was
leased for drilling purposes gets a share. Actually the landowner gets
one barrel out of eight, but that adds up to a right tidy sum, usually,
and he still has the surface of the land on which he can plant corn,
cotton or whatever was making his living before the redhead and his
rig moved onto his farm.

A wildcat, I was told, is an oil well that is suddenly discovered away
off by itself. The one I grew to know more or less intimately was
about thirty miles from Magnolia, and was all of twenty miles from its
nearest neighbor well. It was found on the land of Colonel Hi Moore,
U. S. Army (Ret.), and since the colonel has over 11,000 acres of land
there in the Red River bottom, plus a possible pension, an oil well
more or less in his life will hardly change his manner of living. How
ever, the appearance of that lively wildcat made oil leases in the vicinity
leap to five times their original value, and every farmer around was
solicited by enterprising real-estate purchasers. The reactions to some
of these offers were characteristically Arkansan.

One man, who owned a typical farm there, a scrubby, unbeautiful,
scraggly piece of the earth alternately too wet or tcfo dry, was offered
$50,000 for his land. He turned it down. He is holding out for $100,000.

154 Hurrah for Arkansas I

Another family were offered $80,000 for their farm. They turned it
down; said they didn t need the money. The barefoot children, in tat
tered overalls, went on gaily swinging in the old tire suspended from a
branch of the sweet gum tree. The husband backed his mule into
the shafts of the one-hoss plow, picked up his hoe and started out to
the cotton patch. His wife picked up her spading fork, went out to the
back end of the garden and resumed her digging. Until the cotton is
picked, she is supporting the family by selling worms to fishermen who
come to the river.

Now if you are mentally packing and moving down to southern
Arkansas on a get-rich-quick scheme, better sit back and think it over.
Even if you owned a piece of promising oil land, you couldn t expect to
go out in the back yard, stick a broomstick down in the earth and
then have to leap out of the way before the oil squirted in your eye. Oil
isn t found that way. It took thirty days of continuous day-and-night
digging to reach Colonel Moore s oil well. Three crews of four men
each worked in continuous rotation, while twenty to thirty carloads of
interested spectators sat around sweating it out. The crews made their
own electricity for lights, and operations never ceased.

Actually it was not such a gamble as one might suppose. Crews of
geophysical experts had gone over the land to determine if a dome in
the granite cap rock, far under the earth s surface, could be located.
When evidence pointed to one, the drilling rig was brought in and
young Yates and his men went to work. At 3,800 feet they struck that
cap rock, and although they could not be absolutely certain that oil lay
beneath it, oil is usually found in such circumstances, and hopes ran
high. When the drill reached sand, below the cap rock, they promptly
threw in a core to bring up a sample. While the sample of sand was
being analyzed, the drillers, according to Mr. Yates, just sat around,
waiting for orders.

At last the call came, saying "Go ahead." At 500 feet deeper they
were pumping oil.

The cost of drilling the well, in case you are thinking of giving your
wife one for Christmas, was $40,000. (Had it been a dry well, the cost

Where Wildcats Mcn Wealth 155

would have been a mere $25,000, for it would have been capped when
the samples were taken,) This is known as a cheap well, for the cost
of drilling often goes to $150,000, when the drills must be sunk to great
distances.

Throughout the digging the driller had been keeping a well log,
which describes all the layers through which the drill passed. After oil
was found in the Moore well, they ran an electrical well log which took
pictures of all the layers. The state of Arkansas requires this reading.

It seemed to me the state was sticking its nose into something ribat
was definitely a private matter, but both Mr. Yates and Willard H*
Land, who had come to the field to build tanks to hold the new oil,
defended it hotly. The state needs this log not only for tax experts, but
to help prevent fraud, in case one might be practiced Of course I am
sure fraud would never be perpetrated in Arkansas, by Arkansans, but
some oilmen might come in from other states! In the old days, I was
told, an unscrupulous owner would cap a lively young well at the
instant oil was found, proclaiming to the world with many a crocodile
tear that it was a "dry hole." Then very, very quietly, he would go
around, buying up, at bargain prices of course, all the land or leases
held by disappointed oil seekers in the vicinity. When he had a corner
on the land, he would uncap his hidden well and make a cleaning. The
electric well log shows whether or not oil is in a well, and the owner
cannot keep it a secret any more than if he told his wife s bridge club.

Although the Moore well had been shut off until the construction of
the tanks was completed, Mr. Yates and Mr. Land obligingly turned it
on so I could see the black oil gushing out of the two-inch pipe. It was
not what one might call an appetizing sight to a gal who had just
stopped in because she had never seen an oil well dose up. Just a
gooey black liquid being burped out into a poadlike pool that com
bined more of the black stuff with a thinner reddish liquid! However,
when I stood there remembering how I begged, borrowed and occa
sionally stole gas coupons during the late unlamented days of gasoline
rationing, the thought of 200 barrels a day being added to the world s
oil supply put a new complexion on that oil. And when I switched

156 H&rrah for Arkansas!

on my Imagination and pictured myself as Colonel Moore, soh, Band
ing these viewing my brand-new oil well, the pool positively became
beautiful.

Tbe reddish color, I was told, comes from the mod which is contiau-
ously circulated through the drill pipe during die drilling operations.
Tbe red color is not the true color of the mud, A chemical that Is put
in makes the gooey liquid this reddish-brown, like weak cocoa. The
raid is used to prevent wells blowing out, thereby cutting down the
crating news stories that once habitually came out of oil fields. It is
used quite scientifically, too, according to Mr. Yates. The mud weighs
eleven pounds to the gallon.

When oil is reached, the first flow is pumped into the pool, which
Mr. Yates called the slush pit, and the flow continues until the well
has "cleaned itself," in the oil-well patter. When the flow of oil Is nice,
smooth, dean black, instead of a reddish tinge, it is then clean enough
$> be directed into the tanks.

Mr. Land and his crew were working like mad to get the tanks ready.
It was not solely to start that one barrel in eight coming in for Colonel
Moore. Fact is, Mr. Land was a newlywed and was hurrying to get
back to his bride In Shreveport. The tanks seemed to have been de
signed for hurry-up construction. They had been manufactured in
sections which could be carried about on a workman s back, like a
gigantic metal wing. Holes ranged along the edge of the "wing"
provided an aid to lifting and transportation. Each workman carried
a pair of small Iron tools like emaciated stove-lid lifters, which he
could insert in the holes along the edge of the section, and away he
would go, a sort of mechanized angel!

When the tanks were ready, explained Mr. Land, the oil would be
directed into them, and they would act as reservoirs. Then the pipe
line would be brought in from the nearest point, which happened, in
this case, to be Garland City. Inside of a week oil from the new well
would be on its way to the refineries.

It seemed a businesslike, orderly procedure from first to last. Mr.
Yates, who had worked up from roughneck to driller and evidently

156 Hurrah for Arkansas!

on my imagination and pictured myself as Colonel Moore, suh, stand
ing there viewing my brand-new oil well, the pool positively became
beautiful.

The reddish color, I was told, comes from the mud which is continu
ously circulated through the drill pipe during the drilling operations.
The red color is not the true color of the mud. A chemical that is put
in makes the gooey liquid this reddish-brown, like weak cocoa. The
mud is used to prevent wells blowing out, thereby cutting down the
exciting news stories that once habitually came out of oil fields. It is
used quite scientifically, too, according to Mr. Yates. The mud weighs
eleven pounds to the gallon.

When oil is reached, the first flow is pumped into the pool, which
Mr. Yates called the slush pit, and the flow continues until the well
has "cleaned itself," in the oil-well patter. When the flow of oil is nice,
smooth, clean black, instead of a reddish tinge, it is then clean enough
to be directed into the tanks.

Mr. Land and his crew were working like mad to get the tanks ready.
It was not solely to start that one barrel in eight coming in for Colonel
Moore. Fact is, Mr. Land was a newlywed and was hurrying to get
back to his bride in Shreveport. The tanks seemed to have been de
signed for hurry-up construction. They had been manufactured in
sections which could be carried about on a workman s back, like a
gigantic metal wing. Holes ranged along the edge of the "wing"
provided an aid to lifting and transportation. Each workman carried
a pair of small iron tools like emaciated stove-lid lifters, which he
could insert in the holes along the edge of the section, and away he
would go, a sort of mechanized angel!

When the tanks were ready, explained Mr. Land, the oil would be
directed into them, and they would act as reservoirs. Then the pipe
line would be brought in from the nearest point, which happened, in
this case, to be Garland City. Inside of a week oil from the new well
would be on its way to the refineries.

It seemed a businesslike, orderly procedure from first to last. Mr.
Yates, who had worked up from roughneck to driller and evidently

Where Wildcats Mean Wealth 157

knew all about oil wells, assured me there was little gambling on
whether or not oil would be struck after the drilling operation is
started. Oil leaseholders don t start digging until they are pretty certain
oil will be found.

Between the Red River Valley and a point roughly thirty miles east
of El Dorado, in southern Arkansas, oil and gas wells are thick as pro
verbial peas. My first acquaintance with this region came about at
night. I had spent more time in Crossett than I had intended, and it
was late in the afternoon when I headed for El Dorado. Having made
a reservation at a tourist court, I was in no particular hurry, so dark
ness caught me long before I reached El Dorado. Few cars were on
the road. I traveled along an exceedingly dark highway rimmed with
even darker woods. It had been a rainy week. I could smell dismal
swampy spots, and occasionally my headlights caught their reflection
in water along the roadside. I shuddered at thought of a flat tire right
then. Suddenly, from far back in the woods, I heard a deep cough.
Then, a litde farther along, another one. Did alligators or crocodiles
ever cross the Louisiana line, a few miles away? And if so, did they
cough? After the eighth or tenth cough, I was fairly flying. Suddenly
I remembered that I was going to El Dorado to find out about oil and
gas wells. There in the darkness oil wells were pumping their hearts
out to give me gas for my car. Bless the darlings! I drove more slowly,
enjoying the rhythmic sound of each new oil well as long as I could.

Of the fifty-five oil and gas pools brought into production in Arkansas
since Dr. Bussey s Armstrong No. 1 well blew over its derrick several
miles west of El Dorado on a cold January afternoon of 1921, thirty-
eight are under state control, says the Eleventh Annual Oil and Indus
trial Edition of the El Dorado Daily News. This means their drilling
and production have been continuously regulated according to the best
scientific data available, with a view to prolonging the life of the field.
A report of the Arkansas Oil and Gas Commission for 1945 reveals
that 192 wells were drilled during the year. Of these, 126 were pro
ducers and sixty-six were nonproductive of oil or gas in commercial

158 Hurrah for Arkansas!

quantities. They included forty wildcat tests, of which thirty-seven
proved dry holes. The other three, however, as in the case of the well
near the Red River Bridge, put three new areas into production.
Colonel Moore s baby wildcat was quite unusual.

Undoubtedly the discovery of oil and gas has brought improvement
to the towns in southern Arkansas, despite the landowners who turned
down lease buyers. El Dorado is as bustling a city as one could hope
to find. As a matter of fact, I believe it is the hustlingest town I have
encountered in Arkansas. Whether that is good or bad depends on the
way you feel about it! When a boy with a Detroit license on his car
ran through a red light while my brakes shrieked, I could have imagined
that I was back in Chicago.

El Dorado has scheduled many improvements of a civic nature. An
American Legion Community Center Building is in the blueprint stage.
It will be constructed of architectural concrete in the picturesque twenty-
acre tract purchased by the Legion several years ago as a memorial to
the late O. L. Bedenhamer, of El Dorado, one-time National Com
mander. Tentative plans have been drawn for a two-story building
with main-floor dimensions 50 by 80 feet and an auditorium large
enough to seat 1,000 persons or enable 400 to dine at one time. The
kitchen will be in the subbasement, and the basement will have meeting
rooms for the post and for other groups that wish to use the Com
munity Center.

Since a community center is one of the dreams I cherish for every
town, every locality, every village, I was most impressed at finding this
progressive spirit in El Dorado.

The schools have been given a shot in the arm by the oil wells. El
Dorado has four white grade schools and a high school, as well as a
grade school and high school for colored children. Total enrollment
stands at 4,122. Three of the schools, two white grade schools and the
one Negro high school, serve hot lunches. A registered nurse is on full-
time duty. When a youngster is absent on account of a contagious dis
ease, his case is investigated in short order. Art and music have been
given an important place in the curriculum, and auditorium activities

Where Wildcats Mean Wealth 159

have been developed in order that children may learn to express them
selves. I like this, too.

Arkansas youngsters may not be any better behaved than children in
other parts of the country, but they seem so to me. They have an in
nate dignity and kindliness that sets them apart from the pushing,
shoving, noisy youngsters I have seen elsewhere. Perhaps parents in
Arkansas have an old-fashioned prejudice against children being al
lowed to take over a home, a theater or any adult gathering in which
they find themselves. If this repression is bad for the child, as some
psychologists seem to think, then perhaps the opportunity to get up in
an auditorium and express themselves now and then will keep them even
with the brash youngsters who have known no curbing. I would hate
to think Arkansas kids must face greater problems in the world because
of shyness or an inferiority complex. But I have little fear on that
score. Often the quietness which the world might consider shyness is
just inaudible laughing up one s sleeve.

Long before the discovery of gas and oil in southern Arkansas, a
good start had been made in constructing the power system. Then
when the boom days arrived, a fine record was made in the face of
numerous handicaps. Today southern Arkansas has one of the finest
systems that can be found in any part of the nation. Hundreds of
miles of transmission lines extend throughout the length and breadth
of the oil fields, bringing service to pumping plants, and the comforts,
conveniences and economies of electricity to mercantile stores, shops,
refineries, as well as to city and farm homes. Electricity has been of
inestimable value in aiding the growth and development of the territory
around El Dorado in the oil-pumping operations. The Arkansas Power
and Light company placed in operation in southern Arkansas several
years ago a new 30,000-kilowatt steam-electric generating station named
in honor of the late Harvey Couch, founder and long-time president of
the company. This plant could produce 262,000,000 kilowatt hours a
year if operated every one of the 8,760 hours in a year. That is more

160 Hurrah for Arkansas!

than the electric power available in an average year at many important
dams.

Another plant, with capacity of 300,000 kilowatts per hour, is now
being erected near Little Rock, using South Arkansas natural gas.
Electricity comes from this plant for my home town, Eureka Springs,
and we are constantly pleased at the gratifyingly low figures on our
monthly electric bill. Even with an automatic water heater, electric
range, eight-foot refrigerator, three radios and the usual household
items of iron and toaster, our bill rarely exceeds $750. This takes in
even those rare days when I get the urge to run the floor polisher from
dawn to dark.

On completion of this program the rural areas of southern Arkansas
will be among the best-electrified sections of the enure nation, according
to Division Manager A. C. Neel of El Dorado. By the end of 1946 the
company will have completed 3,500 miles of new rural electric lines.
The number of farms utilizing electric service in that territory will
increase, it is hoped, from 25,000 to 50,000.

Rural electrification was born in Arkansas, according to Mr. Neel.
The new type of line, costing just about half what the old cumbersome
type cost, was developed by Arkansas Power and Light Company engi
neers and later adopted throughout the nation. The company s pro
gram of permitting customers living along new lines to help construct
them came also from Arkansas, and was adopted nationwide as the
Self-Help Plan. Through this method farmers were enabled to earn
money to help pay for wiring their homes and purchase appliances
through which they could enjoy the benefits of electricity. Rural co
operatives, financed by tax funds, have been supplied with power at the
lowest wholesale rate in the nation. Last year the dozen co-ops served
by Arkansas Power and Light purchased power for an average of five
and six-tenths mills per kilowatt hour. This is far cheaper than the
co-ops could generate their own power. Besides saving the bother and
expense of owning their own plants, it enables the co-ops to pass along
important savings to the patrons. Perhaps this is one reason why so
many tiny unpainted shacks and log cabins wear a shining electric

2J rs
S
j^

"

Wh tre Wildcats Mean Wealth 161

meter as conspicuous as glittering costume jewelry on a kitchen
apron.

In Ouachita County the oil boom reached a new high in 1945,
the latest year for which complete figures are available. The Smart
field, oldest in the area, now has forty-four producers, with others
nearing the final stage. In the past year, however, great interest has
centered in the Wesson field, east of Stephens. The entire Stephens
area is producing approximately 200,000 barrels of oil monthly under
the Oil and Gas Commission field rules, but could produce much more
than that if allowed to run wide open. This field is assured a long life,
for tests have reported as many as seventeen possible producing levels.

Camden, seat of Ouachita County, has had a spectacular growth
since the first oil days, and its improvement came to a peak during the
past eighteen months. Now the city has well over 15,000 permanent
inhabitants in addition to several thousands that might be called
transients.

In the residential district three new housing projects are in progress*
More than 300 new houses have been built in Camden and more are
under construction. Besides these, a dozen or more apartments and one-
room shacks have gone up. The hundreds of trailers are ignored in
these population figures.

At least fifty new cafes and eating houses have opened in the Camden
neighborhood, and when I was there I couldn t park in front of forty-
nine of them or anywhere near. The one that had a parking spot
within a block was a little hole-in-the-wall on a side street, but the food
was adequate for a hungry tourist, and both proprietor and waitress
were pleasant and friendly despite the fact that three soldiers from a
recruiting car gave me strong competition in conversation.

At least $100,000 has been spent on new buildings in the business dis
trict and the town fairly bristles with new brick and brick-and-tile
structures. At least a dozen new retail firms have opened up, and the
pay roll is the largest in the history of Camden. This is readily under
stood when one sees the many sawmills that have gone into operation.

162 Hurrah for Ar^ansasl

However, Camdcn is not content to cut down its trees and go no farther
than the raw boards. Three retail lumber firms have started within the
past canteen months, the Camden furniture company is expanding in
large way, and many small woodworking plants are busier than ever
before.

Between Camden and El Dorado I visited the first washeteria I had
ever seen. Somehow washeterias had completely escaped my attention.
When I stopped to look at the strange name I was struck with its
originality. It was on a Saturday afternoon and the washeteria had been
closed down for the week end. I wandered about, talking with the
managers, who certainly needed a day off, and inspecting the four
washing machines that were bolted to the floor alongside the big
rinsing tubs. Two things impressed me. One was the accumulation
of odd socks, baby pants, handkerchiefs and gloves that hung on a line
at the back of the washroom. It seems that everybody leaves small
objects in the wash water, even as you and L At the washeteria these
were fished out and hung on a line, to be claimed by their owners. The
second thing was the long row of chairs along the side wall.

"Heavens above !" I said. "Don t tell me these poor suffering women
who are doing their washing must be pestered with an audience?* 5

"Nobody minds," said the washeteria manager. "Everybody visits
and laughs, and the women who are sitting here waiting for their turns
join in, so it is just one big jolly party."

While we were talking, a big car whisked up to the front door, and
a pleasant-faced woman in a print dress slid from behind the wheel
and came in.

"I know you don t like to have customers on Saturday, but I m having
company Monday," she faltered.

"Sure! Come on in," said the manager.

She carried in a big basket of clothes and plopped them down on
the bench beside one of the washers. I settled myself in one of the
audience chairs!

"When our house was built we made simply no provision for wash
ing," said the woman with the wash. "We had always sent our

Where Wildcats Mean Wealth 163

washing out and I supposed we always would. The other day I called
up our former washwoman and asked if she knew where I could get
my washing done. She said: Ah s sure Ah don t know, ma am! Ah s
lookin for a washlady mahse f!""

With quick, sure motions, she put all the white things through a tub
of cold water, to wash out stains that might be set with hot water. Then
she put them in the washing machines while she ran the colored ones
through the cold water.

"We re either awfully dirty, or awfully clean." She laughed. "Imag
ine a washing like this for just four of us!"

Although it was none of my business, I pointed out certain pieces
that might have gone until next washday. But then I ve always done
my own washing!

When I left, the clothes were going through their second rinsing and
the Camden homemaker was still unruffled and chatty. My admiration
for Arkansas women rose another notch. Despite the hardships
brought by a sudden crowding of areas that were once calm and peace
ful, despite sudden lack of the help one had known from childhood, no
one has let it get her down.

Southern Arkansas may be aware of many fine features of Camden.
The country at large is familiar with two of the local products, the
Camark Pottery and Grapette. I doubt if a gift shop in the Middle
West is without its quota of Camark pottery those soft-tinted vases,
bowls, wall pockets, platters and what-have-you, ranging from roosters
to violins. The prices are well within the financial range of the average
gift-shop customer, and the colors and shapes are so enchanting .that
Camark pottery is a godsend to gift-shop owners. One proprietor told
me that he kept his sales high by displaying a great stock of it. The
more you show the more you sell, he quoted. I looked around the shop
and couldn t find a nook or cranny where he could possibly have
crammed another piece.

Grapette is the soft drink with the real grape flavor. The concen
trate is made at Camden, then shipped to various cities where franchise

164 Hurrah for Arkansas!

owners do the bottling* The company puts out such backhanded ad
vertising as, "Even if you re not thirsty, drink Grapette," which re
minds me of the radio comedian who used to knock on a front door
aad say, **You don t want any vacuum cleaners today, I hope, I hope, I
hope!"

In Magnolia the effects of oil discovery are most noticeable in the
improvement of the bank and two churches. That s a healthy sign.
The First National Bank, a three-story building, is getting a Batesviile
limestone front up to the second floor, full plate-glass doors, a public
dock in front, a night depository slot, an automatic electric elevator, air
conditioning, etc.

Within a year, or possibly two, both the First Methodist Church and
the Central Baptist Church will begin extensive building programs, in
cluding main buildings with greatly enlarged auditoriums to take care
o the increased attendance.

Even little Waldo reports improvements of considerable value. A
$75,000 cotton warehouse with a capacity of 7,000 bales has been added
during the past year, and the house is now in use. A new bottling plant
with franchises for five counties is in operation, and other businesses
have been started. Waldo has experienced a severe housing shortage
and the biggest building boom in its history is anticipated as soon as
labor and materials are available.

I shall always remember Waldo for its pleasant churches. I was
driving through the town one hot Sunday morning in mid-March and
stopped to walk my dog. Suddenly in a little town that seemed no
different from a thousand other villages, the enchanting music of
chimes pealed out on the soft spring air. It was so unexpected, so
delightful, so Sunday-morning-ish, I waited until the whole repertoire
had been played. Then I wanted to see the church. I asked a boy
who happened to pass by which church had the chimes. He di
rected me to the wrong one, but that was a blessing in disguise. It
enabled me to realize that a small town could have more than one nice
church. The young girl who was practicing the Sunday-school music

Where Wildcats Mean Wealth 165

directed me to the right church, but I found I was too early even for
Sunday school. I went around the church. The minister s young wife
came hurrying out their back door to meet me with beads of perspira
tion on her brow, buttoning the blouse of her pretty Sunday sheer, and
when I gave her a dollar for the contribution box, she was completely
bewildered. I told her I was accustomed to paying for my concerts, and
I didn t know when I had enjoyed one more. She s probably still won
dering how I had escaped my keeper, but I felt better as I drove out
of town.

At Emerson, which is near the Louisiana line, a new telephone of
fice has been erected in the business section, a new switchboard has
been installed, and the exchange reworked. The drugstore is the spec
tacular spot for an out-of-state visitor. It has the old-time narrow shelves
that were familiar before drugstores began to carry electrical appliances
and jewelry and pots and pans. Even the carved latticework is there,
separating the front part, with its old-fashioned, bent-wire sody-foun-
tain chairs, from the prescription department. If you are inclined to
snoop just a little, you can find in the back room apothecary jars and
bottles with ground-glass stoppers that is, if I haven t gone back and
bought up those I left on my last trip.

Near Emerson I visited the home of Mrs. A. A. Daniels, one of those
Arkansas countrywomen popularly supposed to be so lazy and shiftless.
Mrs. Daniels, who was seventy-three, lived alone. You would know the
house when you reached it because, if it were between Valentine Day
and Thanksgiving, you would find the front yard full of flowers.
More flowers lined the porch and climbed the steps that led to the wide,
shaded front porch, which extended between a well, complete with
windlass, and a front bedroom.

I understood why we had undergone a thread shortage when I saw
the interior of the Daniels home. From the towel hanging on a nail
handy to the washpan on the porch, to the curtains in the kitchen, every
thing that could be bordered or bound with crochet had its handmade
lace. Even the seven shelves, long as the kitchen walls, were bordered
with two-inch lace. One small inner window between the kitchen and

166 Hurrah for Arkansas!

the dogtrot was covered with a crocheted curtain, and all the pillow slips
had handmade edges, as well as fanciful embroidered designs and the
friendly admonition: GOOD NIGHT, SLEEP TIGHT! One bed had a
crocheted bedspread. The crowning achievement of those busy fingers
was a lambrequin eighteen inches wide, attached to the mantel over the
fireplace. The whole affair had been crocheted, and somehow Mrs.
Daniels had managed to work the words, HOME SWEET HOME, into the
pattern. The spick-and-span cleanliness of the place and the evidence
of loving fingers which have never known idleness made the house truly
remarkable, for all the lack of modern conveniences. If I could have my
way, I would like to pack up that house with all its crochet, its flower
garden, its enlarged photographs of married daughters hung in a row on
Mother s bedroom wall, its shining dogtrot, and part at least of the
dusty road leading to it, just as I saw it on that hot July day! Then I
would take the display around the country, from Maine to California,
and from Canada to the Gulf, exhibiting it as an Arkansas home. I
would like even to include the lawn mower which stood beside the
front gate, although there was scarcely a square yard of grass growing
in that flower-filled space. Too bad Mr. Schoolcraft can t return on an
other geology trip and see Mrs. Daniels home!

The main part of Magnolia is a square built around a courthouse
which stands on a wide lawn. I mean the lawn was wide at one time;
now it is fairly filled with great magnolias. I do not know whether
the town was named for the magnolias about the courthouse, or the
magnolias were planted in honor of the name. It makes no difference.
I knew how fitting the name was as I walked between the towering
magnolias and looked at the long, glossy leaves and big pods with
seeds ready to turn the brilliant crimson that only magnolias achieve,

Magnolia still seems small-town in comparison with bustling El
Dorado, but the traveler sees many features surprisingly urban. I
stepped into a drugstore and found it air-conditioned. It was a new
store, and it had no cokes, for the soda fountain had not been installed,

Where Wildcats Mean Wealth 167

but it had ice-cream cones! That gave me an excuse to linger until I
could forget the heat of the streets outside. The store was not teeming
with customers. In fact, on my third cone I was the only one. Perhaps
the others had gone out to bring in their friends to witness my indecent
slaughter of innocent ice cream. As for me, on a day like that I
wouldn t have gone out in the sun to see a queen s coronation!

The Peace Tourist Court at Magnolia had a few insignificant litde
placards strung along the road, and this traveler who had begun to
worry about a place to lay her weary head noted them with lackluster
eye. The name Peace brought to her recollections of Father Divine, and
since segregation is strictly practiced in southern Arkansas she had
cause to wonder whether it would bear the word "Colored" or "White.**
No hint was given until I drove into the court, and then the unexpected
glamour was practically overwhelming. A business office, where one
could register, and a smart cafe were at the front. Then, ranged in a
clear, glowing, right-angle formation were perhaps fifty apartments
you couldn t call them cabins linked together with open-faced gar
ages. Each had its own attic fan, bathroom with shower, polished
floor and blue-painted metal furniture. Even on a hot afternoon, one
could close the door, open the windows a mere crack, pull down the
blinds and enjoy a nap in a relatively cool dwelling.

In years soon to come the Arkansas Traveler may enjoy life in a
modern four-story air-conditioned hotel that is planned for Magnolia.

An eating place called the Chatter Box reminded me of the B. and
G. s in Chicago. It had the same counter arrangement I saw it also
in an eating place at El Dorado and the girls worked behind the
counters. The room was air-conditioned. The front door was one of
those all-glass affairs, which make you think you are walking through
a window. Joseph s shoe store, in Chicago, has one you can look at if
you do not understand what I mean.

Undoubtedly many of the pretty houses in Magnolia owe their exist
ence to the oil fields, but I failed to find anyone who could qualify out
wardly, at least, as "newly rich." If I had expected to find women
lifting lorgnettes as they inspected work shirts and overalls at the gen-

168 Hurrah for Arkansas!

era! store, I was sorely disappointed. I couldn t see anyone putting on
the proverbial dog. In the drugstore, I asked the pretty young woman
who was handing out ice-cream cones if she could point out anyone
who owned land on which oil had been found.

"My daddy does!" she said.

I peered around to see if she had a convertible and a swimming pool
parked at the door because those are two things Fd have if my dad
owned oil lands, but neither was in sight! I looked at her bright dark
eyes, black hair and lovely smile set off by a spankin clean, freshly
ironed, pink cotton dress, and wondered how an attractive oil heiress
happened to be selling ice-cream cones. Then I remembered the family
who had said they didn t need $80,000. I asked her if finding oil
had made much difference in her life. She smiled.

"Well, we d always had a car, but we got a better one. We d had a
five-room house, but when the land was leased to an oil company, we
built one with seven rooms and a bathroom! * she added.

Had she gone to college? No. She was twenty-four when the oil
was discovered and that was too late. Her sister had been younger, and
she had gone to Shreveport and taken a business course. Better take
another look at your secretary, sir. She may have an oil well in her
hope chest. As for the girl in pink cotton, she had worked three years
for a hardware merchant, and when the drugstore needed help she
had changed over to the ice-cream freezer. Her father and mother still
lived on the farm, about ten miles in the country, but her father didn t
work it. Her brothers, returned from overseas, had taken up the farm
ing. -

What did she do for amusement? Why, her daddy came for her
every Saturday evenin and she went out home for the week end. Since
her mother had trouble getting help to keep the big house clean, Miss
Pink Cotton always turned to as soon as she got home on Saturday
and did a good cleaning job, finishing the work on Sunday morning
before church. Then she always got a good Sunday dinner, because
she loved to cook . . and . . . and . . . they had company most usually.
Marriage? Miss P. C. smiled. Some day, perhaps. Her boy friend was

Where Wildcats Mean Wealth I

just home from overseas and had bought a half interest in a grocery.
They would have to wait to see how that turned out!

I didn t ask her name. She didn t know she was talking to a type
writer-pounder.

Later in the afternoon I met Mrs. Ola Davis, county 4-H Club leader,
and mother of six children, three of them just back from service abroad.
"I can t seem to find an oil-well owner," I complained. "Do they have a
little club where they speak only to the mint-julep boy?"

Mrs. Davis smiled. "Our family has a couple of oil wells."

Ah, at last an oil-well owner!

Mrs. Davis continued: "I don t know how my daddy bought 400
acres of land when he had ten children to support. But he did it.
Then they found oil on the land. Of course we re all grown up and
married now. Mother still has the farm and the homestead, but she
didn t want a widow s share of the money that came in from the wells.
She asked to be counted as one of the children, so they divide the oil
checks eleven ways, giving mother an equal share with each of us
children. We don t get much. I got a check for $32 today as my
month s share. But let me tell you, that helps!"

Perhaps that is why no flagrantly rich oil-well owners clutter up the
streets of oil towns. Quite possibly the big Arkansas families spread
the profits a bit thin. Then, too, the oil flow is regulated in order to
conserve the earth s supply.

When our 4-H Club errand was completed, Mrs. Davis and Bernice
Bryson, Home Demonstration Agent of Columbia County, told me
of another errand.

"We want you to meet an old gentleman out here in the country P
they said. "He hasn t been very well."

We drove several miles from Magnolia and stopped before a little
white cottage on a barren, sandy lawn. One windowpane had been
broken, and the window was stuffed with rags. The doorway was un
screened, but a wide porch kept us from seeing the interior. A thin,
frail man walked stiffly down the porch steps and came across the lawn
to meet us. Miss Ola shook hands with him and asked about his father.

170 Hurrah for Arkansas!

Taw s mighty restless tonight," the man said softly. "I m afraid he
won t be here much longer." His faded blue eyes filled with tears.
"He s been in bed most of the time for the last three months."

"Do you have the sole care of him?" I asked.

"Yes m," he replied. "Maw died years ago."

"And you haven t married yet? Well, you re still young!" Always
the matchmaking me!

"No m," he answered the first question, and added, "Maybe some
day. I m sixty now!" I looked at the heavy woolen trousers, far too
large for that slender waist, at the clean but faded blue shirt, and the
ragged woolen hat with a lock of faded hair standing up through its
torn crown. The careworn face and the sad eyes tore my heart. Poverty
is bearable, but poverty plus sickness . . . that is tragedy!

"You look as if you need care yourself," I said.

He seemed pathetically grateful for my personal concern. "I am awful
tired," he admitted.

I asked about the meals for the sick man and his weary nurse in that
womanless house.

"Paw don t eat hardly anything. And I m not hungry hardly ever,"
he said gently.

Milk? Well, it was too much expense and bother to keep a cow. He
didn t get out and do much, with Paw the way he was, and a hired
hand cost five dollars a day now. "We find it s cheaper jis* to borry
milk from a family that lives down the road a piece."

We heard a faint moan from the sick man in the dark interior.

"He s so old. Couldn t you get him into a hospital?" I asked.

"I ve thought about that. Seems like it d be good f r Paw if I could
jis git a little place in town and move him into it. But folks say he
wouldn t be satisfied. He d want to git right back out home."

"I don t mean a little place," I said firmly. "I mean a hospital."

"Oh, I know Paw d never be satisfied there." A sort of nameless ter
ror filled his eyes.

As we drove back into town, my sympathy grew beyond reason.

"Look," I said to my companions. "Can t we chip in together and

Where Wildcats Mean Wealth 171

beg a little more money somewhere else and get that poor old man in
a decent hospital? After all, an old pioneer deserves a little something
from the community."

My companions burst into peals of laughter. "Didn t you notice those
two oil derricks right there in front of the house? Why, that old man
has at least twenty oil wells on his land."

Later as we sat at a long counter in a combination grocery-and-meat
market I had a happy thought. At that grubby place, with Harry
slicing steaks on the butcher s counter at the back of the store, and
Frank, arms covered with tattooing, busily sizzling steaks and frying
potatoes at the grease-laden stove, I might be rubbing elbows with
Arkansas oil millionaires. But I d never know it!

XIV ..

f{elena><~Arkansas* Southern *Beffe

BEYOND the sea wall that parallels Cherry and Ohio
Streets in Helena, Arkansas, OF Man River slips so quietly that one
almost forgets what a swirling brown torrent he can become. Along
the top of the dike separating the river from the main part of town,
goats are tethered to graze, and shambling fishermen tread the narrow
path, moving silhouettes against the blue sky. Beside the highway lead
ing into town, tufts of cotton blown from high-sided, mule-drawn
wagons lie on the greening grass of spring or the dull tan dried grass
of midsummer, like strange new white blossoms or unmeltable snow.
Helena is a pleasant city in a snug little pocket between Crowley s
Ridge and the Mississippi, at a point believed the exact spot where De
Soto crossed the river. Some Helena citizens, anxious to be exactly
truthful, estimate that he crossed it about thirty miles below the town-
site, but there is the De Soto marker which points out their mistake.
Anyway, what are thirty miles in a story so hallowed?

Since its founding, Helena has been the Old South of Arkansas.
Now it is the New South with smokestacks. Just how yellowed clip
pings, brittle with age, and pay-roll ledgers will mix is something for
onlookers to watch. But I m betting on Helena. After all, a great many
things have happened in this town of towering magnolias, eighteen-
inch wisteria blossoms and waitresses who say thank-you-kindly-ma am,
yet Helena has kept rolling along, even as OF Man River himself.

Helena is the Old South of Gone with the Wind, the South of cotton,
fried catfish and hushpuppies. It stands in land laced with gumbo roads,

172

Helena Arkansas" Southern Belle 173

and its homes are peppered with silver coffeepots that Great-grandpa
brought back that time he carried the cotton down to New Orleans on
a flatboat. Now it is on the way toward becoming industrialized, with
booming businesses putting new zip, not to mention new finances, into
Cherry Street. Both black and white are more prosperous, and even
the agricultural picture seems to be changing, with great plantations
giving way to individually owned cotton patches blessed with small
loans from Uncle Sam.

Time was when a young woman of Helena speaking of the war
meant the fourth war back. Now she is referring to the Philippines or
Germany. But don t make a mistake when you hear a woman of
middle age or older mention the war. Though it isn t named, she
means the one in which Grandpappy fit, bled and died. Helena was
the scene of one of the battles of the War between the States, and natu
rally, up to World War II, the Battle of Helena still dominated all talk
of conflict.

In Helena families eat and drink from china and glass such as we
drool over in Northern antique shops, yet very often the mother of the
family works in a downtown office. A blond schoolgirl sleeps in a
great hand-carved bed that rivals those at Mount Vernon, after a date
with a young fellow who is one of 700 workmen making station-wagoa
bodies. A grandmother who cherishes long-ago memories of a velvet-
lined carriage now briskly drives her own car about town and is no
more upset over lack of parking space than anyone else. The people of
Helena have an inner fortitude that enables them to take on new views
without losing the old. To some, this quality may seem the reverse of
a virtue, but that remains to be proved. It will be interesting to watch
Helena.

Already new ideas are permeating its gentle air. With the return o
World War II veterans, overnight the old town became something it
never had been. Young women whose soft Southern voices remind
one of honey and hot biscuits can be found politicking like mad for
consolidated schools, a new auditorium and city hall and younger alder
men for the city council. Helena has an airport, a 610-acre, all-way

174 Hurrah for Arkansas!

field and a radio station, a 250-watt transmitter. It has excellent
schools-~two high schools and two elementary schools besides the
schools for colored students. It has two libraries, one daily newspaper
and one weekly, and its population of 16,000 has the advantage of first-
class waterworks, manufactured gas and a never-ending catfish supply.

Helena harbor and terminal facilities says the Chamber of Com
merce folder are the best in the lower Mississippi Valley and the only
ones on the west bank of the river. The terminal warehouse has a total
of 46,000 square feet. The elevation of the terminal is above high water
and the building is of the inclined-plane type. End quote.

The average growing season of the region round about is listed as
212 days. After March 28 killing frosts are not expected, and the fall
garden can grow up to October 25 without danger of frost, although,
of course, there are unusual years. The mean annual temperature is
625 degrees, but one doesn t expect to get much good out of a summer
topcoat. The altitude of Helena is 250 feet above sea level, and that is
hardly conducive to mountain breezes.

The land of Phillips County is a rich alluvial soil, well adapted to
all kinds of crops cotton, corn, small grains, soybeans, alfalfa, other
hay crops, vegetables, fruits and pecans. For years, of course, cotton was
the main crop, but now a beef and dairy cattle program is rapidly de-
velopingl Good market outlets, including a canning factory, a fer
tilizer-mixing plant, alfalfa-dehydrating plants, a slaughterhouse and
a packing plant have materialized within the last few years, in addition
to the cotton-marketing aids, such as a cottonseed-oil mill, cotton gins
and cotton compresses.

The government now issues loans to farmers who are switching over
from share-cropping or working as day laborers to the status of inde
pendent farmers. I have sat long hours in the Federal Building where
these loans are allowed, and listened to the farmers* plans. They seem
pitifully small! "Coin to git me another mule. I already got one good
one." "Coin* to put me in ten acres o cotton." "Yas, suh, my wife and
young uns will he p tend and pick mah cotton."

Because the small amount of the loan goes most often to buy seed for

Helena Arkansas Southern Belle 175

the farm and cotton patch and feed for the farm animals, they are
called "seed-and-feed loans" by the men who receive them. Since his
return from service Leland Stone is the sympathetic Uncle Sam man in
charge of lending. A Helena man, he is intensely interested in the
improved conditions in and around the town, and feels that a new
agricultural future can be founded on the efforts of the small-loan
farmers.

Crowley s Ridge, which Helena touches, is one of America s won
ders. I had heard of it long before I ever saw it. One of my farm
neighbors was planning a trip to eastern Arkansas. Not long before she
was to start, the spring rains set in, and we had rain day and night for
almost a week. During that time something came up that made it
imperative for me to go on a long trip which might touch the town
where she expected to visit relatives and friends*

One night when she had waded over to call, we were discussing the
trip and I said, "I might be able to bring you home. Where shall I meet
you?"

"If this rain keeps up/ she replied gloomily, "you can find me on
Crowley s Ridge."

She explained that Crowley s Ridge runs parallel enough to the Mis
sissippi River to act as backstop for many floods. When the river starts
to rise, the people in the flood areas grab up the kids and head for the
hill. There they find the Red Cross, with tents and baskets of food,
waiting to receive them! The neighbor mentioned those baskets with
all the nostalgia with which others might recall a dinner at Antoine s or
Jacques !

When I first saw Crowley s Ridge it was in the springtime. The
kudzu vine, under the influence of the first warm sunshine, had made
it a wall of green. I had severe misgivings about its ability to be a
haven of refuge in a rainstorm. Even the vibrant growth of this Foot-a
night Vine, as Negroes call the kudzu, cannot stop Crowley s Ridge
from sloughing off, leaving soft, brownish dirt banks that look for all
the world like fresh-cut fudge. Only two ridges of the sort are to be
found in the entire world Crowley s and one in the Himalayas. Not a

176 Hurrah for Arkansas!

stone mars the fine, even texture of the earth that makes up Crowley s
Ridge, and the result is a continuous washing away. Usually one
thinks o erosion as injurious only to the hill or field undergoing the
washing-away process. In Helena one s sympathies go out to the family
which is unfortunate enough to have a lawn at the ridge base. With
every rain part of the mountain pours down on the lawn, burying
grass and flowers under a landslide of soft brown earth.

Helena is so rich in history that the Arkansas Traveler who is an
incurable romantic should allow plenty of time for his visit.

In 1811, a year before the erection of the big house where "Miss"
Johnnie Stephens lives now, the first steamer for Western waters came
down the Mississippi. It was the New Orleans, built by Nicholas J.
Roosevelt, great-great-uncle of Theodore Roosevelt, and the great
Nicholas himself made the trip. After that, the boats brought many
famous citizens, including the first of the Hanks family, forebears of
one of my favorite Helena friends.

In May 1820 Helena was made a town. It was quite a town from the
start, for it was laid out one mile square. It is not that large now, for
the river has claimed one street and the levee another. The town was
first called Sk Francis. Later it was renamed Helena in honor of the
baby daughter of Sylvannus Phillips. The first mayor was Lycurgus
Cage. Plantations were laid out along the river, beautiful pillared
homes were built and a graceful social life developed. Although the
plantations were mainly farmed by overseers, the owners came once a
year to hunt and enjoy a round of festivity. Of course slaves were
bought and sold. Cotton was the main crop, with a few cattle and the
inevitable pigs for po k chops. The town continued to prosper, and in
1833 the first newspaper, the Helena Herald, was established. In 1854
dirt was broken for the Midland Railway.

The river was both friend and enemy. Early in the existence of the
settlement, planters began to build levees to protect cotton. They were
crude, inadequate protection, about four feet high. Each planter took
care of his own levees. The town buildings were constructed on high
foundations, and sidewalks stalked on stilts from store to store.

Helena Arkansas Southern Belle 177

Then came the war. Of the seven generals given by Phillips County
to the South, only one was in the Battle o Helena, but all gave dis
tinguished service. One of them, Charles Adams, came to Helena in
1835, to become a banker and lawyer. After the war he went to
Memphis and brought further distinction to his family by becoming the
grandfather of Helen Keller. Another, Brigadier General James Tap-
pan, also lawyer, is said to be the only general who ever licked Grant.
He is buried in Helena and his home is still in the Tappan family.
Major General Patrick Cleburne came to Helena from Ireland, and
his illustrious name is found all over Arkansas counties and communi
ties.

Helena men were as staunch rebels as the South produced. The
local chapter of the United Daughters of the Confederacy is named
the Seven Generals Chapter in honor of these famous men. Some of the
younger Helena citizens, who have participated in more recent wars,
are inclined to chuckle because not long ago the record of an eighth
general from Phillips County was uncovered. The U. D. C. is just a
bit embarrassed about it. It seems a trifle late to change the name of
the chapter and readjust the boasted seven to include an eighth name.
It would have been better, some hint, just to let some other county have
Number Eight. Personal accounts of the War between the States still
turn up occasionally in old desks and trunks. I had the pleasure of
reading one, written by Captain J. C. Barlow, that had only recently
been found in the desk of Mary Elizabeth Miles, whose home is a
treasure house of antiques. A canopied bed in one of the bedrooms was
part of the dowry of the French bride, Elizabeth Lejier, whom Mary
Elizabeth s Great-grandfather Coolidge wooed and won through an
interpreter when he carried cotton to New Orleans. Most of the cotton
planters brought home from New Orleans beautiful silver fashioned in
France, but Grandpa Coolidge brought back a bride who couldn t
speak a word of English! In World War II the great-grandson of that
French bride, Colonel Joseph Barlow Coolidge, was with Ernie Pyle
when the beloved newspaperman was killed.

Helena escaped much of the pillage and destruction that were the

178 Hurrah for Arkansas!

lot of other Southern cities in the War between the States for the
reason that the Federals walked right in and took over the important
river port at the beginning of the conflict. On July 4, 1863, they were
under command of General B. M. Prentiss, who was stationed on a
gunboat opposite York Street, where Lycurgus Lucy lived. Lieutenant
General Theophilus H. Holmes was commander in chief of the Con
federates who tried to relieve the city. General Sterling Price s men
took the Federal redoubt on Graveyard Hill back of R. C. Moore s
home. In this assault, says an old newspaper account, Arkansas fought
not only for the homes of her living loved ones, but for the graves of
her departed. The enemy had fortified themselves over Helena s dead.
Throughout the long hot Independence Day, the battle raged.

Mrs. Marjorie McKune, of Helena, who was twelve years old at the
time, remembered the Battle of Helena well enough to tell newspaper
reporters about it several years ago. Her father was Dennis Murphy,
veteran of the Mexican War, and their home was directly in the path
of shot and shell from three sides. The doughty old veteran was soon
out on the street, watching the battle from this point or that one, leav
ing the mother to look after the safety of the four children. The
mother had good judgment. She hurried the youngsters into the big
fireplace and rolled the trundle bed against it. Windowpanes were
shattered, but the children were not hurt. In midafternoon a flag of
truce was flown and comparative quiet settled down on the little town
on the bank of the Mississippi. Helena was still in the hands of the
Federals. Soldiers of both the North and the South lay dying and
dead in the magnolia-shaded streets. As soon as the children were re
leased, little Marjorie went out on the streets to help carry water to the
.injured.

When the battle results were tallied, it was found that the Con
federates had lost 1,636 soldiers killed, wounded and missing, and the
Federals, 239.

The Battle of Helena had far greater results than the list of killed
and wounded. To this day, amateur army strategists take great pleasure
in studying out the battle plan of the Confederate Army. Four Southern

Helena Arkansas Southern Belle 179

generals were scheduled to attack, each aiming his activities at particu
lar fortifications. Somehow the plans went wrong, and two of the
generals with their armies were repulsed. The argument over their
failure waged long and vigorously. At last on September 16, 1863,
General L. M. Walker and General John S. Marmaduke fought a duel
on the Godfrey de Lef evre plantation near Little Rock. General Walker
had accused General Marmaduke, a West Point graduate, of cowardice
and failure to bring his battery into action at a decisive moment. Gen
eral Walker was killed in the duel, but General Marmaduke lived on to
become Governor of Missouri.

All through Helena the Arkansas Traveler is shown homes that were
once occupied by the Feds. The magnolias on the Hanks lawn were
barked by the Federals horses that were tethered to them. The Baptist
Church became a hospital, loyal Helena citizens declare. The red brick
Moore home, now occupied by the builder s granddaughter, Mrs. Fannie
May Hornor, became headquarters for the Federal officers. But in the
Battle of Helena it was not spared. The sliding doors that separate the
front parlor from the back parlor still bear large perforations left by
Minie balls that passed through the house.

According to all accounts the Federal officers enjoyed life in the
South. One night they gave a party in the Moore house with its
seventeen-foot ceilings and wrought-iron trimming. The local belles
were invited and came to the party, just as the boys in gray met the
boys in blue for friendly card games when the lines were conveniently
close. All went well at the party until someone proposed a toast to th&
United States. Miss Margaret Moore couldn t take it. Shielding her
glass behind her fan, she put it down untouched. Her action was po
litely disregarded at the party, for she was a guest. The next day one of
the Federal officers called at her home and suggested that her father
send her out of town. Miss Margaret s trunk was packed and she went
to Kentucky to visit relatives and stay for the duration

The eight magnolias at the fine old Hanks home to which the
Federal soldiers tethered their horses have since dwindled to six, but
those six are still hardy and beautiful. The Feds cannot be blamed for

180 Hurrah for Arkansas!

tfce untimely death of the other two lovely trees, but it might be men
tioned that their passing caused almost as much furor as the Wah!

Miss Johnnie, of all persons, was the culprit who did away with
them. When I met them Mr. Harry and Miss Johnnie Stephens had
been man and wife sufficiendy long to be the grandparents of a lively
youngster. However, in the good old Southern manner, the blue-eyed
redhead who could charm the gold out of my teeth, was still called Miss
Johnnie.

The home of the Stephenses, the old Hanks house, was started in
1812, long before any sort of town had appeared on the banks of the
Mississippi in that locality. Seeing that attractive home now, one finds
it hard to believe that its site was determined by the accidental location
of a slight rise in the flat landscape. The first Hankses were wary of
high water! The house was built of logs in the familiar Spanish style
that still appears throughout the South, low, long rooms around an
inner court. Slaves, of course, were used to farm the great plantation
that surrounded it, and their quarters ran back to the ridge. The logs
for the house had been cut on the riverbank where the early settlers
had landed, and were carried back to the rise for the building. The big
trees in the virgin forest along the river continued to furnish a liveli
hood for the forebears of Miss Johnnie for many years. They cut logs to
provide firewood for the big steamers that were soon plying up and
down the Mississippi.

The house had been continuously in the possession of the Hanks
family all these years, although, little by litde, a great deal of the
plantation had been sold. Once a bank failure made it necessary to
mortgage the family property, but it was paid off through the years.
The memory of those hard years made a laughing matter of one inci
dent other families might have been taken more seriously.

A man in a hospital bed dreamed that the long-dead Judge Hanks
told him of great treasure buried under a certain tombstone. The dream
was so vivid that it gave him an added incentive to get well. When he
came to the Hanks home, he was still weak from his recent illness, but
hell-bent on getting to the buried treasure as quickly as possible. He

Helena Arkansas Southern Belle 181

asked permission of Miss Johnnie to go into the little family cemetery
and search for the treasure which Judge Hanks had revealed to him.
Miss Johnnie laughed gaily.

"Help yourself," she said in her soft Southern voice. "If any money
was ever there, the family has heen so poor we would have dug it up
long ago."

The man was not at all disturbed. He went off and came back with
a great iron stick pointed at one end. He would hold it up in the air
and bring the pointed end down ker-jod^ driving it deeply into the
soft yielding ground. Nothing was found.

The dream starring Judge Hanks may have had its origin in tales
that are told in the Delta. Rumors that Murrell, the bandit of Crow-
ley s Ridge, buried treasure near Helena still persist. Often on dark
nights lights are seen on the mountain, and the next day marks may be
found at the base of great old pine trees. According to tradition, Mur-
rell always planted a pine tree to mark the burial place of his loot.

The Hanks family had a passion for keeping records. In the fine
flowing handwriting of another era, tax receipts made out to Fleetwood
Hanks show the amount of taxes placed on the Hanks possessions. One
receipt dated 1850 was for a tax of $45 for five horses, eighteen cows
and ten slaves. The deep basin-shaped depression that was once the
swimming pool for the Hanks slaves is still visible back of the house.
And always when it is pointed out to strangers, it is recalled that
two of the family s finest slaves were drowned in it.

In the Hanks house, the gracious, hospitable days of the South s past
seemed so close I could fairly live in them. Beautiful silver and china
pieces stood in the dining room, just as they had stood for generations.
On top of the china cabinet was the custard set, an item that would be
snapped up in thirty seconds in any city antique shop. Even the glass
ware had proved staunch enough to last through the years or perhaps
I should say, some of it. As Miss Johnnie gaily pointed out, the drink
ing habits of early plantation owners are revealed by the glassware they
left for posterity. Of the Hanks heirloom glassware, all the water

182 Hurrah for Arkansas!

tumblers were left, some of the champagne goblets, a few of the wine
glasses, but none of the whisky glasses.

Over the buffet hung a painting of Miss Tabitha, a dark-haired
beauty in an old-time full-skirted blue satin gown. Too bad the pic
ture could not speak! At the moment we were admiring the beautiful
girl, Miss Johnnie was wondering about the date of Miss Tabitha s
wedding. Miss Johnnie s youngest daughter, Miss Helen, had been
invited to go to Washington to act as a page at the D. A. R. conven
tion. Of course, in order to be a page, Miss Helen had to be a genuine,
authentic Daughter herself. Miss Johnnie had never before been inter
ested in digging up records proving the existence of Revolutionary kins
men, but Miss Helen wanted to go to Washington, so the family tree
had to be grown in a couple of days. Only two dates were lacking when
I visited the Stephens home, and one of them, oddly enough, was the
date when Miss Tabitha was married. Both must have been found
later, for the accounts of the D. A. R. convention listed Miss Helen
Stephens, of Helena, Arkansas, as one of the pages.

As little Miss Johnnie was growing into a beautiful young woman,
she often visited in Helena. The builder of the Hanks home was her
maternal great-great-grandfather, the father of Fleetwood Hanks.
Three children were born to Fleetwood and his lovely wife Anne,
John and James Milender Hanks. Anne became the grandmother of
Miss Johnnie. James Milender Hanks, afterward Judge Hanks, be
came the foster father of a stalwart young fellow named Harry
Stephens. Miss Johnnie and Mr. Harry were the ideal match, whis
pered the townspeople of Helena. There were the lovely Hanks home,
all the beautiful Hanks antiques, all the traditions of the Hanks family,
which they would share equally. Added to that, they were both charm
ing young people who would make an admirable couple. When
Helena heard that Mr. Harry and Miss Johnnie were engaged, it was
like a fairy tale coming true. Today, a visit in the Hanks home, with
pictures of Miss Johnnie s and Mr. Harry s children and grandchild
all about, puts truth in that old cliche "and they lived happily ever
after."

Helena Arkansas Southern Belle 183

When Miss Johnnie became mistress of the Hanks home, she proved
she hadn t been born redheaded for nothing. She looked out on eight
magnolias, towering above the house and dominating the lawn so that
no flower dared show its face, and even the stoutest blades of grass
withered and died for lack of sunshine. "Two too many," she said
firmly. "Six magnolias that size would give us enough shade. Then
we could get a litde light into the house and coax a few flowers to
bloom around the porch."

When the two magnolias were cut, Miss Johnnie s popularity in
town suffered quite a setback. But not for long. Callers found that
the long living room with its French doors and the decor that made
a heavenly background for Miss Johnnie s hair was far more beautiful
when the soft sunlight could stream into the room. They liked the
flowers that grew about the house and the great wisteria vine that
could express its individuality once it was rid of the frustrating shade.
Then, too, how could one find fault with a young wife who gave the
beautiful family silver, the painting of Cousin Tabitha and the mag
nificent old mahogany furniture that had come up from New Orleans
the same love and respect her grandmother and great-grandmother had
lavished upon these treasures. The townspeople nodded approvingly.
Miss Johnnie was sure nuff all right, even if she did cut down mag
nolias.

Among the treasures Miss Johnnie and Mr. Harry cherished were a
complete set of diaries kept by Judge Hanks. Apparently someone
gave him a diary as a Christmas gift in 1854. On New Year s Day,
1855, he began his entries, and from that time until his death about
sixty years later, he never missed a day setting down his own and his
family s doings. Each year is in a separate volume, beautifully leather-
bound, and the row of diaries in the Stephens bookcase is a complete
record of his life and times. Miss Johnnie recognized their value as a
historical manuscript and toyed with the idea of being noble and
giving them to the Helena Library, where they could be used for refer
ence. However, something happened that caused her to change her
mind.

184 Hurrah for Arkansas!

A minister whose father had preached in Helena for a number of
years heard of the diaries and came to town expressly to see them. He
knew Judge Hanks had been a member of the church where his father
had served, and he thought that, at some time or other, the Judge
might have mentioned his father s sermons. It would be nice to know
what he had said; he could tell his grandchildren. Miss Johnnie said
she was quite certain the sermons were mentioned in the diaries but
she couldn t recall what was said of them! He was perfectly welcome
to find out for himself. She sat the minister down at a table, with all
the carefully written, leather-bound volumes before him, and went
about her work in another part of the house.

In just a few minutes the front door slammed violently. Miss Johnnie
looked out just in time to see the minister get into his car, kick the
starter button and whirl out of the driveway in a cloud of dust.

"Why, whatever in the world is making him act like that?" asked the
puzzled Miss Johnnie. "Never came in to say good day or anything."

Later in the afternoon she suddenly began to wonder if his haste had
been caused by something he had read in the diaries. She picked up a
volume that covered one of the years when the minister s father had
preached in Helena and soon discovered why the visitor had fled in
high dudgeon. Judge Hanks had hurried home from church each
Sunday to record in his diary that he had heard the dullest, most
uninspired sermon through which a congregation had ever been forced
to sit. Sunday after Sunday he had grown more and more disgusted,
but, with true Southern chivalry, he had never hinted at his annoyance
to the minister. It remained for the minister s son to learn the bitter
truth.

After that incident Miss Johnnie decided it would be better for the
family to keep the revealing diaries. And after all, she liked to pick
up. one of the volumes and read, "Anne s first granddaughter was
born early this morning. She is redheaded."

Southern charm may not put dollars into pockets like Northern in
dustry. But I feel that Arkansas would lose something very precious
if Helena ever went completely commercial. I hope it will stay just as it

Helena Arkansas Southern Belle 185

is, with enough bustling industry to maintain the morale of the far-
sighted young veterans, but sufficiently Old South to preserve its charm
and its good manners. I want Bessie McRee, assistant secretary of the
Chamber of Commerce, to get the new auditorium she wanted, and I
hope Betty Woods can swoop that newspaper of hers right up to top-
drawer quality. I want Corinne Stone to feel that her small daughter
Floy is getting the fine schooling which a bright little girl should have.
But always I want little girls of Helena to be brought up like little
Floy, who took time during her crowded lunch hour to go back to
the kitchen and thank the smiling, dark-skinned woman who had
cooked the food.

As for the staunch loyalty of Helena for the South well, much can
be said in favor of that, too. In this day of wishy-washy bootlicking,
it is very refreshing to find people with pride of family that outweighs
position.

One day as I talked with my Helena friends it suddenly dawned on
me that I was hearing names quite familiar in the North. Mrs. Fannie
May Hornor was it possible she could be a relative of the late Gover
nor Horner of Illinois? Mary Elizabeth Miles, who was a Coolidge
could she be Calvin s cousin? And as for that name Hanks now
where had I heard it before? It suddenly came to me! The mother of
of all persons Abraham Lincoln was a Hanks!

"At the risk of the ceiling falling, I d like to ask a question," I said
to my friends. "Your names! I ve heard them up north! Do you . . .
by any chance . . . have relatives up there!"

Mrs. Hornor said her husband had often met Governor Horner at
Hot Springs, and despite the difference in the spelling of their names,
they jokingly called each other cousin.

Mary Elizabeth s brother, Captain Coolidge, had met President Cal
vin Coolidge and established remote kinship. With that, Captain Joe
forgave Calvin for becoming President and Commander in Chief of the
Feds, and often had lunch with him at the White House.

"The name Hanks," I continued gently. "Seems that there was once
a girl named Nancy in the Hanks family."

186 Hurrah for Arkansas!

"That was an entirely different branch of the Hanks family," said
loyal little Miss Johnnie. "And besides she was illegitimate! We never
speak of her!"

Something tells me that Helena will always be Helena, even when
the levee is lined with flourishing manufacturing plants instead of
shambling fishermen.

XV

Land of Cotton,

Contests and Contentment

HEAD east from Little Rock and you are going south* It
seems strange perhaps, but every roll of the tires is taking you deeper
and deeper into the Land of Cotton. More colored people are seen
along the highways! Some are walking along, dressed in spick-and-
span clothes, headed for church or prayer meeting if it is a Sunday, or
to town if it is Saturday. Some are riding in wagons, with chairs in
the back for Mom and Aunt Jane. Some are driving rattletrap cars.
And some are fishing, sitting so close to the road they can undoubtedly
feel the rush of air from each passing car.

Along the highway that leads from North Little Rock to West
Memphis, I have always been fascinated by the long, shallow lake.
Part of the charm came from seeing people fishing so close to the
highway, part from the tall cypress trees growing in the muddy
water, with gnarled knees sticking up in the air, and the rest from the
fact that water just naturally has an enormous attraction for me! The
Arkansas Traveler who is driving south by going east finds this lake
lying at the right, so close to the pavement that one may toss a cigarette
into it and, buddy, if you are in the habit of tossing out lighted ciga
rettes along the road, I hope you wait until you get to that body of
water!

On the left of the lake lie broad lawns, studded with magnolias and
other trees and shrubbery such as only the South can produce. Back
of the lawns stand beautiful homes with deep, shaded porches.

Many times I have wished that a woman would suddenly come out

187

188 Hurrah for Arkansas!

o one of those houses, run swiftly down to the gate and call, "Oh,
Marge, won t you come in a minute ?" Nobody ever has, although I
have often driven very, very slowly along, in order to give any would-
be hostess plenty of time to stop me.

One spring morning I decided to take matters into my own hands. I
would stop at one of houses, I said to myself. I chose it carefully, pass
ing up those that smacked of newness or too-too ostentation. I found one
simply perfect. It was long and white, with lawns just a bit greener,
magnolias just a bit taller, and porches just a bit more spacious and
shaded, than those of any other dwelling.

As at most Southern homes, a colored girl answered the doorbell.
She said her mistress was "around in back/ There I found Gertrude
Young overseeing the gardening efforts of a tall muscular man
whom she called Harrison. Pansies, violets and spring beauties car
peted the moist, rich, dark earth beneath the tall shrubs. Harrison s
touch with the hoe was as gentle as a mother s hands. I watched them
as I crossed the lawn, the slender graying woman giving her soft-
voiced directions and the smiling gardener easing the dirt about each
tiny plant. The spring sunshine lighted up the white-blossoming pearl
bush and the feathery boughs of spiraea, and deepened the shadows
among the glossy foliage of magnolias and holly bush. Here was the
South, and even if I got kicked out, I would always remember this back
yard!

Yes, this was the South, but when the mistress of the house greeted
me there was no trace of its accent in her voice. Gertrude was a city
girl from Kansas when she met a young man from the South at Luding-
ton, Michigan, and became his bride.

Mrs. Young was delightfully hospitable. She changed her shoes at
the back door, leaving the muddy ones on the porch, and then took me
through her home, with its beautiful breakfast room, wide living
room, generous halls and the cove ceilings with bas-relief decorations.
Each bedroom had both its own bath and its own sleeping porch the
positive height of comfort for Southern living. The antiques were
enough to make one s mouth water drum tables, mirrors and all the

Ltmd of C0&am r Contests mmd Contentment HB

beautiful furnishings that devdbp a rich growing patina darot^jfa ycais
of fajthftily loving care.

This time when the war was mentioned, k was not the War between
the States, but World War IL With it sorrow came to that gracious
home along the shallow lake. OEIC of the two sons erf the Yooags was
killed in Air Corps service. Photographs of his smiting face in erory
room brought home even to the most casual viator the heartbreak of
his death, As we talked, it was difficult for Mrs- Young to speak of
Billy in the past tense. She mentioned "the boys" as though Billy were
still able to come in after a date, take a noisy, bubbling shower IB the
"boys bathroom" and then stretch his long lean frame in one of the
snowy beds cm the big sleeping porch. Somehow, she seemed to
grow smaller and frailer when she remembered to say, "Billy used

&>...!"

At the back of the house, Mr. Young had an office with a separate
entrance, for the 3,GQQ-acre Young estate was a "going dairy business"
as well as cotton plantation. Two thousand of the acres were devoted
to cotton. On the remaining thousand acres, forty milk cows and 250
beef cattle grazed and throve.

In a littk cottage back of the garden, Lucy, the cook, and her hus
band, the Harrison of the garden, lived a happy life, Mrs. Young
proved that she was "of the South," even if not from the South, by her
outspoken love and respect for her colored help. "I m very fortunate
indeed to have such good help," she said. She was proud, too, ribat
they approved of her. She told of a time when she was showing
Harrison how to plant seeds in a flower bed. She seized the hoe and
vigorously prepared the seed bed.

Harrison watched her for a moment, and then said, *Tore pappy
shore larnt you how to handle a hoel"

The lake in front of the house? Why, that was Hill Lake, popularly
supposed to be the old bed of the Arkansas River. Time and floods
have changed the river to a course miles away, but there was the
shallow bed, lined with willows and cypress trees, and filled with
water that had a tendency toward mud. Croppies, catfish and bass

190 Hurrah for Arkansas!

lived and multiplied in it. It might have become a popular fishing spot,
but the families whose homes face on the lake waterway had it posted,
and only their help were allowed to fish in it.

We walked through the gracious rooms, lovely with exquisite fur
nishings which showed the good taste of the girl from Kansas. The
talk turned to housekeeping, as it will wheri two housewives get to
gether, and Mrs. Young told another story of Billy, the young pilot
who never came back.

"One day/ she said, "when Billy was just a small boy, I returned
from town and found him in my clothes closet, looking over all my
clothes. I asked what on earth he was doing. I can still hear his reply.
Why, Mother, he said, 1 just happened to think that if you were to
die, I wouldn t know where anything was! "

I went back to my car, lingering under the holly and magnolias and
drinking in the beauty of the redbud and spiraea as long as I dared.
The beauty and heartbreak that seemed the lot of the South in earlier
times still persist.

One day at the Statehouse in Little Rock, I asked if Arkansas had a
really big cotton plantation. That was just like asking someone along
the Mississippi if he knew where there were fish. I was promptly
told a story that seemed fantastic. Just north of West Memphis a man
had built up a plantation so huge that he owned a town. It was named
for him . . . Wilson! That I had to see! Go right on up, I was told. Ask
to see Jim Grain, manager of the Wilson estate, and he will tell you all
about it. Oh, yeah! My guardian angel was attending to other business
that day. After many weary miles of driving I arrived at Wilson, the town
owned by the R. E. Lee Wilson heirs. It started out like any other town:
nice houses, wide streets, then a jog in the road, and I was cheek by jowl
with a beautiful rose garden. Beyond the rose garden and other hand
some landscaping was a long, 1-o-n-g building, containing drugstore,
bank, grocery store and a few other commercial places, all sheltered by
a porch. Another row of stores and shops stood at right angles to the .

Land of Cotton, Contests and Contentment 191

long building, and among them I found a quiet little restaurant where
I could eat a belated breakfast.

As I ate, I reached for a Memphis newspaper lying alongside the
pepper, the salt and the paper napkins. Lazily I read the news of the
day : politicians announcing their candidacy, or denying they would be
candidates . . . complaints against the OPA . . . Margaret Truman s
desire to be an opera singer. Then I saw a headline that brought me
up standing: The heirs of the R. E. Lee Wilson plantation and Mr.
Grain were having a serious altercation. And there was I in Wilson to
interview Jim Grain!

If Mr. Grain would see a roving reporter on that day I would be
much surprised. In fact, I wasn t sorry when the office girl said Mr.
Grain was "out of town." As the day wore on, I was less sorry. I met
Mrs. Dora Merrell, known as "Aunt Dora" or "Mayor of Wilson."

Aunt Dora, sister of the late Mrs. R. E. Lee Wilson, still occupies the
Wilson home. I went to call on her. "She is gone to the cemetery," I
was told by the girl who answered the doorbell. "Yas m. She said she d
be back by noon if it didn t rain. If it did rain, why, she d be back as
soon as she could git here."

I found the cemetery five miles away and parked my car at the en
trance. A week s rain in the delta had taught me that a person couldn t
bog down in the mud if he spread his toes wide. But a car didn t have
toes. I walked through the cemetery to a lot where a woman in shabby
black dress, a tired sweater and a funny little hat was directing the
activities of a half-dozen workmen. With rakes, spades and lawn
mower they were pulling weeds and otherwise straightening the flower
rows in the big family lot. I turned to and began pulling weeds, while
Mrs. Merrell told of the difficulties of keeping up a cemetery. So many
people gone . . . and look what happens to the graves they leave behind
them! Such nice people buried there! Fine old families! And now
grass all over the graves. Somebody had to show that the world hadn t
forgotten the good they had done, and it looked as if it were up to her.
So there, on her seventy-third birthday, Aunt Dora was doing what
she could. She left the family lot and moved along the roadway to an-

192 Hurrah for Arkansas!

other plot. Suddenly she threw up her hands in horror and shouted
for the boys to come.

"Oh, land sakes alive, what is this place coming to!" she exclaimed.
"Look! Wild onions!" The boys came hastily with hoes and spades
and soon the offending critters had been uprooted.

Many of the stones marked graves of Confederate soldiers. Aunt
Dora went among them, reverently clipping weeds or fixing rose vines.
The lad who was being trained as her handy man was praised and
complimented when he trailed along and found bits of work to do.
Then a shower came up in dead earnest and we all scurried for town.
Later at the Wilson home we sat in a cool room and chatted of the
Wilson family.

R. E- Lee Wilson, head of the $8,000,000 enterprise until his death,
had been an orphan at fifteen. While still in his teens, he bought a
small farm, and the taste of land ownership whetted his appetite for
more. He bought a sawmill and cleared a quarter section of timbered
land. Part of this was sold, and with the money he bought something
over 2,000 acres of swampland. The swamp, however, had fine big
trees on it. He cleared the land and drained the swamp water, which
gave him thousands of acres of rich black soil just what was needed
for raising cotton.

The Wilson home had the grandeur of elegant dwellings built and
furnished at the turn of the century. The heavy carpets and furniture
dated the upswing in the finances of the Lee Wilson family. A few
modern touches seemed to stand out with startling vividness. One was
a magnificent tapestry brought to Aunt Dora by her nephew Joe Wil
son Nelson, pilot in the Army. Another was a photograph of the late
President Roosevelt, smiling at a handsome little boy and a beautiful
young woman. I learned the lad was little Nicholas Craw, great-
grandson of the Wilsons, and the picture was taken when the Presi
dent gave him the medals won by his young father who was killed in
Africa.

"I just keep the house going for Joe Wilson and the girls," said Aunt
Dora. "It was such a gay place in the old days. The young folks had

Sinking an oil or gas well in southern Arkansas may bring undreamed-of
wealth to a farmer and prosperity to a community. To the drillers it is just
another job!

Land of Cotton, Contests and Contentment 193

much company, and there were many people here to see Mr. Wilson.
Mrs. Wilson was an invalid for years before her death, and I helped
run the household and take care of the children."

We got into Aunt Dora s little sedan and started out to look at some
of the Wilson interests. The seventy-year-old spinster drove with the
gay abandon of a high-school boy. She laughed as she commented on
her driving and added, "People get out of the way.* It was a relief
to know that. I could settle back in my seat.

The countryside was dotted with the green-painted, red-roofed tenant
houses with which the Wilson interests supplied their workers. In the
town most of the houses were Wilson-owned, although all of them did
not wear the Wilson colors. Aunt Dora pointed them out to me. Some
gave her cause for great concern.

"Look at those yards," she said. "I ll have to come over some of these
evenings and mow them."

"What about the people who live there?" I asked. "Can t they mow
their own lawns?"

"Could, but won t!" returned Aunt Dora. "Ill do it myself."

I could understand why Aunt Dora was called the mayor.

Second only to the Wilson home in the estimation of Aunt Dora s
the women s clubhouse, standing in the midst of a beautiful flower
garden. It is a big building with high-ceilinged rooms and was once
a school. When a new school was built, Aunt Dora begged that the
old one might be given to the women s club. For more than twenty
years, it had been her pride and joy. Everything in and around the
building reflected her loving touch.

Some of the finest antiques of eastern Arkansas can be found in this
clubhouse a pink luster punch bowl worth a fortune, along with other
beautiful china and glass. Then there are many items with historical
backgrounds. One is a big iron pot that came from the home of Presi
dent James K. Polk. A slave sold by the Polks . brought it with her.
"I d like to have a dollar for every mess of greens cooked in that pot,"
said Aunt Dora. Another treasure is a magnificent desk which Presi
dent Wilson used on the ship that carried him to Europe. Still another

194 Hurrah for Arkansas!

is an inlaid bowl, in which George Washington is said to have washed
his feet. Older than these, but less ornate, are the Indian pots found
under the building when the plumbers* helpers were digging drains.

In the hall stands a little trunk in which a woman carried food when
she went to visit her wounded Confederate husband. It is stained with
water, the marks of the floods through which the horses and carriage
floundered on a perilous journey.

"Such a beautiful place!" I said, and meant it. "Do you allow other
parties besides those given by the women s clubs?"

"Yes," she said, "we have been having other parties! But I don t
know if we can allow it any longer. The last time the young folks had
a party here, I had to carry out a bushel basket full of botdes."

Let the Wilson heirs divide the plantation as they see fit! I don t care
a whoop who gets what. But if Aunt Dora is going to be given away, I
want to put in my bid for her right now.

Staying in tourist camps pardon me, tourist courts is one of the
ways by which travel becomes broadening. The things one learns tsk,
tsk! Each tourist court has its own personality. Some are staid, quiet,
middle-aged affairs, like, perhaps, the court at Gurdon, Arkansas.
Others are young, vibrant, full of pulsating life, like, one might say,
the Alamo Plaza courts at Little Rock. Some are hopelessly sad and
dreary, reminding me of the forlorn old woman who lived at the
statue in Lincoln Park one summer during the depression, or the
one who used to go around Madison and Halsted, dusting the mail
boxes. Then for a tourist court with a touch of the Latin Quarter and
North Clark Street, I ll nominate the tourist courts in West Memphis.

My guardian angel was right on the job when I planned to stop in
West Memphis. I had the good sense to ask Bessie McRee, of the
Chamber of Commerce of Helena, to phone the West Memphis C. of C.
to get a cabin for me. In a moment the phone call came back. I was to
register at the 20th Century Court, situated on the highway between
West Memphis and Memphis.

It was a pleasing place, with good bath and nice furnishings. How-

Land of Cotton, Contests and Contentment 195

ever, the garage which should have gone with the cabin had been fitted
into a bedroom for the son of the proprietor, just home from the Navy.
All was well, until a rainstorm threatened! Then I remembered the
stalling proclivities of my car. I went to the proprietor and told her
my tale of woe. I had the choice then of moving into No. 6, which
had a garage, or staying in No. 1, into which I had unloaded my type
writer and luggage, and putting my car in the garage that went with
No. 6. Naturally I let the car do the moving, and I stayed in No. 1.
When a tenant showed up for No. 6, and rain was pouring, the howl that
went up about "no garage" could have been heard to high heaven.
Since No. 1 was alongside the office, I heard it all, but I just bent my
head over my typewriter and pretended to be busily writing.

The next morning I wanted to be off early to make a long trip and
return before dark. I went blithely out to get my car! Ah, the occu
pant of No, 6 had his revenge! He had parked his car so that I could
barely get out without nicking my fenders. How to maneuver it, get it
turned and headed from the court was the problem of the week for me.
I went forward three inches, turned the wheel, backed four inches,
went forward again, then turned and backed! Far into the hour when
I should have been on my way, I was still backing and turning. Had
No. 6 s car been drawn forward a foot, it would have helped, but of
course I had no way of knowing whether or not its owner was up!
Certainly I couldn t awaken a stranger, much less one who was mad at
me. I continued to pull and haul on the wheel until I was dripping
with perspiration and before breakfast, too*

At last, I had the car free of the door and was ready to take off. I
pulled up at the filling station a hundred feet from fatal No. 6 to get
gas. Just by chance I looked back toward its door. The occupant was
just coming out, with hat, coat and brief case! He got into his car, and
drove briskly away! The son-of-a-gun had been sitting in his cottage,
ready to leave, but getting a big bang out of seeing me work so hard at
dodging his car. If looks were daggers, he would be wearing one be
tween his shoulder blades. And here, help me pull this one out of my
back!

196 Hurrah for Arkansas!

During the course of my five-day stay at this tourist court, my land
lady brought in a nice-looking young woman whom she introduced
as "another writer." The girl had been one of those WAVES who
had interesting writing jobs in England during the war, getting out a
beautiful propaganda magazine such as had never been seen over here.
On her return to the States, the girl had teamed up with another young
woman, also a WAVE, from Kentucky. They had talked the mother
of the Kentucky girl into lending them her automobile for three
months, and were touring the country, getting material for a book.

The girls and I struck up what amounted to a pleasant companion
ship. Then suddenly they moved. They came back to tell me why.
Four dollars per night at the 20th Century was a dollar more than
their budget allowed. They had to go over on another highway and
find a modest place that could be rented for three dollars per night.

"My goodness!" said my landlady, when I explained why my new
friends had suddenly "left out." "I hope they don t get into one of those
courts that rent cottages by the hour."

She was well informed about other tourist courts. She knew of one
on the other side of Memphis that had a night watchman named Mor
timer who checked couples in and out like a receptionist admitting per
spiring would-be broadcasters for an audition.

I was glad chance had brought me to the 20th Century Court.

Along in the small hours of that night, my Boston terrier suddenly
jumped to her feet and ran to the door. Any movement of hers in the
night always brings me wide-awake, for Judy is not an alarmist. She
needed to go outside, but fast! I jumped out of bed and opened the door!
No one would be driving up to the office at this hour, I thought, and
the little dog could walk safely across the concrete drive in front of
my cabin. I was looking down at her when I opened the door, and
I saw the hackles rise along her neck. I glanced up. In the bright
light from the neon sigh I saw a tall, handsome, well-dressed man, of
middle age, standing as close to my door as the screen would allow.
Probably he heard my gasp of surprise, or possibly he wasn t expecting
a lady in a pink nightgown to answer his light knock on what he must

Land of Coffi&m, Ccmfesis &nd Contentment 19?

have thought the office door! He backed up a step. Then lie whis
pered across die interening space, "Where s Mortimer?"

I told Kirrtj feeling very much like 3. handmaid of Aphrodite.

My stay at West Memphis coded in a robbery. On the morning I
intended to leave, my landlady and her son answered a frantic cal
from the maid who was doing up the cabins. The bedspreads from
the twin beds of No. 4 had disappeared. Who had been in No. 4? The
proprietor and her son put their heads together and recalled that the
occupants were a fine-looking young couple with good cloches and a
good car.

"Now why will people like that steal?" moaned the landlady. Then
she shrieked, "My good spreads! I paid thirty-five dollars apiece for
them, and now one can t get any, at any price!"

The young man had given their address as some town in Texas, and
Texas is both far away and a big state. The landlady and her son began
ID wonder if either the young man or his wife had dropped any due
to their travels for the next few days. Suddenly the son remembered
hearing a long-distance call. The husband had called his father, and
asked him to meet them at a livestock auction in Memphis the next
day. It took only a few minutes to check the call and get the oH gentle
man s name. Then the landlady and her son drove off toward Memphis.
I delayed my start until they returned.

When they came up they reported that the robber and his wife had
not shown up at Memphis. They had found the father, however, and
delivered an ultimatum to him. He must persuade his son to send
back the purloined bedspreads or the 20th Century proprietor would
get a lawyer who would put him in jail in Texas, Arkansas or any other
state in which he preferred to be locked up.

To this date I have not gone back to find out about the bedspreads. It
missing the last installment- of a murder mystery.

When I met Mrs. Mary Kuhn of Marion, Arkansas, she had been
a widow three years. So far she had not been obliged to send any of

198 for Arkansas!

her out 10 oil the streets for pennies. In fact,

Mary w right well for herself and her girls, because,

to of Memphis, where Mrs. Kuhn did her mar-

sfcc an A4 farmer. Each year 3,500 acres of cotton were
her supervision. The remainder of the 10,000-acre plan*
to com* beans, vetch, soybeans, alfalfa, lespediza, oats
barley. Only one of these crops, beans, was grown for sale. The
wore for the improvement of the land, and food for the animals.
Not for Miss Mary a one-crop farm! When the plantation became
her responsibility she began to practice all the tricks of soil conserva
tion, were made plowable, drainage ditches were installed,
was halted. Vetch was planted so it could be turned under
for soil betterment, and now alfalfa was coming in in a big way. In
fact, Mary her order in for machinery that would pulverize it
for O3mmercial sale.

acre of her "little cotton patch" produced about a bale and a
quarter. A bale weighs 500 pounds. It seemed like a lot of cotton, but
tiiere might have been more!

That was the year when the weather pulled some strange tricks.
Too much rain in the spring made planting late. Then there was poor
picking weather in the autumn, and much cotton stayed in the fields
all winter. It seemed strange to drive through the cotton country the
next spring and see cotton pickers dragging sacks and doing work
ordinarily done in the autumn. It was not a pleasant sight to Mrs.
Kiihn and other cotton growers, either. Cotton that has remained in
the field through the winter rains and snows is definitely out of the
first-grade class. According to Mrs. Kuhn, it just about pays for the
planting and picking.

Anyone who pictured Mrs. Kuhn living a life of idle ease as a big
plantation owner was just plain foolish. She was up at six, left the
house at seven to go to one of her plantation headquarters, ate her
lunch wherever she happened to be sometimes it was a sandwich
made of souse and crackers from the counters of her own store and
returned home whenever she could put off problems she must solve.

Land of Cotton, Conte$t$ and Camtemtm&nt 199

Or, most likely, she took them home with her. A 10,000-acre planta
tion is Big Business.

Mrs. Kuhn had two headquarters, one at Ebony, which was really
the main office, and another at Stacy. At each a general store was
maintained. This supplied clothing, food, fresh meats, soft drinks, etc*
to 200 tenant families that lived on the plantation. The store at Stacy
was equipped with a walk-in cooler in which meat could be held for
both stores. At each place there was a blacksmith to shoe the 200 mules
and make repairs on farm machinery. Plantation carpenters ate were
employed the year around. They kept the tenant houses in repair and
saw that they were neatly painted red or covered with brick siding.
Mechanics took care of tractors and tractor-drawn equipment, such as
corn pickers, combines, hay balers, plows, discs, cultivators and other
attachments, all of which Miss Mary owned. She had also to maintain
a fleet of trucks, and four managers were provided with cars, for over
seeing purposes. In addition, Miss Mary operated two four-stand gias
which separated lint from the seed of about 5,000,000 pounds of seed
cotton in an average year. Each gin had its own mechanic, who had
been on the place for years. Both were operated by Diesel engines and
had boll extractors, Mitchell cleaners and driers to maintain die best
sample possible.

Miss Mary also did considerable cattle raising. Sic had 150 head oi
Hereford cattle, both registered and grade. Some were sold, some were
slaughtered for the plantation stores. She raised also about 300 hogs at
a time, and during the meat shortage her porkers furnished fresfet
meat, salt meat and shortening for both stores.

In addition to all of this, Miss Mary supervised all the building, plan
ning and drawing of blueprints for the houses erected on the planta
tion. Her own home was built in 1926 before her husband s death; then
two duplexes were erected in Marion in 1936-1937; the J. F. Rieves, Jr.,
house in 1940; the brick store in 1945; the bookkeeper s house at Ebony
in 1946. Right then two more modern houses were being constructed.
None of the work was contracted. Miss Mary hired the carpenters and
supervised the jobs. All homes on the plantation were sprayed twice

200 Hurrah for Arkansas!

during the summer with DDT under the government program. Miss
Mary was carrying on a building schedule in which older homes were
gradually being replaced with modern houses. These were equipped
with bottled gas, hot and cold running water, attic fans and other
modern conveniences that seem luxuries indeed in comparison with
Uncle Tom s Cabin.

Besides the 200 tenant families, Miss Mary has had to hire a great
many cotton pickers in the autumn. Many of them came from Mem
phis, in big buses, and Miss Mary waited at the store until all were paid
for their day s work and sent home. During the war much of the cotton
on this great plantation was picked by German prisoners, who were
brought over from two near-by POW camps in details of thirty to a
hundred.

Miss Mary had two mechanical cotton pickers on order. She believed
they should be put in general use if the South was to compete with for
eign countries in cheap production.

On alternate Saturdays she went to Ebony or Stacy in order to meet
the pay rolls personally. She took special pride in the fact that at least
75 percent of the labor on the place was there when she took over. The
years since had been years of migratory temptation for laborers and
it spoke well for her that she had been able to keep so many of her
employees. She was treated with respectful deference by the help, and
she treated them the same way. Some of the share croppers had worked
for her husband twenty years, and one old Negro had worked for
her father-in-law down in Mississippi. Always, as she went about the
plantation or the gins, she carried money in her purse, for sooner or
later, one of her helpers would say, "Mis* Mary, can you loan me two
dollars?"

Four Negro schools and four Negro churches were located on differ
ent parts of the property. All the churches looked to Miss Mary for
liberal donations and were not disappointed.

In the South "furnish money" is one of the burdens of the cotton
planter. This is the money paid to the share cropper in anticipation of
his crop which will be marketed at picking time. "Furnish money"

Land of Cotton, Comte&$ &d Contentment 201

begins in March, and k usually $10 per month per person. That is, if
a man has a wife and six children, he gets |80 a month, usiiaUy paid
in two lumps, half on the first and the other half cm the fifteenth. These
payments arc made regularly up to cotton-picking time. Mrs. Kuhn
had a neat way of providing coupons that did away with many of the
bad features of the plan.

This Arkansas Traveler could no more generalize about share
croppers than about the people who live on Sheridan Road or Truman
Avenue. Into my ears have been poured harrowing tales of their laxness
and general do4essness.

"Look at the neat little white houses our plantation owner has fixed
up for his share croppers," the blond wife of a foreman said to me
one day, waving furiously toward a row with blue shutters. "Do you
know what will happen in the first cold spell? The triflin* things will
grab those shutters off and burn them. Next they ll take up the floors
and burn them! Just to keep from cuttin* wood."

She went on to tell of the trouble she had to get help with the farm
work while her husband was laid up with a lame foot.

"We re using day laborers out of Memphis to chop cotton. And do
you know what? I have to get up at four o clock and drive the truck
to Memphis to get them. Not a man on this place will get up that
early."

The women belonging to those men came in for even deeper am-
tempt from her. They took no pride in the neat little houses. "They
sit in filth all day long, and at night patronize the honky-tonks in the
worst part of Memphis. They have no modesty and less than no morals."

It had given me a very bad impression of share croppers. Later, that
impression was completely reversed,

I happened to be at the Ebony store just after the house occupied
by one of Miss Mary s share croppers burned down. The tearful house
wife came running into the store with something hidden under her
coat. She rushed to Miss Mary, brought out the concealed object and

202 Hurrah for Arkansas!

asked her to keep it In the safe. It was a Mason fruit jar full of money.
As for Miss Mary, she was far more concerned about the loss of the
family s nice furniture than about the destruction of the cottage. Over
the supper table that night she discussed the new cottage she would
build for them. It would be one many a city dweller would covet.

The faith of Miss Mary s employees that she can work miracles was
also enlightening to me!

One day she picked up a share cropper as he plodded along the
muddy road and took him to the store.

"I was wantin* to see you, Mis Mary," he said.

"What s wrong, Bates?" she asked. "If it s about having your porch
repaired, well, you should have told the carpenter when he fixed that
wall."

"No m! It ain t that. I wanted to tell you I sold my car."

"Oh, Bates," exclaimed Miss Mary. "You shouldn t have done that!"

"Well, I got $200 dollars for it. And it wouldn t run!" he said.

Miss Mary drove faster, her forehead wrinkled with Bates s cares.
From the back seat came the sound of a preliminary throat clearing.
Then Bates spoke again. "Mis Mary! Now I wants you to tell me
where I can git me another car for $200 one that will run."

All through eastern Arkansas I was able to forget that racial prejudice
has been warmed up in some places until it is all too readily reaching
the boiling-over point. Nobody seemed to be mad at anybody else in
the cotton country. In fact, I seemed to be the only one worrying about
the future of the Southland s cotton pickers when mechanical cotton
pickers come into general use. I was happily reassured by the words of
Oscar Johnson, president of the Cotton Council of America, in a speech
made at the Blytheville Cotton Picking Contest.

"Hand-picked cotton, like a hand-tailored suit, will always have a
market," said Mr. Johnson to an audience of several thousand cotton
growers and pickers.

The annual cotton-picking derby at Blytheville has become one o
the greatest contests known to agriculture, probably because of the ex
cellent co-operation of the Blytheville Junior Chamber of Commerce

Land of Cotton f Contests and Contentment 203

which stages the whooperdoo contest that culminates in a Cotton Ball
at night.

After one o those contests, this chronicler will ever associate a bosy
young fellow in slacks and blue sports jacket, with an embroidered
cotton boll on his back, as part of the cotton scene of Arkansas. Quite
wisely, the Blytheville Jaycees wore identical blue jackets, with names
like Bill, Tom, Doc and Jim embroidered on the front pockets, in
order that they might be spotted readily in the crowd. Each member
seemed to have a definite job to perform. From where I stood, sat or
leaned, each seemed to be doing it well, maintaining by uplifted arms
a sort of signal code with the others, or perhaps arm waving went with
each job. At any rate, co-ordination seemed to be perfect!

After all, a cotton-picking contest is not something that can be
whipped up at a Tuesday-night pep meeting. Long ago an eighty-acre
cotton field was set aside for this annual event. It lay in an ideal spot,
just across the fence from the fairground which had a large amphi
theater separated from a speaker s stand by a wide open space that might
have been a race track at one time. Early in the spring, after the field
was well fertilized, the owner planted it with a special sort of cotton,
practically free from boll stickers that might hurt a contestant s fingers
or slow him down. All summer the field was tended with greatest care.

When the bolls began to burst and spill their snowy contents, contest
time was drawing near. A week or so before the day of the contest an
airplane swooped up and down the rows, scattering a chemical that de
foliated the plants. Only a few dry crumpled leaves were left, and
the trash hazard, which can upset a contestant s rating, was reduced ma
terially. In a cotton-picking contest three scores must be tallied: (1)
How much cotton is picked ? (2) How clean is it, that is, how free from
dried leaves, sticks or bolls? and (3) How clean did the contestant
leave his rows? Very often one who picks the most cotton loses out on
the championship because he does not get all the cotton, or because it is
mixed with trash.

The morning of the contest was typical of the Southland in picking
time, clear and bright, with a blue sky. The contest was scheduled to

204 Hurrah for Arkansas!

start at ten o clock, and long before the busy Jaycees arrived with their
tally cards and entrance sheets, pickers and spectators had gathered at the
field. From eleven states came 262 contestants boys, girls, men and
women, black, white, tall, short, skinny or dumpy, dressed in garments
that represented all the work clothes known to the cotton field. Each
signed up, paid a $10 entry fee, and was allowed to draw a number
that designated the two rows the contestant would pick in the
next two hours. Each was assigned a Blytheville Boy Scout who
acted as a sort of cotton caddy, carrying extra bags and helping to tote
in the filled bags. With typical easy-going calmness, the contestants
took their places* They could find the rows they had drawn easily by
looking for the big numbered stake that headed each row. No one
grumbled at his lot, not even a forlorn Elmer who had unluckily
drawn two end rows where the fertilizer had failed to take hold. Then
a gun sounded and the contest was on. The mad scramble and furious
opening effort I had anticipated failed to materialize, for cotton is never
picked with fuss and fury.

Each contestant reached smoothly and easily for the tufts of snowy
cotton, stuffing them into the picksack with a rhythm of motion that
might have been set to music. When cotton massed along any part of
the long bag that looped over one shoulder and trailed along the row,
the contestant would seize it in both hands and shake it deftly, like a
photographer arranging a bride s satin train for a wedding picture.
Each move of the hands was made to count. Some wary contestants
saved morion by picking the cotton from three or four bolls before they
stuffed it into the sack. Slowly and steadily they worked their way
down the rows, while friends, relatives and folks who just like contests
gathered by thousands outside the fence to watch their progress. It
was possible, on that level field, to see even the far end of the rows, but
the contestants were often hidden as they bent wearying backs to snare
the bolls that grew low on the plants. My sympathies were with the
luckless Elmer, and I stayed at the end rows to see how he fared. Other
eyes, too, were upon him. Long before he reached the last boll of the
sparse-growing cotton on his rows, a blue-coated Jaycee was beside

Land of Cotton, Contests ond Contentment 205

him- Then he was escorted to unclaimed rows where he could resume
picking without losing a minute s time*

As the contestants swept into the second rows, Boy Scout caddies
began to bring in great gray stuffed bags, the first results of the picking,
and in a few minutes the stake row had the appearance of a long line
of half-submerged hippopotami. Then at last one of the Jaycees went
out into the field, and with the ever-visible raised arm, fired a pistol.
The picking was over. Now for the weighing and judging! The spec
tators promptly packed themselves into the amphitheater, filling it to
the roof, and lunch was forgotten as we watched contestants, caddies
and hastily commandeered helpers file into the open space, carrying the
great gray bags. Large squares of canvas were spread on the ground and
there each picker s take was heaped, after the official weighing, ready
for the men who would judge its cleanliness. Beside each mound sat a
weary, perspiring picker gratefully eating the hot dogs and drinking the
soda pop brought by anxious wife, husband or mother. The judges
moved unhurriedly from mound to mound, while radio stars enter
tained the crowd with songs and patter. Among the mounds, in the
amphitheater, and even at the microphone were the ever4msy Jaycees,
placing and placating the crowd that increased as the minutes went by.
Finally Governor Ben Laney and his party came back from lunch and
were escorted to the speakers stand.

Then we had speeches designed to cheer and inspire everyone con
nected with cotton growing. In the midst of the speeches, someone
dropped a lighted pipe into a pile of cotton and flames shot skyward.
Nobody became excited. As though it were part of the contest, some
one brought an extinguisher and the flames soon subsided into a pillar
of smoke. The Jaycee at the mike quipped: "Remember last year
Governor Laney said that he used to pick cotton so fast he had to carry
an asbestos picksack. When that fire started, I was sure the governor
had slipped out to the field and started picking!"

Then the women of the cotton belt had their hour of glory. As great
red trucks from the plantation that owned the contest field carried off
the mounds of cotton, a style show was held. Lovely models from the

206 Hurrah for Arkansas!

ages of two years upward paraded along the runway before the amphi
theater, wearing sleek, home-tailored garments made from cotton sacks
that once held flour or chicken feed. One of the models was Becky
McCall, the Blytheville girl who was runner-up to Miss America in the
1946 national beauty contest.

After the governor s tactful short-short speech, the winners were an
nounced. At least a dozen men and almost as many women received
prizes ranging from $25 to $100 before the grand champion cotton
pickers were introduced. Then we learned that in two hours Mrs. Helen
Poole, thirty-one years old, of Leachville, Arkansas, had picked her
weight in cotton, ninety-five pounds. She received $250. Eugene
Shinault, of Memphis, had picked 109 pounds of trash-free cotton. He
received $1,000. At picking wages then being paid $250 per hundred
in eastern Arkansas, and $3 in the Missouri bootheel, this speed would
rate a nice income.

Easy work, did you say? Just try it sometime!

Cotton picking may seem like child s play. Phooey, anybody can
pick cotton! I remember saying it myself. You just spread your fingers
out as if you meant to pick up a small hot potato and pull out the
cotton. There s nothing to it!

One autumn before we moved to Arkansas I went to pick cotton in
southeast Missouri. I took my big shade hat, plenty of sleeveless
dresses, and before going out to the cotton plantation, I bought a pick-
sack nine feet long. The shopkeeper suggested that I buy a six-foot
sack, but I assured him that was much too small for a cotton picker
with the speed I expected to develop.

With me on my cotton-picking venture were Martha Lester and
Helen Killion, whom I had met at a girls camp, and Martha s mother,
Mrs. Shelby Lester, of Portageville, Missouri. The field which we
honored with our presence was part of the thousand-acre plantation
that belonged to Helen s mother and stepfather. It took us a little while
to get started. The two girls looked so beautiful in the cotton field, with
its chest-high plants, its rose and white blossoms, and the bursting bolls,

Land of Cotton, Contests and Contentment 207

that I had them posing this way and that for pictures. The pickers
working in the same field also posed politely for pictures* when I
asked them, but contrary to the guidebooks, they were not singing,
"Swing Low, Sweeeeet Chariotttt!" They had buckled down to busi
ness and were more intent on picking than on grinning before a
camera.

After the pictures I got down to serious picking, too, with the girls
putting an occasional handful into my picksack, and Mrs, Lester sitting
on the side lines, so to speak, a dignified picture in her summer dress
and broad summer hat. I was surprised to find that picking was not so
easy as it had looked. The bolls seemed to grow on the wrong places
on the plants, I had to bend my back to reach them. When I got down
on my knees I could reach the low cotton, but the rest of it was too
high.

Added to that, my costume was completely inappropriate. The
sun scorched my arms. My big hat got in the way whenever I stooped.
A shower the night before had left mud under the plants. It stuck like
glue to my white shoes, and finally I seemed to be wearing dark brown
galoshes.

During this time my grinning co-workers began to bring up sacks to
be weighed at the scales that dangled from the end of the wagon at the
field gate. Whenever a sack was opened over the wagon, a great flood
of soft white cotton would stream out of it. I didn t have enough in my
sack to make a good bump, As the hours went on, the real champion
pickers of the plantation would come up with great bags, dingy and
mud-stained, flung over their shoulders. White teeth would flash in a
wide grin as they caught the smothered exclamations of other hands.
The weights were called out for all to hear seventy-five pounds, a
hundred pounds and even 200 pounds and the day still young!

The average picking for a day is 275, but Mammy and the kids would
often stuff their cotton in Pappy s bag, and it all helped!

Some of the pickers would make notes in grimy little books as they
kept track of their work. Others would walk away, mumbling the

288 Hurrah for Arkansas!

weight and grinning. They were the ones who could neither read nor
write.

"Poor dears," I said to Mrs. Lester, "they can t add. They have to
take a bookkeeper s word for the amount they have picked."

Mrs. Lester laughed. "Not much," she said. "There isn t a man or
woman picking cotton who can t keep track of his earnings, even if he
can t read or write* Perhaps they make little marks in the dirt some
place, or they may make little piles of stones! When it comes time for
them to be paid, they know to the penny just how much is coming to
them."

Then it was time for the combined pickings of Martha, Helen and
me to be weighed. What a chuckle went up from our co-workers! Our
cotton, bag and all, tipped the scales at twenty-four pounds! Helen s
stepfather didn t bother to write it down in the book. He just gave me
the cotton.

I don t believe a present ever gave me more downright satisfaction.
The next time I went to my club meeting, I took bag and cotton with
me and wore my blue jeans. I went into the house, dragging the bag
over the lawn, while the Jedge flourished a large whip over me in the
true Simon Legree manner and shouted dire warnings as I pretended to
falter. It was probably the most dramatic entry a member of the
Colonial Dames Howell County Home Demonstration Club ever
made. During the course of the meeting one of the members who
had come from Tennessee sat down to seed the cotton. The speed
of her slim fingers was almost incredible. To me, getting the seed
from cotton by hand was slow, tedious work even slower and more
tedious than picking although it was a sitting-down job, which helped.
At the close of the meeting, I doled out enough of my cotton to stuff a
cushion for each member.

After that I used the cotton as "busy work." If I was faced with a
long-drawn-out session, perhaps a forenoon when the Jedge was hold
ing court or when I must be present at a political or business discus
sion and keep my mouth shut, I would provide myself with a kctde of

Land of Cotton? Contests &nd Contentment 209

cotton. Always a kettle, became I learned from a minister wlio had
lived in the remote hills that a "passel 1 * of cotton heated before die
seeding began was more readily loosed from its seeds. I would fill my
biggest cast-aluminum kettle widi cotton, set it on the stove until it
was burning hot, then put it on the floor on a tile. The heat of the
kettle would keep the cotton warm all evening, which is something the
aluminum-kettle manufacturers never thought of using as a testi
monial but I ve read worse.

Dear little old Grandma Oliver, who was ninety years old on her
last birthday, spent the last months of her life picking the seeds from
cotton I took to her. It brought back memories of her early years,
when each of the children had to pitch in and pick seeds from a great
stack of cotton that their father would dump before the fireplace to
warm as soon as the sun had gone down. In those days it was the
most exciting event of their lives to have a spark jump out of the fire
place and ignite the cotton. What a hurrying and scurrying to get the
blazing tuft thrust into the fireplace before it set the house on fire!
And what a joy to go to bed without the labor of picking out those
clinging seeds!

For many people in Arkansas cotton is king. Memories of cotton are
as much a part of their childhood background as their homes and their
school. And nothing can take its place!

Even Mrs. Kuhn, the Miss Mary of Marion, told me in her quiet
way, "Cotton is my life!"

Perhaps much of her success as mistress of a 10,000-acre plantation
is due to the fact that she was a plantation girl who literally grew up
with cotton.

"The first gin I remember was a one-stand affair and the Negroes
tramped the cotton into the bale! Often I got in and helped them/
she reminisced.

Miss Mary was a firm believer in the finest machinery possible for
use in the fields. "I can t bear to see mules straining at the plow,
sweating and with tongues hanging out," she said.

210 Hurrah far Arkansas!

Tractors had largely taken over the work of those mules in the fields,
and trucks hauled the cotton to the gins, setting the trailers neatly
under the sheds, ready for unloading.

I shall go to see her mechanical cotton pickers work, for I hear they
are a mighty contrivance of nuts and gears! I want to see if they put
out steel hands with fingers outstretched as though they were picking
up a hot potato. Maybe they will have record players, and Bing Crosby
singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," just to keep up tradition.

Our Past Js a Present Ttelight

WHEN the Arkansas Traveler visits Little Rock, he can
put down thirty cents at a certain desk in a certain entrance hall and
wander at will through a group of buildings that date from 1820. All
the furnishings are authentic of the period and many of the pieces
have actually been brought back by generous heirs. The group is known
as the Territorial Restoration.

Here are the last territorial capitol; the territorial home of Lieutenant
C F. M. Noland, officially delegated to deliver by horseback the first
constitution of the state to Washington, D, C; the home and office of
William E. Woodruff, founder of the Arkansas Gazette, oldest news
paper west of the Mississippi River; and the first residence of Elias K
Conway, who was the fifth governor. The grounds have been planted
with magnolias, fig trees, crepe myrtles and other trees and shrubs suck
as the original owners might have enjoyed. In fact, the whole effect is
as good as a time machine in lopping a hundred years or more off the
calendar.

Anyone who believes Arkansas a low-down state with igorance,
feuds and indolence rampant, would do well to visit this restoration.
Even I, devoted to Arkansas as I am, had my eyes opened by its
gracious beauty. I had never known that Arkansas homes of a hun
dred years ago had the charm of Mount Vernon. Here, in wood, brick
and fabric, is the irrefutable evidence.

To Mrs, Silas Loughborough, of Little Rock, goes the credit for res
cuing the buildings from the ignominy to which they had sunk. A

211

212 Hurrah for Arkansas!

cheap restaurant, a pool hall, a rooming house o doubtful reputation
these were some of the uses to which they had been degraded. Old shacks
had been added, warped wood siding had been put on, and inside, fine
old mantels had been obscured by wood and plaster. How Mrs.
Loughborough learned they were buildings of historical importance,
how she snooped around to discern if they were worjthy of restoration,
are secrets not revealed. In raising the required sum of $80,000, the gov
ernment furnished $37,000 for WPA labor, the state appropriated
$30,000 for architects fees and building materials, and popular sub
scription produced another $15,000. The property was then conveyed
to the state with the stipulation that it be operated as a Historical Mu
seum and Park, with a small entrance fee devoted to maintenance.

Mrs. Sarah B. Campbell was the pleasant superintendent who took
my thirty cents at the door and conducted me on a sight-seeing trip
about the buildings. Although she has pointed out each item thousands
of times to gaping tourists, she still had the enthusiasm of one seeing
them for the first time. It took a bored tourist indeed to refrain from
Ooohing and Ahhhhing along with her. I saw none such. Her capable
helper was Mrs. Dessie Andrews. The two of them kept the build
ings in such perfect order, such spotless perfection, such immaculate
whiteness and shining brightness that one wondered if Little Rock
were free from smoke, dust and grime. All the brass was polished to
the see-yourself stage, and the ruffles on the curtains were fluted with
an old-time fluter.

The Capitol had been in use for fifteen years, when" it was the meeting
place of the last territorial legislature, October 5 to November 16, 1835,
before Arkansas became a state in 1836. It might be a model for a
smart modern country home. It is constructed of large hand-hewed
oak logs covered with red-heart hand-beaded cypress siding. All the
ceiling beams, upstairs and down, have the same beaded finish. The
walls are at least fourteen inches thick and many of the logs are eighteen
to twenty inches wide. The window sills are of that width. The hand
made furniture is particularly interesting. I liked the cupboard with
tin panels pierced in a design of stars and eagles. The doors are four

Our Past Is a Present Delight 213

eagles high. A tavern bench fully ten feet long stands at one side of the
fireplace facing a hickory bench made to fit in a covered wagon* The
stout hickory back rail of the bench was obviously soaked in water to
give it the right bend, and one can still see the holes through which
bolts were thrust in order to fasten the bench to the wagon bed* On
the face of the mantel hangs a pair of lazy tongs, with which a man
too comfortable to move could reach three feet into the fire for a coal
with which to light his pipe.

The House of Representatives met in the ground-floor room dE this
building. When the going got tough, there was nothing to keep the
delegates from adjourning to a room across the hall which had a
spindle bar in the corner. If you are contemplating a postwar home ytm
would do well to study the architectural plan of this bar. Its neat
latches, its little gate and its letdown front would be the envy of your
friends.

On the upper floor is the Senate Chamber, whose main features are
the many-paned windows and the section of wall from which the siding
has been removed to show the hand-hewed log construction. On a
long drop-leaf table, beside a candle in a brass candlestick, lies a book
about the size of a modern novel. Note it carefully* It contains all the
laws of Arkansas Territory, under date of 1835. The draperies are not
the original ones, but were made by the same factory.

Alongside the Capitol is the kitchen, fitted just as it was in territorial
days, with a great crane in the fireplace. All the baking utensils, even
to the muffin pan, are equipped with legs, for baking was done in the
hot ashes and coals of the fireplace. Because this was a Capitol and
important personages had to have good warm meals after long, cold,
dreary rides, the kitchen boasts the first wanning oven of its sort this
Arkansas Traveler ever saw. It is a two-shelf affair with front doors
and no back, like a Hollywood movie set. It could be filled with meat,
potatoes, poke greens, corn bread, beans and pie. It backed up to
the fireplace so the food would be kept warm until the personage had
warmed his hands and his innards in the barroom.

The home of Lieutenant Noland, which is reached by a narrow brick

214 Hurrah for Arkansas!

walk from the Capitol, is enough to make a modern house-hunting lieu
tenant burst into loud yowls of envy. It is of brick, with a wide veranda
across the back, looking out on a garden of flowers and herbs of the
period, which is bordered with box from original plants at Mount
Veraon. Extending back on the right side of the house is Mr. Noland s
office. Opposite is the kitchen, which was always separate from the
house because of the fire hazard. The fire was never allowed to die out,
and the sleepy little colored boy set to watch it couldn t be depended
on to "stomp out" every flying spark.

The house is furnished beautifully with accessories that make a col
lector green with envy. A Marseilles spread on one of the beds is a
particular treasure. Then there are the more familiar "antiques," such
as bed warmer, bootjack, candle snuffer and whale-oil lamps. In the
parlor is a fireside desk among delicately graceful tables and chairs, and
on the wall an original Audubon print, made in Arkansas. The name
of the state is spelled "Arkansaw" on the print. Later such a contro
versy developed over spelling and pronunciation that an act of the
legislature made the spelling "Arkansas," and the pronunciation
"Arkansaw."

In the Woodruff group, the house and print shop form a pleasing
unit about a little courtyard. It is the oldest of the three homes and
brings one face to face with some of the greatest historical events in the
state. When the capital was moved from Arkansas Post to Little Rock,
William Woodruff, who had been publishing the Arkansas Gazette,
promptly picked up his little press and followed to the new city. Four
years later he built his charming house and office, uniting the two
with a brick walk that was gradually overlaid by soil and completely
hidden until the restoration began.

Because many of the Woodruff family still live: in Arkansas and
naturally took great interest in restoring the old home, many beautiful
and interesting items have been brought back. A bed with a wooden
roller that neatly rolled an extra blanket at its foot, a melodeon and a
four-poster crib are good examples. Another memento is a great box
of hand-carved walnut building blocks. In the kitchen stands a mammy

Our Past Is a Present Delight 215

bench, a long bench with a railing along half its front. There a Negro
mammy could park her own baby or her small white charge while
she sat at the open end and did her churning or apple peeling. Several
pieces of Westward Ho glass, pink luster and other important break
ables are in the house.

In the print shop one finds an old press and a file of early copies of
the great paper that still gives the state of Arkansas the daily news.
The first copy published at the Arkansas Post has a conspicuous place
in the room. It covered July, August and September of 1819, but did
not reach the public until November of that year.

The third dwelling is the home of Elias N. Conway, fifth governor of
the state of Arkansas. His brother James S. Conway was the first gov
ernor; under him Elias had served as state auditor. History tells us
Elias was a bachelor. The sight of a trundle bed in the gentleman s
rather formal Southern house brought a chuckle from the Minne
sota ladies who were seeing the buildings in my party. Mrs. Camp
bell, the indefatigable guide, explained that it was for Mr. Conway s
small nephew, who necessarily went along when his distinguished
parents visited their equally distinguished brother. Rosewood, crystal,
hand carvings and particular grace and elegance of line are seen in
the furnishings.

Quite naturally, I suppose, I preferred a house in which women and
girls had dwelt the Noland home, for instance. In its front hall was a
tall mirror, with hatrack and bench. Beneath the bench a second mirror
was set close to the floor. This was the petticoat mirror, into which
mother and the girls could peek just before leaving the house to make
sure that no embarrassing bit of lace or embroidery showed below the
hem of their dresses. The ladies from Minnesota and I used it grate
fully to see if our stocking seams were straight.

Such is the changing world!

Fort Smith owes its existence mainly to trouble that occasionally
flared between the Osage and Cherokee Indians. In 1817 Major Stephen
H. Long and a handful of riflemen established the fort at the junction

216 Hurrah for Arkansas!

dE the Arkansas and Potcau Rivers. It was named for General Thomas
A. Smith, the departmental commander who had ordered it built. In
1838 a new and much more substantial fort was constructed, and by the
forties a town of 500 people had been incorporated as Fort Smith. In
1848 news came of the discovery of gold in California. Overnight Fort
Smith became the jumping-ofi place for the Southern route. Thousands
o emigrants streamed through the little town. Gambling dens, pawn
brokers* shops, dance houses, fortune-tellers booths and all the flubdub
of a frontier town sprang up. Prosperity literally raged.

Then came the War between the States. Fort Smith was held by
first one and then the other of the opposing sides, but no major batdes
occurred there. After the war the guardians of the fort had their hands
full governing the Indian Territory just west. The Indians had their
own laws and governed themselves with fair success, but their country
became a haven for every train robber, murderer and horse thief who
could cross its border.

Judge Isaac C. Parker, a Republican from Missouri, was appointed to
the Fort Smith bench in 1875. He was known as the "hanging judge/*
because in the twenty-one years of his reign in the courtroom he sen
tenced 151 men to the gallows. Stern measures, it would seem, but the
men whom he hanged were the worst of desperadoes. A force of 200
rode through Indian Territory looking for the criminals, and they had
to be equally tough. Of the government men, sixty-five were killed in
the generation when Judge Parker reigned supreme. The phrase
"reigned supreme" is used advisedly. Before 1889 and 1891 a man whom
he condemned to death had no opportunity to appeal his case. In those
years Congress passed laws that enabled a condemned man to have an
other day in court.

One of my neighbors, Mrs. Etta Dobbyns, who was taken to live at
Fort Smith as a litde girl in 1881, recalls the old times. The home of
Judge Parker was on the streetcar line which the Dobbynses rode and
often he boarded the same car.

"How did he look?" I asked.

"Just the way a judge should look,** replied my neighbor. **He was a

Our Past Is a Present Dctight 217

big man, not fat, but broad and tall, with magnificent carriage. He
was one of the kindliest men I have ever known, always friendly and
polite, and he seemed to have a special love for children."

Of course he loved children. Every time he sentenced a criminal to
the gallows, he was helping to make Fort Smith a place where children
could grow up in happiness and security. Who can tell how much of
the culture and refinement that make Fort Smith one o the outstand
ing Arkansas cities is due to the fearless and untiring efforts of Judge
Parker?

"I often saw Belle Starr, too " added Mrs. Dobbyns, once the train of
memory got under way. "She would ride into town with her six-
shooters strapped about her, wearing chaps just like a man."

Belle Starr? Oh, yes! I had seen one of her guns in the collection of
Colonel Saunders. But just who was Belle Starr?

"She ran with those gangs of murderers and thieves who prowled
over the Indian Territory." My neighbor shuddered.

"Her reputation wasn t very good, but she made money," offered a
Fort Smith visitor. "On First Street you can still see a building with
her name on it."

Stirring days, those old years of Fort Smith!

Now it is noted for the excellent and varied furniture produced on
Factory Drive, as well as for the glass products, work dothes and
other items it turns out. Many of its older, more characterful homes are
still well kept, making a drive through its streets decidedly agreeable.
The strong, generous, free-handed attitude of the West is apparent
everywhere.

The rodeo with mules, called the Mulesta, is one of its most famous
events of the year. It calls attention to the fact that Fort Smith is the
greatest mule market in the United States.

Fort Smith has good streets, sewers, parks and playgrounds that In
clude a fine swimming pool. It enjoys a clear mountain-water system.

For more than thirty years the city has been well managed by three
salaried commissioners, like the District of Columbia, Remembering a
high-school debate in which I was on the affirmative side of the ques-

218 Hurrah for Arkansas!

tion, "Should cities have the commission form of government?" I find
this extremely interesting. Although no one else seemed at all con
vinced by my arguments, I sold myself on the idea, and if I knew today
where one might find those misguided, bullheaded debate judges, I
would love to rub their noses on Fort Smith.

Just to clinch Arkansas superiority historically, I might add that
Little Rock was the birthplace of General Douglas MacArthur. He
was born January 26, 1880, in the century-old arsenal in what is now,
of course, MacArthur Park. Long ago, when little Douglas was only
thirteen years old, the land occupied by a military post was obtained
by the city as a park site. The post had a number of large buildings,
including the home of the commandant, living quarters for married
officers, for unmarried officers and private soldiers and a hospital.
Offices, stables, barracks and other buildings were scattered over the
thirty-six acres the city obtained in exchange for a thousand acres on
Big Rock. The good people of the city felt that the sooner these old
buildings were torn down the better. Down they came! By some
lucky chance the arsenal seemed to have lines and quality worthy of
preservation. The four-foot thickness of the basement walls and the
stark dignity of the wings that made quarters for married officers may
have aroused a spark of admiration in the breasts of the old-timers who
had a say in the wholesale destruction. The fact that it was once the
home of General Arthur McArthur, who had seen service with the
Federals in the War between the States and then had helped win victory
in both the Philippine insurrection and the Boxer Rebellion, did not add
the faintest luster to the building. But when the name of General
Douglas MacArthur began to make headlines in World War II, the
city of Little Rock must have been glad it had kept the axes off the
old arsenal where little Doug was born. Now it is operated as a mu
seum, with a great variety of rocks and other flotsam that inevitably
find their way into a state museum.

A large portrait of the general, as well as photographs of his mother,
wife and little son, are on display. A facsimile of his birth record, a

Our Past Is a J?re$ent Delight 219

print of his baby picture and other small items may be seen. When
the general returns from overseas, it is hoped he will make good his
promise to visit the old arsenal and deposit there some of his personal
effects.

Even with the present sparse display, in two years more than 60,000
visitors from forty-eight states and many foreign countries registered at
the museum.

Little Rock is a city of three Capitols: the Territorial Capitol in the
Restoration group; the first State Capitol; and the present State Capitol.
The old State Capitol, constructed in 1833, is a classically beautiful build
ing of magnificent proportions, with tall white pillars. It is one of the
finest examples of pre-Civil War architecture in the South. Now it is
known as the War Memorial Building.

The new Capitol, modern in every detail and situated in grounds of
surpassing loveliness, is on the other side of town.

On my first visit to Little Rock, I asked a boy where the State Capitol
could be found. He directed me to the old one. I was sitting before it
in admiration when the thought struck me that it was singularly old-
timy and surprisingly small for a city as big as Little Rock, not to
mention a state as great and important as Arkansas. When another
boy came along, I pointed to the building and asked him if that was
the State Capitol.

He showed his teeth in a wide grin, "You are a hundred years behind
time, ma am," he said. "The Capitol is on the other side of town. 5 *

XVII

J^ewton County*

Land of Unspoiled ^Beauty

IF ONE single county In Arkansas could be called my
favorite, I m sure it would be Newton. Newton County has not a mile
of paved road or railroad. It lies in completely unspoiled loveliness in
the northern part of the state, a place of towering green mountains
and deep valleys, clear rushing streams, mysterious caves, rocky roads
and friendly folk. The only town of any size is Jasper, and I have had
to stop my car on its main street to wait for an ambling cow to make
her patient way from the grass on one side to the undoubtedly greener
grass on the other side.

For fifteen years a large white goose named Joe lived in the gutter
in front of the single hotel in the town, and he would probably be
there today except for the racing get-to-hell-out-of-my-way driver of a
ramshackle truck. Poor old Joe had slowed down considerably, and
good living had added so much weight he found it difficult to raise
his big wings and fly when danger threatened. In his death the town
lost its most spectacular citizen helpful citizen, too, for everyone knew
it was a night to drain the water out of car radiators when Old Joe
went down to the Buffalo River to sleep with his toes in the running
water. The water would be warmer, he seemed to say, than the frozen
earth, and human beings learned to trust his judgment.

I have sat in Newton County homes where the entire furnishings
were clearly worth less than ten dollars, yet the cellar was full of
canned vegetables, fruits and meats, the Bible rested on a pink crocheted
doily, and one could eat ofif the floor, so clean it was. I have sat

220

Newton County Land of Unspoiled Beauty 221

through an afternoon as long as eternity in a mountain home with
flies stinging my bare legs, because no one had thought to instill into
the owners the need for keeping screen doors dosed. The screen
doors were there, along with curtains and bedspreads, and even a
dressing-table skirt of rose cotton damask, the "project" of an eighth
grader in the family, but they swung wide.

In this county, if anywhere in Arkansas, one might expect tt> find
the much-publicized barefoot ignorance, but instead one finds keen
reasoning, a delicious sense of independence and some of the most de
lightful people of all Arkansas. One hot June day, with Miss Addie
Barlow, the Newton County home demonstration agent, I set out to
attend a meeting deep in the hills. Miss Addie was prepared to demon
strate the art of canning green beans with a pressure cooker* and we
had the car practically filled with pressure cooker, pots, pans,
jars and all the other equipment needed for a first-class canning job.
We were not hurrying, for before Miss Addie s part of the perform
ance the county nurse, Miss Florence Billings, would examine all the
children of the district. Miss Addie and the beans were a sort of
afterthought, an educational feature for the mothers who brought their
youngsters.

We were rolling along the hot, dusty road when we met the nurse.
The wheels of her car were dripping from the ktest creek crossing,
and both the radiator and the nurse were boiling. We stopped at a
signal,

"Nobody came!" stormed the nurse. "Not a single living soul. Fve
been there since noon, and haven t laid eyes on a baby/ We made
sympathetic clucking sounds and murmured about mothers being busy
canning or helping in the fields, but she didn t seem to hear us. "I
give up," she added gloomily. She started her car again and raced
toward town with a dust cloud streaming behind her.

Of course she didn t give up. She is still on the job and doing a won
derful work.

Should we give up, too, and go home? We pondered a moment.
Then we decided that having driven this far we would go on beyond

222 Hurrah for Arkansas!

the sdhoolhouse where the meeting was to have been held and visit
someone Addie wanted me to meet. We drove on. Suddenly around a
bend in the mountain road we met a strange little group. A blond,
buxom woman was nursing a plump baby as she walked along the dusty
road. To shield them from the burning sun she carried a big black
umbrella over her head. On its dusty surface a large, snowy-white
diaper had been spread to dry. Behind the woman a girl perhaps three
or four years old dawdled along, picking and eating the half-ripe, dust-
covered, wild blackberries that lined the roadside.

Miss Addie stopped. "Were you looking for the nurse?" she asked.

"No," smiled the mother. "I seen her car here when we went up
the mountain. Twasn t there when we come back down. Reckon
she s gone now."

"You mean to say you went right past the schoolhouse while she was
there and didn t take those darling children in to let her look at them?"
sputtered Addie.

The woman smiled just a bit sheepishly.

"Yeah, I m afraid I did. She looked at the young uns four months
ago and said they was all right. They re jis the same now, so I fig-
gered there wasn t nothin wrong with them."

Quite obviously nothing was wrong with those two youngsters!
However, just for the safety of youngsters whose mothers might diag
nose wrongly, Miss Addie delivered an impromptu lecture on the im
portance of having children examined regularly.

Miss Addie and Newton County are almost inseparably linked in my
mind. The slim, energetic young woman knew every turn in the road,
every hollow, and every man, woman and child, it seemed, and loved
them all. With her I have gone to cull chickens in a back yard so steep
I couldn t hold back an on-the-spot variation of the old wheeze: "Do
you cull out those with one leg longer than the other?"

With Miss Addie I have clambered down the three-mile mountain
side to the Wilderness Library, where Ted Richmond gathered some
5,000 books in a log house by dint of asking for them in the right
places. He earned the books, for every one of them, even to the yearly

Newton County Land of Unspoiled Beauty 223

reports of this or that club which found their devious ways into the gift
chests, had to be carried in tow sacks down the mountainside on Ted s
own drooping shoulders. On the return trip up that slippery slope I fell
down and slid ten feet before I had sense enough to dig my toes into
the mud, and cracked a rib either in the fall or on the slide.

With Miss Addie I have peered over the hill to Hemmed-in Holler,
which can be reached only fay two ways, each one bad. One is by riding
a horse up a river bed, and risking a flash flood that will maroon you and
your mount in the hollow until the waters recede. The second is by
climbing down a mountain on a rickety ladder*

In that retreat dwelt the father of Rose O Neill, long after the family
had moved to more accessible spots. Once a year the dainty little
mother whom Rose loved to draw would make the long trip back to see
that he was well and comfortable.

Because of Miss Addie s interest in the Newton County Fair, I was
one of the visitors to that never-to-be forgotten event.

When I arrived in Jasper on the first day of the fair, the parade was
just ending in a good old-fashioned mountain downpour. All the
way between the square and the schoolhouse grounds, where the fair was
held, I met dripping trucks bearing bedraggled queens and tattered
crepe paper. In the school grounds which slope to a grassy valley and
beautiful winding stream, all was as quiet as a rainy day on the farm.
Not a soul was in sight. Sheer instinct led me to the gymnasium
building, where I found groups of women sauntering about to view
a roomful of exhibits neatly arranged in booths.

Their gentle buzz of conversation stopped instantly when I entered.
In silence that could have been cut with a knife, I tried to look at the
exhibit but it swam before my eyes. I was reminded of a time at Sun
rise Mountain Farm when a strange yellow cat appeared in our back
yard. We had thirteen cats of various stripings and spottings, who
went among the chickens, pigeons and dogs without attracting the
slightest attention. But when the newcomer sidled in, every chicken
lifted her head and changed her cheerful little singing cluck to a

224 Hurrah for Arkansas!

startled questioning gurgle. Every cat arched her back and hissed.
Every dog growled menacingly deep in his throat. The pigeons with
one startled whir whizzed past the kitchen windows on their way to
the barn roof. When I stepped outside to investigate, I found the mild*
mannered yellow cat so embarrassed by all the attention that she was
trying desperately to hide under a manure pile beside the barn. At the
Newton County Fair I knew exactly how the cat had felt, and wished
for a handy pile of something to conceal me.

Then Miss Addie saw me and came to the rescue. After I had been
introduced to every woman in the room, I was taken about to see the
exhibits. Each of the home demonstration clubs and 4-H clubs under
Miss Addie s guidance, and the farmers groups led by County Agent
Freyaldenhoven, had arranged exhibits of fruits, vegetables, grains and
handwork. No attempt had been made to produce freak pumpkins or
giant ears of corn. Instead, it was a county-wide effort to prove that a
Newton County family can produce all the food it needs, and if the
housewife has any gumption at all, she will still have time to sew, quilt
and crochet. Practically every vegetable and fruit known to the Mid
west was present in its canned, dried or fresh state, and such delicacies
as beefsteak, pork tenderloin and fried chicken gleamed through glit
tering glass jars.

Even Mother Nature seemed to be one of the exhibitors. Jars of wild
blackberries and dewberries had their place along with orchard fruits
and berries, while piles of walnuts, hickory nuts and chinquapins lay
among the neat litde stacks of grains, vegetables and peanuts. In the
Christmas-gift booth, designed by Gussie Ball, Nature s fanciful burs
and seed pods had been silvered and gilded as tree trimmings, and
there they lay among fine quilting, crocheting and expert sewing.

Any girl would have coveted the blue suit, jacket and skirt, with
cylinder purse to match made over an oatmeal box which Mary
Lois Palmer had made from three pairs of bell-bottomed trousers sent
home by her sailor brother. Then my covetous eye fell on a crocheted
tablecloth so fine in texture it might have been whipped up by an ambi
tious spider who wished to dazzle her girl friends. Its maker, Inez

Just as in 1820, you may step through this arch and visit these trim homes.
The Territorial Restoration at Little Rock has preserved their beauty inside
and out.

^ "5

I-H

HH d,

Newton County Land of Utwpoiled Be&$$y 225

Borin, postmistress, buyer and bookkeeper at the Bass community store,
housewife and poultry raker, only smiled and shook her head when
I asked its price.

"I don t have much time to ciochet during the day," ate explained.
"When I made that piece I used to get up at four o clock in the morning
and sit on the porch and crochet until the sun was up over the moun
tain. The valley was beautiful when it was filled with mist."

Then I knew why she would never sell that tablecloth* She had
only to look at it to see the mist in the valley and the sun coming goU
and rose above the mountain.

Along about suppertime, when the rain had slowed to a drizzle,
trucks began to come down the mountains about the little town, carry
ing loads of children and grownups. I commented on the surprising
attendance the fair brought out at night.

"Oh, naturally," said Miss Addie. "Tonight all the schools of the
county will compete in singing and speaking."

We watched the young performers and their adult escorts file into
the assembly hall until it seemed that the walls would bulge. Men,
women, small babies and school children came from Jasper, Log Hall,
Red Rock, Western Grove. Every community, every hollow, every
ridge seemed to be represented. Then the program began.

Some of the children were so shy and frightened by the crowd my
heart ached for them. Others were beautifully poised, so confident in
their singing or speechmaking they reminded me that dignity and
good manners were the traditional heritage of these pure Anglo-Saxon
youngsters* Almost every group included a child or two who could
play a fiddle or guitar in true country style. One lad, Ray Ted Jones,
plinked on a git-tar taller than his own small body as he soloed with
"Smoke on the Water.**

To me the mere presence of so many young folks on a stormy night
was more awe-inspiring than any performance they might have given.
Many of them had walked miles through dripping woods to meet the
truck which brought them to the fair. They would return along the
same path in pitch-blackness. Many had ridden in uncovered trucks,

226 Hurrah for Arkansas!

with rain pelting their heads. Many others had walked all the way,
taking the slippery short cuts known only to the mountain people.
Surely the return journey must have loomed in their minds, but no
one was impatient. The singing went on and on and on. Then there
was a special number or two, and afterward the decision of the judges,
which met with appropriate yells and whoops.

Friday was babies day. Nurse Billings examined the infants in a
small room off the gym, where a broken window made the place so
drafty she couldn t risk undressing them. But she didn t need to do
much examining, for every baby deserved a blue ribbon. "No use
hurting feelings," murmured the nurse, as she prepared her blue rib
bons before the rush began. However, she chose this chance to give a
little counsel I shall always remember her patient reiteration: "But
cod-liver oil is not a medicine. It is a food, and your baby needs it."
Sometimes the mother smiled and promised to give the baby cod-liver
oil, come wintertime. But mainly she just smiled.

Shortly after noon on Friday the exhibit hall emptied like a paper
sack, leaving only the exhibit judge and me rattling around in it. "It s
time for the funeral," called Miss Addie, as she whisked her car
out of the grounds. I wondered if a funeral were always part of the
fair entertainment, before I learned that Judge Spears s long, useful
life had ended, and all Newton County mourned the loss of a great
man. Everybody abandoned the fair, and everybody accompanied the
body to die cemetery for the last sad rites.

Then they all came back, and the foot races began.

A two-block stretch of the road from the square to the schoolhouse
was roped off, and on that reddish-brown, gravelly strip of Arkansas
soil, pounded firm by tires and horses hoofs and made moist by recent
rains, the boys and girls of Newton County ran races. The boys of the
high-school track team had shiny satin pants and running shoes. The
country boys and girls wore blue jeans or the clothes in which they had
come to the fair. To prepare for the races they just sat down on the
sidewalk and took off shoes and stockings, if any. But brother, those

Newton County Land of Unspoiled Tkmuty 227

kids could run! Even now my cars ring with the smack of bare feet
flying over moist, gravelly earth.

After supper the men and women from each community of the
county competed in singing, in a quiz program and in a spirited old
fiddlers contest. Although the quartet that had sung at the afternoon s
funeral was rated very high-class, the star of the performance, in my
opinion, was the Western Grove orchestra* It was led by a sharps-
featured young man who slapped, twanged and snapped the strings
of a bull fiddle. He wore a plaid shirt, velveteen breeches and a wide-
brimmed hat. One of his three companions topped his outfit with a
hat that veered straight up from his nose. They were not in costume.
The night before I had seen these two coming into the hotel, sans bag
and baggage, in those very clothes and with hats at the same angle.
When they departed the next morning, to join their companions who
had slept in the car surrounded by fiddles and git-tars, they were just
so arrayed, as though the passage of time meant nothing in their lives.

The winner of the old fiddlers* contest was an unsmiling lad of
eleven, whose father and mother plucked guitars as accompaniment.
The boy played as untrained musicians of the hills always play, with
the end of the fiddle held tightly against his chest.

At dawn on Saturday I could see from my window at the hotel
visitors crossing the Buffalo River bridge. One was an old man carry
ing a straw suitcase on the end of a cane over his shoulder. He must
have headed straight for the fairgrounds, for there he was when I
arrived at seven-thirty.

When I asked how far he had walked, he said, "Not fur. Only two
miles. Come part way yestiddy." Then he smiled toothlessly and asked,
in polite hill fashion, "Do you keep well ? w

Although the mists were still shrouding the top of Mount Sherman,
the 4-H boys were grooming their pigs. This was the day for which
they had lived, breathed and kept records all summer. When I saw the
soap with which Joe Kenneth Jones was scrubbing his big red hog
Tom, I wished I could get a picture of the pair and send it to the

228 Hurrah for Arkansas!

president of the advertising agency handling that soap account. It
was the soap featured in prewar campaigns with the slogan "The skin
you love to touch!" After Tom s bath, he was given a rubdown with
dive oil. He went into the ring with every red hair shining. Un
fortunately his hams were just a little rangier than those of Victory,
the hog raised by blond Carl Grant Ham, and Carl Grant swaggered
out of the ring with the grand championship ribbon. Blue ribbons
went to Tom and all the other 4-H entries.

In the afternoon the fine horses which had been ridden to the fair
and tied to the trees on the slanting hillside had their inning. A path
way was cleared through the schoolyard, and they cantered, walked
and trotted, while small boys and dogs darted across under their noses.
I paid little attention to the horses, for I, too, was having my hour of
competition.

The judge who was examining chickens and rabbits was steadily
approaching my entry, three beautiful speckled Ancona hens. My
heart was in my mouth, for never had I won a blue ribbon. She came
still nearer. I leaned against the schoolhouse wall, faint with anxiety.
When she had passed on to the next entry, I had a blue ribbon to tack
on my chicken-house wall. Since that day not one of the three hens has
condescended to lay an egg.

Bjut I don t care. The wind in the pines always recalls the twang of
a bull-fiddle string, and the slap of bare feet on a moist gravel road.

In Newton County I have met some of my most unforgettable mo
ments and unforgettable persons. Eleanor Moss was one of the persons.
She and her husband Frank, a former golf professional, were white-
collar workers in Chicago before they took a trip to the Ozarks. They
decided that country life was their dish, and they went all the way
rural. They bought forty-three wooded acres lying in a triangular
peninsula with only a narrow neck connecting them with the main
land. Except for this neck, along which runs a rutted, rocky trail
that could not be called a road by any stretch of imagination, the farm
is surrounded by three creeks. Even in good weather only the hardiest

Newton County Land of Unspoiled Beauty 229

motorists attempt the road. la bad weather not even the trucks that
haul feed to the farm will make a stab at it. Then Frank went to wan

For four years Eleanor lived alone on this farm* When she came
out for groceries and mail, as she did three times a week, she walked
down past the barn, took off her shoes and stockings and waded
through the creek. Then she clambered up the steep bank, wound her
way amid the dense underbrush which always grows along Southern
streams, climbed a six-rail fence, walked through a watermelon pitch
and a cornfield, then a patch of weeds, and at last reached the road.
There she would flag a truck and ride seven miles to Jasper, the nearest
town. She bought groceries until she had all she could carry. She rode
back over the stony roads to the stock gate, and retraced her way over
melon patch, fence, mountainside and creek. Her nearest neighbors,
the Riggses, were a half mile away through the woods, and in the
Ozarks that is equivalent to a mile walk over the rocks o the break
water along Lake Michigan. Only the breakwater doesn t have trees,
poison ivy and snakes to slow one down. For companionship Eleanor
had her big dog Jerry, a cat, fifty beautiful white Giant hens, sixteen
speckled bantams and fifteen goats.

"We have eight kids that Frank has never seen/* I heard her say
wistfully one day as she patted the heads of the soft-eyed Toggenberg
nannies and their babies.

Throughout the four years of his absence Eleanor kept -the three-
room house with it golden pine paneling ready for a shining welcome.
Also, she kept books like a certified public accountant. At any minute
she could sit down with her ledgers and show exactly what was taking
place, how expenses were being met, how livestock was multiplying
and had multiplied over the days, months and years. Even her canned
goods were recorded in a perpetual inventory. When she canned
huckleberries and blackberries gathered from the woods, carrots and
peas from her small garden, poke and lambs -quarters from the scanty
clearing and an occasional baby goat, she made a record o each can
in a card-index file. When a can was opened, she put a slanting line
through its number to show it was out of stock.

230 Hurrah for Arkansas!

Her woodpiles were neatly ricked, so she could tell at a glance how
much wood she had on hand. Even her groceries were cleverly gauged;
she would have flour on hand until she ordered goat and chicken feed.
By this means one truck could bring them all at once, and that meant
a saving in haulage.

We went out to see Eleanor one July night. When we were ready
to go home, she accompanied us as far as the road, wading with us
across the creek which was almost knee-deep and icy cold, despite the
warm weather.

"How do you stand this creek in the winter?" I asked, shivering as
I plunged in.

"It really isn t any colder then than it is now," she replied, splashing
through it as if she could make her way blindfolded. "Remember, this
stream is spring-fed, and springs do not vary in temperature."

"But the air is cooler," put in Miss Addie.

"Yes, it is," admitted Eleanor. "In winter I always bring a towel to
dry my feet before I put on my shoes and stockings."

Frank came home and all the improvements they planned by cor
respondence were made. The threatening tree at the corner of the
house was cut down, the little rock patio was enlarged, and a fence
was built around the chicken house. Then, greatest improvement of
all, a bridge was built across the troublesome creek that Eleanor had
waded through in lonely years. The first flood of the springtime washed
it out. Eleanor still wades.

Another city-bred couple found refuge and hard work along with
the happiness they sought in Newton County. They are Tom Harvey,
a former Kansas City hotel man, and his pint-sized wife Jimmie, a
former linen-shop proprietor. Although they are snowy-haired sixty,
they are actually newlyweds. They were married in 1941 when Tom
went to Little Rock to become manager of the Officers Club. They
began saving for a farm in the Ozarks. On St. Patrick s Day after the
war ended, they came to Newton County, prepared to use part of their

Newton County Land of Unsf oiled Beauty 231

savings to buy their farm, and the remainder to tide them over imt3
it could produce. They learned of a farmer who would not return from
war work. His property consisted of forty-eight acres, partially cleared,
a tumble-down barn and a three-room house. One of the rooms was
of native stone, with inside walls of whitewashed planks, The other
two were mere shells, typical example of a remodeling project inter
rupted by war. In two days the Harveys bought the farm for $850,
ambitiously renaming it Rim Rock Ranch. On March 20 a hired
truck carried them, their trunks, three metal chairs, a camp stove,
two homemade beds and secondhand mattresses, an X-legged table and
a bushel of seed potatoes out to the farmhouse. Miraculously the fanner
hired to come over and plow the garden had done as requested. After
the half-dozen possessions were stowed in the house, they went out and
planted the seed potatoes.

It was months later when I stood in the garden and looked down
upon the world below, a world of woods, with not a house visible. In
every direction I could see deep shadowy valleys and mountains, wooded
so thickly they looked like tufted cushions, while above them soft
billowy clouds floated across an azure sky. Their garden is a narrow
level ridge, like the backbone of an extra-large, skinny, Arkansas
razorback hog. I liked to think of these two city people, long past the
years of youthful adventure, planting potatoes in their new garden
on the late afternoon of a March day. Surely the hearts of the gray-
haired refugees from city pavements must have burst with the beauty
about them and the thrill of belated enterprise. The trees were show
ing the delicate jade of fresh new leaves, the springtime haze was like
a runaway cloud spreading her thin veil over the distant hills, and
the valleys lay below them like pictures painted on a lacquered tray.
The fragrance of the newly turned ground, the warmth of the spring
sunshine, the songs of nesting birds and the excitement of the venture
it must have seemed that life begins at sixty!

By the end of their first week on the farm, beans, corn and peas
had been planted in the garden. The kitchen and bedroom, joists
gleaming barely in the unlined walls, had been cleaned and aired.

232 Hurrah for Arkansas!

The camp stove went into one, and the beds into the other. In the
living room the whitewash had been scrubbed from the plank walls,
revealing a surprisingly nice graining. The X-legged table, three chairs
and the trunks shared the room with a modernistic guardian angel set
high on a key metal shef .

When the angel fell off the shelf and had to be mended with chewing
gum, the Harveys were not at all disturbed. They said she, too, must
get accustomed to a more rugged life. They went ahead fixing up the
house, putting a scalloped length of crepe paper across the top of each
window to suggest a curtain, and hanging glowing pewter plates and
gay Mexican canes against the scrubbed walls.

By Memorial Day the Harveys were eating beans, potatoes and
spinach from their garden. They had acquired three Toggenberg
goats. In a short time after that the goat named Nina became the
mother of a small brown-and-white bundle from goat heaven and
weren t the Harveys happy to find it was a girl! That meant another
member for their milk-goat herd. They bought a Jersey heifer named
Rosa, paying seventy-five dollars for her, hoping for a girl calf some
day. Then they would have two cows, which makes an ideal milk
setup. Five pigs set them back twenty-five dollars, but they were
offered seven-fifty for each. Eight hens were purchased, at a dollar
apiece* At the time of my visit, besides having enough eggs for their
own use, the Harveys had sold three dozen, realizing the sole farm
income of ninety cents. Little chickens purchased from a hatchery
fared badly. The Harveys had no place prepared for them, and the
litde fellows couldn t take the chill of the mountain nights. Only
40 percent survived.

The big project of the farm was just getting under way. Two cleared
fields would be planted to grapes and bramble fruits. This means
bkckberries, raspberries, youngberries and boysenberries. Strawberries,
too^ would be planted in the new land. These, with the wild berries
on the farm, would provide fruits for fine homemade jams and jellies
that could be sold at the Farm Women s Market at Harrison, or at our
own Craft Cabin. Such plans were stricdy in the dream stage, of

Newton County L$nd of Unspoiled Bbuny 233

course, for sugar would have to come back again before their ambitions
could be accomplished.

The Harveys had to carry drinking water from a neighbor s spring a
quarter of a mile away. A shallow dug well, about fifteen yards from
the house, provided water for washing and for the animals, but it had
to be cleaned out and possibly dug deeper before it could be trusted
for all-around continuous use. Water is a problem to people who Hire
on Ozark mountaintops. Often good eaves troughs and a deep cemented
cistern form the only solution. It is best not to postpone this imptwe-
ment if it seems at all advisable. Water so stored is often far naore
healthful for drinking and general use than the product of a doubtful
dug well.

By autumn the Harveys hoped to operate both a heating stove and
cooking range with bottled gas. Then the plans for remodeling the
house called for a wood-burning fireplace in the living room.

Families in the hills about Rim Rock Ranch had been kind and
helpful to the two gray-haired Babes in the Woods. They had supplied
vegetables when the Harveys had none. They had given advice, cheer
fully and earnestly, and felt no rancor when the Harveys failed to
heed it, because they knew that city people are that way! When the
first snake penetrated the Harvey Eden, a neighbor boy came over and
killed it. After that the newcomers learned to kill their own snakes.
When a big fat blacksnake invaded a setting hen s nest and swallowed
a dozen precious ready-to-hatch bantam eggs, Jimmie had to be
restrained from killing the reptile with her own two bare hands!

When I asked her if she would like to go back to the city, she hitched
up her blue shorts, pulled down her white T-shirt, tucked a flyaway
strand of white hair under a red hair ribbon and told me that wild
horses couldn t drag her.

It is true the Harveys were dreamers. But not idle ones! Blessed with
good health and a will to get things done, they were busy from davra
until dark with a dozen projects. One project called for a pair of
gigantic posts at the lawn gate. They were cut and peeled far down the;
mountain. The Harveys rolled them up the long, rough, steep slope.

234 H#m*A for

When Tom had to shift the crowbar from one end of the log to the
other, Hide Jimmie had to put her entire weight against the log to keep
it from rolling down the mountainside.

At last she whimpered, "We shouldn t do this. Remember wcVe old
people!**

**Sh! Don t say that!" admonished Tom. "We re never old until we
admit it."

Newton County has been on my travel list so long the Commerkal
Hotel seems a second home. With a faintly nostalgic feeling I note it
is changing now. Bottled-gas stoves are taking the place of the indi
vidual stoves in which guests maintained their own fires, and the
excitement of a winter night in Jasper has been taken away. Now, if a
gtiest asphyxiates himself, it is just a dull, regrettable accident. In the
old days the Jedge and I would lay bets on which guest would set the
hotel on fire in that way adding excitement to an otherwise quiet
sight. We usually occupied No. 8, which was at the end of a wing,
with windows on three sides. Its stove was a small sheet-iron affair
painted silvery-grey with aluminum paint. Behind it stood a bucket of
tall pine slivers, standing on end with their feet in kerosene. On the
porch outside the room a big pile of stove wood lay handy to the door.
Getting the fire started and keeping it going were strictly up to the
occupants of No. 8.

In the evenings we lighted a fire so our dog would be comfortable
and then joined the other guests who sat out in the lobby until near
midnight. Then all the sitter-uppers would go back to the kitchen.
Someone would make a pot of coffee and we would have a cheerful
eup and some toast or leftover cake before retiring.

In the mornings I could achieve a reasonable facsimile of sound
slumber until after the Jedge had a rousing fire going and a washpanful
of water heating on the little silvery stove. With a new tank-gas stove
I shall miss all the shaking down of ashes, the vigorous punching of
stubborn oak stubs, the banging of the stove door, the metallic clanking
of the poker against a stove leg as it is tossed on the metal floor mat

Newton County L&n d of Unspoiled Brmtfy 235

beneath the stove, the threatening roar of flames going up tibe chimney

while the damper is open, the cheerful crackle of new sticks igniriag
and the pungent fragrance of burfting pine and coal oil! In fact, the
lazy act of opening a valve and striking a match to light a soundless
fire will be a distinct letdown,

I hope the passion for self-improvement which is sweeping Arkansas
will not sweep away the outdoor movies which I have always enjoyed
at Jasper. Although I live quite happily for months at a time without
seeing a show, a Wednesday night in Jasper always finds wit racme-
minded. Probably the youngsters there gave me my first urge.

One afternoon I saw the big truck marked Carmar and bearing a
cutout of Mickey Mouse round the corner of the square, with a half-
dozen tousled little boys waving from the back end. Miss Addie ex
plained that it was the traveling movie truck. The kids had walked five
miles to meet it at the bridge and ride in with it. They would help un
load it and then they would get in free the Newton County version of
carrying water to the elephants. I was quite scornful of the whole
proceedings.

"I never go to movies," I said loftily.

Miss Addie seemed just a little embarrassed at being forced to admit
that she never missed a performance. "If it rains," she said, "we just
put our coats up over our heads and sit right there until the picture is
finished." From an intelligent girl like Addie, that was almost more
than I could bear.

At the hotel supper was served in a perfect dither of excitement.
Movie night, it seemed, meant as much to everyone else as to Miss
Addie. The two young women who cooked, served and washed dishes
flitted about the table as though on roller skates. Someone scurried
into the dining room as we ate and pressed a pink dress on the ironing
board. Redhaired Junior ate his vegetables without giving the string
beans the Bronx cheer. All at the long table chatted excitedly. What
would happen next to the hero who had been left clinging to the wing
of an enemy plane with spies shooting at him? I hadn t the heart to
repeat my disdain! I promised to be ready right after supper so we

Hurrah for Arkansas!

could aU get seats. After all, I said to myself, It would be nice to see
the crowd s reaction.

Although it was still broad daylight when we started to the show,
everybody on the square was headed toward the canvas wall. Town
matrons in smoothly ironed summer dresses swept along with men in
dean blue jeans and sun-bleached shirts, and youngsters with hair slicked
down- in wet paths. Countrymen and their wives and children were
descending from trucks in which whole communities had stood as the
vehicles careened over hair-raising mountain curves. At the gate was
the only line-up I have ever seen in the hills.

We paid our twenty cents each, with the movie manager making
change from a rusty muffin tin, and went inside the canvas ring. Al
though Ozarkians are proverbial latecomers, almost every seat was
filled. Every eye was on the big, cracked, grimy screen just a length
of canvas painted too long ago and now sodden and gray from rain
and dust as though something might be missed if one flicked an eye
lash. Across the aisle from me a big mountain lad was hunched for
ward in obvious anticipation of excitement. In big brown hands a new
ten-gallon hat was cradled tenderly*

Youngsters tense with interest ran toward the front rows, and
anxious parents with smaller ones in arms tried to sit close to them.
The chairs soon filled, and families sat on splintery boards placed
across rickety sawhorses. Suddenly the sound of a worn, wheezing
record came from the truck, and one could distinguish the tune, if not
the words, of the doleful "I Just Hang My Head and Cry." As dark
ness fell, the screen loomed white and mysterious, its cracks and
grime mercifully hidden in the gloom. Then there was a jumble of
sound, a flickering of lights, and a picture leaped on the screen.

Roy Rogers, handsome, debonair in his tailored Western getup, was
riding across the plain. Or was it a plain? Keeping pace with his
horse were two trees with soft lights glowing along their gracefully
arched branches. Overhead pin-point lights of bright stars showed in
the blue-black night, and just above the screen the tops of Mount
Judea and a sister mountain reared to touch a rolling cloud. Movies are

Newton Cunty~L&J of Umspoil**t Beauty 237

wonderful, I decided, when they can be seen out under the staam with
trees standing beside the screen.

When Roy sang, none cared about the worn mechanism that garbled
the high nixes* The hills about the litde town seemed to catch the
melody and toss it from one to ancdher until they rang with music, A
soft evening breeze sprang up, rustling the leaves of the friendly trees
until they danced with delightful rhythm and overhead a crescent
moon slid into view as if coming to see the fun.

When the picture moved on to an outdoor fiesta* fuH-dkiited seiioiitas
and their Mexican escorts might have been merrymakers in otir own
village square. Even Captain America, of the serial, with bulging
musdes and square jaw, seemed quite reasonable. When lie stripped
off the disguise of a suave businessman, revealing himself in the slim
tights of a daredevil circus performer, we caught our breath in one
great gasp. When he flung himself onto a motorcycle and roared right
off the screen to save our country singlehanded from enemy forces*
unconsciously we lifted our eyes to Mount Judea, confidendy expect
ing to see his headlight come gleaming around the road on its star-
crowned top.

Miss Addie called my attention to the young fellow across the aisle.
I, who had come merely to observe the reactions of the audience,
wrested my eyes from the screen to look in his direction. In his excite
ment he had crushed the new hat in his hands and sat wringing it Eke
a wet towel. I looked down at my own hat. It was twisted into a
tight roll!

Perhaps the progress of Newton County will come through the
activities of the new generation or perhaps I should say, the up-and-
coming generation. For two years I have attended the 4-H Club camp,
just because the kids are so interesting. I have heard only one severe
grumble. That was the night we had fried chicken for "supper and
there were only three pieces each. Ozark youngsters can t understand
a shortage of chicken. Several of them, both boys and girls, have
chickens as their 4-H Club project each year, for many an Ozark girl

238 Hurrah for Arkansas!

would rather tend chickens than sit in the house and sew. Most of the
boys, however, would rather tend a pig as their club chore, and a few
of them, who have ample financial backing, have baby beeves as
projects, Whatever it is, the folks at home are left holding the fed sack
while Junior and his sister attend the camp.

Work in 4-H clubs is excellent for hill youngsters. A couple of years
ago, Mildred Phillips and Betty Keeling, both seventeen, as a 4-H
project staged a white-rat demonstration to prove the value of milk in a
child s diet. Arkansas university lent the girls two white rats, equal in
age an size, which they named Wiggles and Sniffles. Wiggles was fed a
diet of milk, cereal and water. He grew fat and sleek. Poor little
Sniffles was fed coffee, cereals and water. He stayed small and undevel
oped, with no pinkncss in his ears, nose and eyes. When he began to
lose his hair, the test came to an abrupt close. The girls felt so sorry for
him they began feeding him cream to make up for lost meals.

The test paid big returns. Many a family was nagged into getting a
cow, or a milk goat, because the kids were afraid of losing their hair.

Of course, the object of each 4-H Club youngster is to make the top-
prize trip to Chicago for the annual meeting. Even if they get no
farther than Fayetteville, the work does them a world of good. Many
a girl learns how to sew beautifully, many others learn to cook and
can, and the boys are potentially better farmers and livestock raisers
for their effort to make a pig or a beef a prize winner. The fun they
have at summer camp spurs them on to another try next year> though
in many cases that fun is dearly bought.

In the summer of 1946 little Doris Seys, eleven years old, and her
sister Susie, nine, walked four miles down Roundtop Mountain to
reach the truck that brought them to camp, and many of the children
had to climb two miles to a road where they and their blankets would
be picked up. No wonder that when they got to camp, this overage
4-H-er was promptly outwalked, outtalked and outswum by the hill-
country kids. As always, I was impressed by their innate dignity and
good manners. Bickering and squabbling are never heard in a 4-H
Club camp. Excess physical energy is used up in furious diving and

Newton County Land of Unspoiled Beauty 239

swimming in the icy spring-fed river, and vocal energy goes into tell
ing equally violent tales. When Robert Phillips, aged ten, fell asleep
after the afternoon swimming period and slept right through the
supper bell, he was told that we had had ice cream and cake for supper
and that none had been left for him* Fortunately darkness hid the
unmanly tears on Robert s face when he came to ask humbly for what
ever supper was left, but the tremor in his voice was unmistakable.
He was assured that nothing more luxurious than lemonade and home
made cookies had been the evening dessert, and plenty of both were
left for him.

Because the children who were fortunate enough to come to camp
must go back and impart knowledge to others, they had lesson periods
each day. Chicken, geese and a gobbling turkey were brought in as
specimens, so they could learn to cull fowls. On nature-study walks
they learned the difference between legumes and grasses, conifers and
deciduous trees, and why our Arkansas soil is red. On one walk they
learned how to scale lumber. They could, but I couldn t, grasp it.

While the boys were given special lessons on soil erosion, the girls
got a hat project under way. Many of them had never owned a hat,
except, as one of them said, a straw hat to wear in the garden. Miss
Addie brought out a collected stack of outmoded headgear in straw
and felt and several millinery pages torn from the latest mail-order cata
logue. The hats evolved from this meager equipment would make Lily
Dache eat her best number. As the afternoon assembly feature, the hat-
makers concocted a little skit that permitted each one to parade in her
new headgear. The boys sat through the fashion parade like little gen
tlemen, but no one stood around afterward to congratulate the winners.
Having been forehanded enough to wear bathing trunks to the fashion
show, the boys made a beeline for the river as if to wash the taste of
such girl-stuff out of their mouths.

The Buffalo River that winds through Jasper, flowing the pro
verbial stone s throw from the front porch of the Commercial Hotel,
was the center of attraction at all times. On the final evening of the
camp this river, so clear, sparkling and swift-flowing, became the chief

240 Hurrah for Arkansas!

actor in a ceremony of utmost beauty and solemnity. At dusk the
youngsters seated themselves in a ring around the great pile of brush on
the white sand beside the water. For a long time they sang in chorus
and two of them sang solos. Then the fire was lighted and a member
from each club represented in camp placed a fagot in the flames. When
the fire burned high, all stood and joined hands to recite the impressive
4-H creed which has to do with Head, Heart, Hands and Health.

When darkness had fallen and the trees on the mountains were sil
houetted against a starry sky, two leaders, a boy and a girl, lighted tall
candles and started a procession down to the water s edge. The others
followed, each holding a small candle inserted into a block of dry wood.
The candles were lighted, and one by one the blocks were set afloat at
the bend of the river. Dipping, bobbing, swirling, the tiny lights
floated downstream with the current between high, tree-clad moun
tains and limestone bluffs, each tiny, sparkling glow casting long,
golden reflections that shimmered in the dark water. As the candles
floated past our camp site, the youngsters sang the Arkansas State Song
in soft young voices that mingled with the voice of the river. Thus the
torch of Newton County s 4-H Club work went out on one of our
mountain streams to all of Arkansas. May that light burn brighdy, for
not only Arkansas, but all America, needs men and women who have
been 4-H boys and girls!

XVIIL

Jiot Water and Watermelons

DOGGONE it, that town of Hot Springs was a complete
disappointment to me! From what I had read, I supposed that some
where along the road to town, a tall dark handsome gambler in a
frock coat would leap out of the bushes and twist my arm until I gave
up the money I d been saving for Aunt Tilda s gravestone. Nothing
like that happened. I just spent my tombstone money at auctions and
have some near-linen, almost-china and crystal diamonds to show for it.
But golly, did I have fun! I was almost sorry I didn t have a few aches
or pains or feel run-down or tired. All these things, according to
everyone there, can be wiped right off your personal map by a series of
baths in the water which comes streaming out of the base of Hot
Springs Mountain.

The enthusiasm of all Hot Springs citizens for what they lovingly
call "our water" is one of the most touching things I have found in this
state. Elsewhere in Arkansas I have known churches to fall apart over
trivia such as which way the benches should face, clubs to disband
because of a dicker for a meeting place, and neighbors to feud over
apples falling over a line fence. In Hot Springs you meet a completely
united front. Every citizen, young or old, will grab you by the lapel
and hold on like the Old Man of the Sea while he tells you not only of
his own ills washed away by the beneficial waters but of hundreds of
ther cases. Even a United States bulletin unbends sufficiently to say
in the literary style of the fine print on income-tax blanks, "Increase in
bodily resistance in bathers availing themselves of the Hot Springs

241

242 Hurrah for Arkansas!

water has long been noted in the improved general health, strength and
vitality in persons in a run-down or debiliated condition."

Since the government supervises the bathhouses, regulating them so
prices are low and service high, this might be construed as biased ap
proval, except for the fact that one never meets a dissatisfied customer.
I was interested in a literal interpretation of "run-down." If ever a
person takes chances on being run down, it is in Hot Springs. I mean,
run down by trucks, buses, motorcars and even two-horse carriages.
One lone stop light casts its feeble authority on all the downtown dis
trict. In crossing streets and dodging traffic, it is definitely every man
for himself and the ice truck gets the hindmost. For the able-bodied
vacationist, this is all right, but for the crippled people who have come
to Hot Springs for the highly advertised baths, it seems a bit on the
dirty-deal side. But who am I to gripe where thousands have let it
slide?

The easygoing ways of the Southern hills, the pleasant sunshine, the
high wooded mountains, the sparkle of clear blue lakes all seem at
their best in this Arkansas town. Add the mystery of water heated
somewhere in the bowels of the earth, the snobbish delight of bathing
in surroundings that would have floored the ancient Romans, and the
pampered-darling feel of having someone scrub your back, and it is
easy to understand why Hot Springs attracts visitors from all over the
world. Indeed Mother Nature was in a generous mood when she
formed its setting.

The climate is far enough south to escape the cold winters of the
North, yet it does not have the humidity of the South at any time. It is
that rare bird, the year-round resort! About it are the mountains,
wisely taken over by the Federal government back in 1832 and operated
as a reservation, through which smoothly graveled roads wind with
such gradual ascent that even the timid motorist from the plains can
take them without a tremor. For trampers and horseback riders well-
marked trails are dotted with drinking fountains, lookout spots and
comfort stations.

Two lakes, Catherine and Hamilton, provide swimming, boating

Hot Wter &nd Watermelons iH3

and fishing in addition to scenic joy, although man had to help Nature
along by putting a couple of dams at strategic points. Then, as if in
one grand final fling of generosity, old Mother Nature threw in forty-
seven springs which pour a million gallons of steaming water out of the
ground each day while the rest of us here in Arkansas have to wait for
our bath water to warm after chopping the wood with which to heat it
Of forty-seven, forty-six arc tapped to run into a reservoir which in
turn supplies bathhouses and sanitariums. The forty-seventh spring is
allowed to discharge through a narrow channel into a small pod ia
which Doubting Thomasinas like me can stick fingers to see if the
water is really hot. It is! According to a friend who knows, it hits
the tank at one of the hospital baths at 180 degrees, though cvca the
Chamber of Commerce lists it at 147.

Along with the 25,000 visitors which Hot Springs can accommo
date at one time, 35,000 inhabitants live normal and presumably happy
lives in these pleasant surroundings. On Sundays they attend their
choice of fifty-three churches, which range from the twin-spired mag
nificence of St. John s to the watch-charm daintiness of the Lutheran
church. Through the week they shop for groceries, make new curtains,
hold down jobs mainly connected with the tourist trade and invite
guests for luncheon. I know, because I was a luncheon guest at the en
chanting home of Mrs. Marie Lonsdale. Harmony Hills, the beautiful
home of Marjorie Lawrence, the Metropolitan Opera star, was an
other point of interest to me. Along one of the lakes Chicagoaa John T.
Liedtke is establishing a scenically handsome retreat for pensioned
railway workers that should get a lively toot-toot from every railroad
in the country.

At the edges of Hot Springs lie estates that show generations of
loving care. One is the W. C. Brown home, where a sunken garden
and great bushes of crepe myrtle take one deep into the heart of Dixie.
The Fordyce estate, now owned by Colonel Earl Ricks, is another. It
might be wise to view this place with its private lake and landscaped
grounds from your car, as we did. A boxer dog, about the size of a Shet
land pony, lay on the terrace wall between us and the doorbell. He

234 Hurrah for Arkansas!

didn t lift his head, bet just looked out of the corner o his nearest eye
and emitted mumbles which we guessed were warnings not to go
too far.

We didn t have to feel like park-bench warmers as we viewed these
striking homes. After all, Hot Springs abounds with places where
tourists may find lodging and some of them had the lovely word
VACANCY on them! The accommodations seemed to include every type
and price known to the traveling public, They ranged from small
home hotels, rooming houses, tourist homes and apartment buildings
to such swank places as The Park, Majestic and Arlington Hotels.
Even if you can t afford the Arlington, you can slip in for the Sunday-
night conceits by Paolo Grosso s orchestra, and perhaps you will have
the good fortune to hear Franklin Neil sing "The Holy City." The
hotel-court list is topped by the out-of-this-world Jack Tar Court,
where the MacArthur suite rents for $35 a day and even the compara
tively inexpensive cabins have air-conditioning units and red leather
chairs. But there are simple affairs on the outskirts that cost less than
living at home. If you want to go still farther down the scale of
expense, you can bring your own tent or trailer and park it beside a
stream marked NO SWIMMING, plugging your stove and lamps into an
electric-light system, and still be close enough to Bathhouse Row for
yofflr daily ablution.

The behavior of the dog that mumbled, "Don t go too far," seems to
strike the keynote of local tolerance. At this place where even warring
Indians called a truce that all might enjoy the Healing Breath of the
Great Spirit, as the waters were called, every effort is made to preserve
peace without trampling too forcibly on individual rights. Rival Chi
cago gangsters who shot at one another around corners at home used
to meet on Hot Springs streets without drawing their gats. But local
authorities take no chances. A perpetual game of cops and robbers is
in progress. During the racing season policemen from New York,
Chicago and New Orleans are on hand to nab pickpockets before they
nab purses, and trains are met by cops who can spot bad boys quicker
than they can spot their luggage in the porters carts. Even a poor, mis-

Hoe Water eml Wztermdons

guided guesscr about wlikli horse will come in first gets picked up,
dusted oflE and a ticket home, with possibly a note to Mother!

For people who love to eat, Hoc Springs can pot terrific strain on
the belt or two-way stretch. Some o the best Pullman cooks and
waiters have homes in Hot Springs, and thdr influence is reflected in
the fine food and service everywhere. For dining, the choice of sur
roundings is practically unlimited. You can take it from one who ale
her way through and around Hot Springs, the pleasure is the same
whether you order pompano in the luxurious Jack Tar or hot fried
catfish and hushpuppies at Bud Smith s place on Lake Hamilim.

Hot Springs is genuinely interested in showing visitors a good time,
it would seem. Three eighteen-hole golf courses provide year-forod
playing, and a fourth, in the middle of the race track, may be used
between racing seasons. In fact, you may enjoy all the diversions erf
land, water and air! And if you want to while away the hours between
baths by engaging in a slight game of chance, it is O.K. with Hoc
Springs. On the list ate Bingo games, auctions where shabby gents
write big showy checks for near diamonds, and some plain and fancy
spots that I didn t see because I didn t stay up that late. For daytime
entertainment there is the second floor of the Southern Qub, wfao?e
you may lounge in an easy chair in air-conditioned comfort and watch
a handsome lad, in undervest and brown slacks, scutde along a narrow
ledge and post changing odds. He is a far cry from my frock-coated
gambler ideaL However, Td hate to know what he thinks of a woman
who walks up to a bookie and says, "Nothing today, thank you, Fm
just looking around." That s what I did.

To most travelers the mid-Arkansas area south of Hot Springs is just
a vast unexplored region, the sort that was colored black in old-time
maps. Of course those who are swooping through the state, hurrying
into Texas on Highway 67, realize that it has towns, stores, houses and
people like other parts of Arkansas, but they rarely stop to investigate
them. Occasionally they stop for the night in a tourist court for
instance, the qtSet little grandmotherly court at Gurdon and the very
nice Davis Court at Hope, where the proprietor will bring in a rocking

246 Hwrrah jar Arkansas!

chair if you have one thread of gray in your bonny brown hair. Always,
however, such travelers stop at dark and are off with the dawn., so you
can t say they give the town much of a break.

At Gordon they would never karn about Vicky by such a touch-
and-go system. Vicky is a fox terrier who looks like the familiar one
in His Master s Voice, except that the colors are reversed. Vicky is
black where the dog in the advertisement is white. Furthermore, I am
convinced that Vicky would never sit calmly before an instrument quiz
zically wondering how his master got into the damn thing. He would
probably view the whole performance in great disdain, wishing his
roaster had chosen to sing another number. Vicky seems to have a
mind of his own.

He belongs to the Griffon family, and the Griffons have a couple of
greenhouses in their back yard. They have also a tree that produces the
sort of figs Adam and Eve enjoyed in the Garden of Eden. Vicky pays
no attention to the figs, but he gives the greenhouse his best wags.
When he is hungry, he goes into the greenhouse and hunts around until
he finds a chrysanthemum, aster or gladiola stalk. If the floors have
just been swept, and he can find no flower, he stands up and begs until
someone gives him a geranium, an azalea or just a plain old zinnia.
With the flower in his mouth he takes out for the "uptown" district of
CJ^Klcm, and goes to one of the two restaurants. Patiently he waits at
tie door until he can dart in behind a patron. Inside, he looks about
until he sees a waitress. He goes to her and drops the flower at her
feet. Then he looks up with eyes shining. He has undoubtedly read
about "saying it with flowers"! The waitresses just don t have the sort
of heart that can resist that doggy appeal, backed up by a gift of flow
ers. Vicky gets his handout, and all is well in his world.

You will be almost through Gurdon, if you are traveling south on
67, when you come to a filling station with a pile of clay in the drive
way. It will probably have some small pottery figures on a bench, too,
and probably you won t be much surprised to see still another filling
station that sells pottery. But it will pay you to stop and investigate.
You will meet Florence and Reba Rogers, and their aunt, who is also

Hot W&&& mmd W&termd&ns

their stepmother, Miss Edna, All three have given up other jdbs to
turn to the work that has beta done by three generations of their
family pottery making. They caU it mud daubiag, and refer w them
selves as mud daubers, but, lor my money, it is creative art of an
extremely high order*

Florence studied art, and then became a stenographer in Chicago, She
gae up all thoughts of a career in the city when an employer said he
would hire her if she took voice lessons to speed tip lier slow, easy
Arkansas drawl. He was the head of a brokerage house. If any of Us
clients phoned la to ask if he were a pauper or a millionaire, her em
ployer feared the poor fellow would drop dead with suspense before
Florence could get him told. She went back to her faonae town widh
a hundred dollars to start making pottery. Reba had been a teacher ol
English, but preferred to write for publication* She quit teaching to
become Gurdon correspondent for the Arkansas Gazette, but so far
hasn t reached a taxable income in any one year. She runs the gas sta
tion and keeps books for the pottery business, besides scraping off
fringes and smoothing out bumps in the clay products* Miss Edna has
a real sculptor s touch. She can push aad poke a wad of day until it
looks like the face of someone ia a picture* You should see her Mrs*
Roosevelt!

The hundred dollars capital had to be spread pretty thin over glazes,
day and other equipment for the aew pottery business. Fortunately they
could borrow a homemade kiln left by a cousin who was one of the
unlucky oa the Death March of Bataaa. They took it home with
them, raa aatural gas to it and used it to fire buttons which they
made from day.

At the Uaiversity of Arkansas, where Florence had had a year of
art, she always waated a red slicker with a razorback hog, the college
iasigae, on the back. Money was too scarce for such a luxury, but the
thought must have persisted. Whea Florence begaa to design buttons,
almost instinctively she niade razorback hogs and glazed them brilliant
red. Her kaowledge of clays, glazes aad kila operation were all learned
ia oae way the hard way! She had never seen a ceramics plant, like

Hamtk for Ar

Ac magnificent one at Carnden, which turns out beautiful pottery. She
couldn t even understand the technical phrases m the ceramics trade
nitgazifies* Bitter experience soon taught her. In the course of a year
die knew that clay works better if the kiln is slowly heated, and that
cwaa the choicest work will craze if one gets anxious and opens the Bin
for a peek before the glaze has cooled,

As mother part of their education the Rogers girls learned that the
Itefe kiln was far too small for much commercial pottery work. Flor
ence s unde, who also operates a pottery business at Hope, came over
to hdp her, and together they built a brick kiln in the little shed that
houses a milk goat and a flock of Buff Cochin bantams.

It was no small job to make the kiln. It had to be lined with special
heat-resistant bricks, and then coated with a layer of metal. Metal is
haid to get, but they salvaged enough old signs along the highway and
in dumps to go around the kiln, and Florence and her uncle riveted
them together. Without this metal coat, the bricks would crumble
under the intense heat of the kiln, and probably the shed would be set
oct fire*

The kiln is the downdraft type, which, according to Florence, utilizes
all the heat units produced by the fuel but don t ask me how it is
accomplished. The burners that heat the kiln are simply natural-gas
pipes with holes punched in them. When the pipes were installed the
holes were too small. The kiln wouldn t heat. The girls uncoupled the
pipes, took them to the blacksmith and had more and bigger holes
punched in them. Reba, who has a mathematical mind, estimated that
the heat would be five times greater than they had had before. Florence
was inclined to doubt it. She said the only way to find out was to turn
the kiln on to its full heat and see what would happen. That was the
night the shed almost burned down, and items that would have sold
for a hundred dollars melted in the fierce heat. Now they know how
much heat can be coaxed out of those homemade burners. Usually they
prefer a temperature of 2,100 degrees as the best firing heat.

For two years the girls and Miss Edna have been trying to settle on
something that can be produced in large, overwhelming, you-see-it-

Hot Water and Watermelons 249

everywhere masses. They have tried, but somehow they can t resist put
ting a little extra time on every item they make. The Mammy Lou
salt and pepper shakers must have character in the whites of the eyes
and on the red lips in the brown face. They tried making a tomato-
juice tumbler, but instead of one red tomato on the dull green surface,
they had to put on four tomatoes, two on each side. They have made
tiles, using real dogwood blossoms as the model for their design, but
glaze on tile is tricky, and if the result lacks perfection, they throw
it away.

Someone gave the girls a tiny demitasse to copy, and after making the
wee cups the original customer had requested, they put more in stock.
But no one else wants them. Someone brought them a pair of baby
shoes to be used as a model for a pottery pair. Now they make baby
shoes for the Griffon Greenhouses, and every Gurdon mother is sure
to get one of them filled with flowers for her new baby. However, all
this hasn t meant enough business at the prices they timorously ask to
put "shoes on baby" in their own household.

After they modeled Vicky, the Griffons dog, and reproduced him
in clay, Florence decided that her pet bantam hen. Honey Child, should
likewise be immortalized. She made a pottery bantam, life-size, and
with infinite patience drew in every tiny feather before the little figure
was put into the kiln. Also the nest could not be one of common
"straw" such as one finds under antique glass hens. Honey Child must
be sitting on a pine-needle nest, because the Rogers girls believe that
such nests keep off mites and other unpleasant insects. They finally
made a mold for the little hen, but even with that, much painstaking
handwork is required to make the prim little feathers.

One of the litde red-combed hens with her pine-needle nest was
standing on a table in my living room recendy when an antique col
lector came in. "Majolica!" she gasped reverendy.

"No! Rogers!" I replied, with equal reverence.

Then at last these three women, who couldn t understand what tech
nical magazines were talking about, tried something else. They began
molding the faces of real people in doll size, using photographs for

259 Htar^k for Ar

iwdbls. For one dbll they made the face of a Gurdon woman s long-
gone mother* and they modeled her dainty hands, and her fett in the
dUkryk, htgfaht0pped potntcd*toed shoes* Now the owner of this doll
is making a body to fit the head and extremities, and when the link
figure is completed and dressed in garments after those in the photo-
, it will be a three-dimensional miniature of the loved one. Surely
like this would be ats heirloom for generations to come,

A traveling man who stopped for gas and learned of the portrait dolls
brought three photographs of his lovely wife, showing soft, waving hair
about a face of classic beauty, and asked them to "make her up." M She
isn t well/* he said with a catch in his voice. The effort the girls put
kit the modeling and firing of that delicate little face and the tiny
ha&ds and feet could never be given a financial rating. But, after all,
they are artists!

Folbwing their success with portrait dolls, the Rogers women began
m make a series of character dolls* For gift shops in Morrillton and the
vicinity they have made a Petit Jean doll, giving her a beautiful face
with the elaborate hair-do affected by women of the French court. Mor-
rillton women dress the dolls in bouffant costumes that match the
hair-do, and sell them to tourists as figurines of the venturesome girl
who died on the mountain that still bears the name she assumed.

Another character doll from the homemade kiln is Arkansas Belle,
an aristocratic young woman with a lovely face, long, slender hands
and narrow, high-arched feet. This doll is dressed in lace and tafleta,
sprinkled with, ribbon bows, and bears the label: "No relation to Bob
Bums.* 9

Really there is nothing much to tell about the Rogers women at Gor
don. Just three women by the side of an Arkansas highway, peddling
gas to motorists who pause reluctantly when the gas-tank indicator is
far to the left, and dabbing in die muddy clay which they mix by hand
in an old barrel.

If you plan to visit Hope, Arkansas, make your trip during the water
melon season, for Hope is the Watermelon Capital of the state. Long

Wn&rrmd&m 251

before you get there, you will ineet tracks loaded wilt grtat green
melons, looking like plump pwken with their rkfcuk^y small ctirfy
stems exactly like pigtaik Sometimes the tracks wii p$$ you, radsig
ahead to cities far in the distance, and occasionally you will ec a
smashed watermelon alongside the road, its pink m and black seeds
looking deliciously fresh and cool in spite of the hot sim. When yoti
drive into the edge of Hope during that blissful season, ymi wiH see a
small colored boy at a roadside eating place, walking solemnly up and
down bearing a huge picketing sign handprinted with the wcmtl

WATIEMl&ON,

Too bad you couldn t have been with me during the waterroeifeii
season that is just tapering off as this is written* The whole tows liad
risen in righteous indignation because a famous monthly magazine <rf
diminutive size had given Texas credit for raising the country s biggest
watermelons. This was going too far, even for Texas, Shucks, that
little old 185-pound watermelon over which Texas was crowing wns
only a marble! Why, in the Patmos community just twelve miks out
from Hope, Mr. Oscar D. Middlebrooks a few years ago grew the
acknowledged world-champion watermelon that weighed 195 potirnk.
It was presented to the Arkansas motion-picture star, Dick Powell, asd
was duly photographed and weighed in by Warner Brothers, putting
melon and weight on record for all doubting Texans.

Incidentally, on the same half acre on which Mr, MkMkiwooks grew
the champ, he grew also a runner-up that weighed WO pounds, six
others weighing in excess of 130 pounds each, and thirty-two more, each
of which weighed over 100 pounds. Even my nonmathematkal mind
can calculate that seventeen melons from that patch would weigh a too.
Then, just to humble Texas still further, Alexander HL Wasbbtira,
editor of the Hope Star, dug up the hot that the mekd over which
Texas had been crowing was actually grown from Hope watermelon
seed.

Now of course not all melons grown in the Hope region art so
large. This is fortunate. Imagine a housewife trying to put ninety-
seven and a half pounds of watermelon in an apartment refrigerator!

252 Humik

Aad anyway* melons that krge arc not gocxi to cat. They arc just
spectacular things* with meat coarse and unflavorful Hope growers
are mighty particular about the quality of their melons. Perhaps that
is why one sees trucks lined up from all over the country during the
watermdba season. It is a sight for an Arkansas Traveler, Apparently
the trucks come in during the night, some as hig as boxcars, others just
as bright and shiny, but smaller, with the names of grocery dealers in
Frankfort or SedaBa or DCS Moincs on them. Then there are privately
owned trucks, a bit on the grubby side usually, and as they wait in line
for their loads of melons, couples snooze cozily under homemade com
forters in die back. Many of the trucks are so large they can t be
weighed on the Hope scales, but must go fourteen miles down the
highway to get weight tickets on both the empty truck and the load.

This Arkansas Traveler saw, heard and felt most of those trucks, for
I was in a tourist cottage beside the highway, trying to catch up with
some writing. Every few minutes my typewriter was shaken to its
question mark by a truck hurrying to get its weight recorded before
it speeded on to Northern cities. Always I wished them luck, for I
wanted my city friends to taste Hope melons while they were at their
best

In a long life of watermelon consumption, this consumer had never
known that watermelons could be so good. The prize of my continuous
one-woman-watermelon-eating-contest was a comparatively small affair,
weighing a mere sixty pounds, and it was eaten as watermelon con
noisseurs would approvewithout benefit of plate, salt or fork.

The. melon had been pulled from the vine in the cool of the morning
and placed in the deep shade of two giant pine trees. There it had
retained the natural chill of the night in every luscious drop. C A.
Coffee, who had grown it, selected it from a pile of 1,040 that had been
picked at the same time for a truck arriving at noon from Indianapolis.
He borrowed a stubby jackknife used by his tenant Jim Poole to cut
chunks off a plug of tobacco, and cut the melon rind and its deep pink
flesh as deep as the knife would penetrate. Then the melon was lifted
a foot from the ground and dropped. It split open along the incision,

Hot W&$er nJ W&$mmdm$ 253

leaving a great red heart standing high on one side. Mr, Book, wt$
helped plant and tend the mek>&% does nm like watermelon* That kit
only Mr. and Mrs. Coffee, their daughter, Colkcn* and me to eat the
sixty pounds.

We used the knife by turns to cut out great chunks dE the heart,
which we ate from our fingers* At first we bit directly Irani the chunk,
letting the juice run down our chins* Then as thirst and hunger were
partially satisfied, we held the big pieces in our left hands a&d broke off
small bite-size portions of the cool, crisp melon with our rights* Wlie
we got to the portion containing the seeds, we were slowed down a
bit, but time isn t important in Arkansas.

Each of the remaining 1,039 melons weighed from thirty to seventy
pounds and represented a total of 38,000 pounds. Similar melons had!
ripened in the patch and gone on their way, and more were ripening
on the vines. The forty-acre patch, aU told, brought in something like
$5,000. At first thought, this might seem a big return for a crop re
quiring just ninety days for planting and maturing, but it is definitely
earned.

Like all other farm crops watermelons must be planted in prepared
ground, and plowing isn t fun, even in the dry sandy soil of the Hope
area. The seeds must be planted exactly as cucumbers were planted m
your Victory garden, in hills and by hand. Five seeds are planted &>
each hill, and the hills must be sixteen feet apart each way* When the
plants come up, they must be thinned to one to a hill. From the mo
ment the seeds are in the ground, the worry is on. If the ground is too
wet, the seeds may rot. If it is too dry, they fail to sprout Luckily, in
most years the rainfall is adequate, and the vines grow like Jack s bent-
stalk. Tiny watermelons, each tipped with a blossom, begin to appear.
Then the farmer and his helper must go through the field and straight
en the vines into a neat row, leaving sixteen-foot roadways for the
wagon and team which will collect the melons at harvesttime. When
they are about as big as one s fist, the worry about the weather becomes
acute. Does that doud look as if it were bringing hail? The melons
will be beaten from the vines. Of course more will grow, but the sec-

254 Hurrah for Arkansas!

end crop would be late for the early high prices. Does that cloud
seem to be bringing wind? Then those long slender vines will be
twisted over like tumbleweeds, and again the farmer must go through
the rows and unwind them, once more laying them out neatly.

Don t forget the bugs! In Watermelonland, growers must fight the
same little striped bugs that attack your cucumbers, squashes and
gourds. In the Hope region they grow so strong and hardy that DDT
is simply baby powder in their lives* Each watermelon farmer has his
own dusting concoction for combating bugs, and he must work early
and late to protect the vines.

As time goes on, the melons get larger, but the sun gets warmer, and

another problem is created. When one part of the melon is exposed to

, the sun and another part is consistently shaded by the vine foliage, it

grows out of shape. No one likes to buy it, and such melons, delicious

and juicy as they are, become feed for the farmer s hogs.

A few years ago when war maneuvers were being carried on in the
region of Hope, a group of boys, mainly from Brooklyn, came into a
farmer s barnyard and saw a wagonload of melons waiting to be
dumped to the hogs.

* What s wrong with them? 5 * asked one of the boys.

"Just a little out of shape," replied the farmer. "Help yourself."

The way those boys helped themselves was the neighborhood wonder
until the week when I demonstrated how watermelons should be
eaten. Now they re probably still talking about me.

As the melons grow larger, thrusting great rounded sides above the
foliage, they are in danger of becoming sunburned, which also creates
loss. To offset this, the farmer goes through the field with a bucket of
lime and water and whitewashes the top side of each big green melon.
This gives a field of ripening melons a curious frosty look under the
burning summer sun. Don t be deceived by that cool, frosty appear
ance.

When I stepped into the Coffee watermelon patch, I was reminded
of the horseback rider who wondered that a horse stuffed with hay
could be so hard. As I walked over it, dodging an occasional bull

nettle and looking for the snakes that few waterracfon psucfaes* ! unr
eeled that melons coming Iran such hot dry ground ccmM be o
lusciously juky. I found that b&rdbot sandals ate not the footgear far
this exploration. The hot sand blistered the skin.

I learned other watermelon facts, I noted that each ol the l^W
melons piled up for the Indianapolis track had a littk stem. la Qaka|%
where I bought melons in and out of season, I new $aw a item on oe*
The Coffees enjoyed that bit of enlightening news* It ptwtd that I fad
never eaten a really fresh rnefea in the city, If the stem m on ttie
melon, it is proof that it has been picked from the Tine within the pi-
vious twenty-four to thirty-six hours. Many truckers wiU accept mefew
only with stems. They have proof that the melon is getting a good
early start toward market, even though the stein wiU probably haw
dried and fallen off by the time homemakers begin making selections.
But please don t let the absence of a stem spoil your watermelon pur
chase* A melon is good long after the stem has disappeared.

When you buy a melon that has a hard, white core down the center,
you have a right to complain. It indicates that the grower purchased
seeds from melons grown in another climate, Mr. Coffee overcame this
difficulty by planting new seed in a special p&tck He saved all die
seeds from the melons produced the first year for the second year s
planting. They would become acdimated by that time, and fine melons
would be produced.

Planting the right variety of melon is another problem of tlie
Arkansas grower. The favorite at Hope is the Tom Watson, a kmg,
dark green melon with gray seeds. It is preferred by hotels and res
taurants, for it may be cut crosswise to make many round slices, or
lengthwise to make impressively large portions, This was the variety
mainly grown by Mr. Coffee, for many trucks bought nothing else.
Other trucks, buying for retail stores, chose the Black Diamond, a
round melon. This is the popular grocery-store variety, for customers
can get half of one into a refrigerator. The Georgia Rattlesnake, a
striped melon, is less popular, but I saw many in Hope stores, which
speaks well for them, since local purchasers are usually pretty choosy

256 J&wrah for Arkansas!

about focal products. The Dixie Queen, another round melon, is also
popular locally, and the Kleetex, despite its Texas origin, gets a good
play. Kleetex is not a good shipper because of its thin rind, but the
flavor is delicious.

Down in Arkansas they laugh about this business of thumping a
melon to see if it is ripe. It isn t necessary. Growers can spot a green
nidon by its "bloom* or the moisture on its green coat. In certain cir-
OHBstanceS;, having to do with freshness and coolness, the thump test
may be positively unreliable. In the patch, however, it works. A thump
cm a green melon produces a lively echoing sound. A thump on a ripe
melon produces a dull, dead "plop."

If I had stayed in Hope to the end of the watermelon harvest, a
well-placed thump on me undoubtedly would have produced the same
sound.

XIX

What! J^p Pink Coats?

OVERHEAD a great silvery moon beamed down on us with
what Fd swear was a cynical smirk. Myriads of stars twinkled as if
enjoying a quiet little chuckle. Among great curves of wooded hills
and velvety-black valleys we must have seemed like toy figures walking
from car to car, crunching highway gravel under our feet. "Have you
heard anything?" we whispered to one another.
Invariably the answer came back: "Only that one time!"
After a while we abandoned our parked cars and huddled together
in the middle of the road, apparently believing that mass listening was
more effective. Someone murmured a story about a man who went into
a restaurant. He was interrupted at intervals by a sharply hissed shl
Someone else climbed into a car, took something from the glove com
partment, and a long gurgle ended with a prolonged Ah-h-h~h-*hl An
other put a white handkerchief on a bush, then stood twenty feet away
and shied rocks at it until it dropped into the dusty weeds. Somebody
stopped in the middle of a yawn when a rustle sounded in the near-by
bushes. All of us tensed, then relaxed. Someone whispered hoarsely,
"I think we re at the wrong spot. Let s drive to the top of that next hill"
"I was expecting that," said the woman they called Minnie Lee. *Tve
been coming to these fox hunts for fifteen years and there s never any
thing to them. We stand around at one place for a while. Then some
one says we re at the wrong point. So we drive on three or four miles
and wait there. That turns out to be another wrong point. Then we
go home. Who wants to go home now?"

257

258 Hurrah

wait a minute, honey, said her husband, O. B. Robins, who
had to be patient because he was President of the Fox Hunters Associa
tion whkh was holding its stale meet, "It s too dry now for the dogs
ID pick up the scent. Wait till the dew begins to rise* Lord, what a
aight it would have been if we d jusc bad a Uttlc drizzle this after-

1 listed that alibi along with those familiar ones of w sun la the
**tlie cough of a caddy** and **the big one breaking the line.** But this
was different,

I knew very well why the eager fox hunters on Sugar Loaf Mountain
had heard only one deep thn>ated burr-uoop and that a false alarm
although 178 hounds were ranging in the woods about us. Standing
there in the moonlight on the gravel road, I was praying that all the
tittk led and gray foxes wouJd have sense enough to stay in their dens
while the great, slobbering hounds were sniffing for their tracks. Of
course, I knew that foxes eat chickens, and even ducks, turkeys and
quail. I knew that among farm people they are considered on a par,
socially, with a sheep-killing dog* In fact, I had even seen a fox trot
along the ridge just beyond Mary Jones s chicken house with a big fat
White Rock hen in his jaws. But I had also seen foxes trot jauntily
across our own grassy pastures, pausing to give me a Hy-ya-KJd look
over their shoulders before they melted into the shadows of the woods,
and it hurt to think of them running for their lives.

At midnight heaven and I were still winning out, for not a scent
had been picked up. And after I left in the predawn hours, the dogs
brought only one small gray fox to an untimely end, and were led a
merry chase by a wily red one.

Next year, when the annual fox hunt is again held at Heber Springs,
they will probably post guards along the highways to keep me out of
the county. I shall be sorry, for much as I hate fox hunting, I like fox
hunters,

Now don t get the idea that hunters here in the hills wear bright
red coats and leap their horses over tall hedges, yelling "Yolcks!" or
whatever fox hunters yell in English novels. In Arkansas it is the

No ZSf

act Ac that A 1

get a of 1 first met one of

fox Mr. he was

la an of

aad to and had a felt hat

at the to the sun out of his On my sec

ond he to by the hat

at the left to the out of Ills for the

by adding a to the hip, a few

individualism a by

the bulge on the left.

Mr. Mcx>a is practically the fox

hunting oa horseback* He was of this I into Ac

group surrounding him in the of

". . * never starting a fox on that 1 to go up

along about midnight. I d ride old Doc, and old
with a coffeepot tied onto a pack of The

trail along. Up at the point I d the a fire

under the coffeepot, and before it boiled, up

a fox. I*d jis lay there and drink coffee and to

chasin* that fox the sweetest music in the world.**

Several reverently repeated, "Sweetest music in the world!**

It takes only a couple of hours in Hcber Springs to the

Arkansas Traveler that no sport has more fox

hunting. Baseball fans who quote scores and averages,
on with rain beating in their faces,* fishermen who risk to

beat unknown streams, ski eagles who make pretzels of their all
merely toy with chosen sports compared with the zeal of the
have taken up fox hunting.

Take J. D. Frazer ? of Rosebud* Route 1, for example. Mr. Frazer
had brought four of his registered hounds, Pat, Paul, Dan and Levi ?
to the hound show held that day in Heber Springs. All the hounds at
the show were registered the same quality of canine aristocracy you
see at the smartest dog shows in Chicago and New York and no

260 Hurrah for Arkansas!

hound owner worthy of the name would be caught dead with just one
dog* He had to have five, ten, twenty or thirty to be really in the run
ning, and registered hounds were worth anywhere from fifty dollars
to a hundred and fifty.

When I met Mr. Frazcr, he was rushing his four hounds home to
get supper before they joined the chase on Sugar Loaf Mountain. Now
don t imagine that he and his fine dogs were riding in regal isola
tion. With them in the back end of the straw-padded truck were a half-
dozen or more fox hunters and perhaps thirty dogs, all getting along
with the chummy friendliness of a Sunday-school picnic. The men
were laughing and joking, and the dogs were amiably nosing out good
places to lie down as if they knew a hard night was ahead of them.
Some of the best hunters of the region were in that truck such men as
Porter Parrish, who had brought Crip and Peggy Ann; R. R. Parrish,
with Dinah, Joe and Jack; Dewey West, of Drasco, with Hunch,
Chuck, Belle and Big Mamma.

I asked Mr. Frazer if he had rehearsed his hounds for the night s
chase. He just grinned. "I reckon you might say that," he said. "I go
hunting twice a week the year around. Tuesdays and Saturdays."

The year around! I protested over the large number of baby foxes
that might be left motherless with such unrestricted pursuit.

"Nature takes care of that," said Mr. West. "Mother foxes stay close
to their dens. You just catch old dog foxes in the bearing season/

The truck started up and the men apologized for their hurry. Men
and dogs had to have supper.

Supper! I thought of the trouble we have had getting meat for our
Boston terrier Judy. What did one feed such big dogs? I hunted up
Mr. Moon to ask. He had the answer.

"Mainly corn bread and cracklings. That so?" He turned to the
group about him for corroboration.

All heads nodded gravely. They should know! The proud owner
of Merry and Loud, Henry Heffington, had been a fox hunter for forty
years, L. R. Plummer had a thirty-five-year hunting record, and Doc
Prescott was another old-timer who felt that eighteen hounds were no

261

more than a fellow needed if he were goiag into fox hunting in a
serious way.

All these, and every other man who$e hounds would Join in the chase
that night, carried a hunting horn slung to his belt or galluses or pro
jecting from a rear pocket. Most of them were steer horns* beautifully
polished, and with a great variety of mouthpieces* I put erne of them
to my lips and tried to blow it as one blows a New Year s horn. Not
even a squeak came out. It is a real trick to bbw a hunter s horn.
Perhaps the variety of sounds which the owners produce accounts foe
the fact that each hound recognizes his master s call The tioras are
not blown to urge the dogs on, or to cause them to swing ri^bt or left,
as I had imagined, but to bring them in after the chase*

Mr. Moon deplored the fact that he was unable to bbw his horn.
Only a few days before a big old veal calf had kicked out the tooth
that had given him a peculiar whistling sound.

Mr. Robbins was in a similar predicament. "I can t blow my horn
without my teeth, but my teeth hurt me, so I left em at home!"

"Too bad you missed the hound show," someone said to me, as we
sat out the twilight in the park, waiting for the signal that would send
us up to Sugar Loaf Mountain where the chase would start. "Prettiest
sight you ever laid eyes on," he continued. "One hundred and ten
hounds bein walked around in a big ring. Most of *cm have been
taken home now, to get ready for the chase."

Enough of the long-eared, sad-eyed dogs remained to give me a good
idea of the show. Apparently each owner had chosen a tree in the park
and simply arranged his "bench" by tying the dogs to the trunk. Some
of the dogs lay sleeping, as they waited for the dbase. One pair rubbed
noses with a tiny gray kitten. A cluster told off a Boston terrier with
what was meant to be paralyzing effect, but the terrier simply backed
off beyond the length of the hounds 5 ropes and returned threat for

threat.

I walked about among Jesse Carter s fine dogs, Rose and Hattie, and
the unconcerned prize winners, Tebo Carter s Ginger and Little Fetch,
Buffon Darner s Snowball, and Screamer, the top-honor dog belonging

262 Hurrah far Arkansas!

to Dr* S. F. Button. Dr. Button s fox-hunting career began when he
was ten years old, and at seventy he was one of the most enthusiastic
hunters at the meet.

"Beautiful dogs," I said to my friend, Mr. Moon, when I returned to
the park bench.

He spat at a lonely brown-eyed Susan fifteen feet away, catching her
neatly in the eye. Then he spoke. "Yeah! But it takes more n points
to run a fox!" He settled back on the bench. "Take one of these bench-
show prize winners out in the woods and sometimes a little ol ? potlicker
can outrun him."

The doggy conversation, once begun, ran on until darkness fell. Mr.
Moon s companions argued that a registered pup has more chances of
being a "good dog" than one that is just dawg. They seemed to win the
argument. For a time the conversation veered to dogs that will track
deer. I gathered that the consensus settled on a dog described as "half
oY long-eared potlicker with a little Walker to put pep into him."
Such a dog would, they said, bring a deer up slow, so the hunter who
was sitting on a log under a tree would have a chance to bring his
sights to bear on the deer and then shoot him.

When they spoke of a little Walker, I inquired if they meant a snort
of Johnny. Patiently they explained that hounds are of two varieties,
Walker and Trigg. Walkers are sturdy fellows with dark coloring,
black and brown in a variety of intermingled spottings. Triggs are
white, with brown spots, like Dr. Button s Screamer.

I showed my ignorance by piping up with my opinion, which, as
usual, was wrong. "I should think you would all raise white hounds-
They are so much easier to see in the darkness." I was basing my con
clusion on the fact that I always look for my Judy s white face when
we take our bedtime walk.

The fox hunters looked at me with the same pitying expression my
father wore when as a child I announced that I could see no reason for
putting kerosene into the lantern. Why not just keep turning up the
wick?

263

**WaIkers arc aid one of Ac

^But a wMte he lias

Another of die a

a fox five, tea or even Thea lie has to Ms

back home. Well, that s a for a to

aloag the way don t know he s clog. A

Mm niQseyiii* along home, all fared and He dc*t

he s jis* a hound goia* home. He thinks he s to
So he saySy *Look at that wuthless of hound,* his gun.

a good hound has Hied that way! Take a dark-colored a

farmer can t see Mm so easy/*

The group sat in silence for a long moment, mute with sad memories.
I had a feeling they were mentally facing east, in tribute to the good
dogs who had lost their Eves while making their lonely way home.

Thai the stories started again.

**Once whoa my dogs was chasin a gray fbcc . . ." began a member
o the group.

I listened to the end of the story. Then I asked my question: **How
in the name of goodness eooid a man sitting on a log in total darkness
know that his dogs wore running a gray fox? Mightn t it be a red one?*

Again Mr, Moon aided my education. A gray fox, I learned, runs in
short circles, rabbit-dodging over logs and around bushes to elude the
hounds. A red fox runs in a wide circle. Thai after a while he sud
denly takes out in a straight line and is off like an arrow, leaving a
trail of diminishing music wafting bads: over the hills to the listening
hunter.

"Does the fox ever get away? n I asked. Then I added: T hope! 9 *

"Lots of times," said Mr. Moon, aad I fancied there was a sheepish
note in his voice. "The dogs never catch up with him. If he sees than
closing in, he makes one last desperate effort to escape. He opens his
mouth wide, gives a sort of cry and runs right back toward the dogs.
Maybe if s just a bluff. Most of the times it s just suicide. We can hear
it. Then well say, If s all ova:. I heard him sqnallinV Once, though,*

264 Hurrah far Arkansas!

he added, "I saw a fox run right through a bunch of hounds and get
away.**

I sighed with relief. Perhaps heaven can be trusted to take care of
little foxes when I am not around.

Hdber Springs, seat of Cleburne County, is one of the busiest little
towns in middle Arkansas. It is not a large town something under
2$Q0 but its two banks have combined assets of nearly $5,000,000. In
the northeast part of the county diversified farming has been devel
oped to a high degree. A couple of years ago the businessmen looked
up to Rogers and Springdale where farmers were making a killing
with broilers and said, "Why can t our farmers do that?"

While they were still talking about it, O. B. Robbins went to Rogers
and learned that little chicks need only food and shelter to make them
grow into big healthy broilers for which city people gladly pay hard
cash. He came back with a bright idea. He would furnish the feed if
the farmers would supply the little chicks and the shelter. They could
pay him at broiler time. He would see that buyers came right into
Heber Springs and picked up the long-legged chickens.

Of course, Mr. Robbins was the one who could do this! The old
saying, "If you want anything done, get a busy person to do it, * holds
good in Arkansas as nowhere else. At that time he was president of
one of the two Heber Springs banks, as well as Ford dealer, lumber
yard owner and manager and real-estate man. He was also president
of the Arkansas Fox Hunters Association, was engaged in building a
laundry which he planned to operate, and had recently become owner
of a church, which he didn t expect to operate.

It was quite easy for him to add a feed store to his other enterprises.
This brought $100,000 worth of business into the county, for the vicinity
of Heber Springs was found to be a naturally advantageous location
for raising healthy chickens. Farmers found they could raise 1,000 to
3,000 broilers with modest equipment. In a couple of years buyers were
taking 600,000 broilers out of the country annually. That meant better

. 265

cookstoves and new oilcloth for the dining-room tables m farm houses.
It meant new cars and new blue jeans for the farmer^ and ice-cream
cones all around when the family came to town on Saturdays*

(Note; Just a few days after I wrote this eh&pter local papers brought
the sad news that O. B* Robbins had suddenly passed away. I m $&re a
brightly starred crown was waiting for him!)

The biggest pay rolls arc furnished by the fifty sawmills in Geburne
County,

"We thought the timber was all gone years ago," said one of Hcber
Springs citizens. "But now the industry is getting more for little dim
poles than they used to get for virgin pines!"

All the timber is sold on the out-of-town market. It is not e^en
dried in Cleburne County.

The Arkansas Traveler who is headed for Hcber Springs really has
to fight his way there. Just make mention of Heber Springs along the
highway and everyone will tell you, "Awful rough road over there.
Don t know if you can git through. *

This is a gross libel on the gravel road that leads from Clinton to
Heber Springs. True, the road has a bit of washboard action to it now
and then, and it swings along the sides of steep hills, but I ve seen far
worse. The suspension bridges one crosses would be worth the trip.
They are long and springy, and even though they are the oao-way
variety, which terrorizes me I m always afraid of a drunken fool
barging onto the bridge from the opposite end they are an interesting
diversion on a long ride. The county would like to trade them ia for
the stout, staid variety. Seems that suspension bridges have such pky
in them the flooring is soon worn out. It costs money to replace it.

The springs which give Heber Springs part of its name are said to
be among the best health waters in the state. I met a woman at the hotel
across the street from the park, who said she had been at death s door
when she came to Heber Springs. After drinking the water three
weeks she felt like a new woman. She had acquired a boy friend aged
seventy-one, a farmer from a near-by valley, and on his next trip to
town they were going to climb to the top of Sugar Loaf Mountain.

266 Hwrrah for Arkansas!

It may be fl*$Mtn^ tiiat the boy friend had been drinking the water
all his life.

I am always a bit reluctant to emphasize the healthful qualities of
spring water, for I would hate to arouse false hopes in the hearts of
sufferers, But at any springs with a reputation you will find people who
swear on the Bible that they have been cured or relieved. When I hear
them, I always think of Tom Shiras* observation that the illness of
many folks is just due to the fact that they are dehydrated. Getting
such people to drink an abundance of any %ind of water might bring
relief.

At Heber Springs seven springs are in the city park. These include
red, white and bkck sulphurs, iron, arsenic and alum. Enthusiastic
drinkers will tell you they are good for everything from sore eyes to
stomach trouble and rheumatism. One spring is even supposed to help
headaches. Not having any of the ailments, I went around to several
and drank long and earnestly. They all tasted terrible.

The fact that the local people go for this spring water in a big way
leads me to believe that my lack of enthusiasm is probably all wrong.
Every man, woman and child who came into the Heber Springs park
carried a jug, quart jar, tumbler or dipper. The jugs were used, of
course, to cany a supply home. One man had a gourd dipper hitched
to the galluses of his overalls. Such local patronage is the best advertis
ing that could be given to the springs.

Whether or not such faith is justified, a visit to Heber Springs would
be good for whatever ails you. Just to sit in the beautiful park, with its
big trees and comfortable benches, warmed by Arkansas sunshine or
cooled by Arkansas shade, should be soothing to mind and body. If
you want to talk, you will find the town full of friendly people who
will converse with you on any subject. If you want to be quiet, you
can pull your hat down over your eyes or bury your nose in a book, and
no one will disturb you. Two hotels stand face to face on the street
that leads to the park. I chose the one that was obviously older and less
commercial, and had no regrets. I soon learned that good cold drinking

3S7

water was kept in the refrigerator in the dining room which was next
door to my bedroom

When I was thirsty, I simply helped myself, like everybody else. Late
in the evening a big watermelon was put into the refrigerator. The
next morning, about ten, the melon was cut for whatever guests hap
pened to be hanging around, and for those who were lucky enough to
drop in. For meals we went to a restaurant on the main street where
we ate fried chicken and country gravy, with hot biscuits.

Shucks! Why would anyone need to drink **heakh water** with all
that?

XX

Smart ^People, These ^ArkansansJ

THROUGHOUT Arkansas the love of music rates equally
with the love o fishing and hunting. It is not at all uncommon to see
a tall, broad-shouldered young fellow walking along a busy highway
strumming a guitar slung around his neck. He is on his way, more
than likely, to a party, or a "sing" at a church, and is doing a little prac
ticing as he walks along. It is typical of Arkansas independence that
he pays no attention to the cars whizzing by. After all, the busy high
way is just another "newcomer * in his estimation. Long before gaping
tourists began cluttering up the hills and valleys of Arkansas, his
people were there, working a little, eating wel! 3 drinking a bit of
homemade likker, and enjoying the music of Grandpappy s fiddle.
Even the younger generation of fiddlers still reflect the playing of some
old-timer of their family or neighborhood.

When young William C. Hacker, brilliant New York pianist who
studied under Iturbi, came to the University of Arkansas a few years
ago to teach piano and to form a symphony orchestra, he found the
Arkansas attitude toward music expressed quite clearly in two ways.
The youngsters were eager to study the music of the masters, and many
of them had amazing talent, but the financial appropriation for the new
venture was exactly $30. How Bill formed a symphony orchestra and
gave concerts with borrowed instruments would make a book in itself!
Somehow it was accomplished, and the concerts were good not only in
an auditory sense but visually as well. Slim girls in evening dress sat
beside plump boys in tweed suits and the familiar college sweater. The

268

Smart People, These Arfawms! 289

boys ranged from blue serge to loud plaid sports jackets. Two of them
chewed gum as they whammed the timpani. I commented on that gum
chewing the next time I saw Bill,

**But did you notice that they chewed in rhythm?** asked Mr. Hacker
proudly.

Perhaps that tolerant attitude toward his musicians was one reason
why Bill could achieve such splendid success with his newborn orches
tra. When a young fiddler who formerly clutched his violin to his
chest showed the first symptoms of developing a more conventional
hold on the instrument, Bill was the first to congratulate him. If the
lad failed to develop that first symptom, Bill had a way of tactfully
easing him to another instrument, such as the French horn or dbe
cello, and giving him the right start from the first note*

The young leader found it possible also to develop symphony societies
throughout Arkansas. Through the efforts of these societies tickets to
his conceits were sold well in advance, and the "ticket money** enabled
the budding orchestra to travel to many towns. It was good practice
for the kids, and it enabled music lovers to ease the pangs of music
starvation with something other than folk songs. Of course, each con
cert was sweetened by the presence of professional musicians from
near-by cities, who generously devoted time and talent to the cause.

Behind the scenes each concert became a saga of improvisation and
making-do! For instance, one engagement found the orchestra without
a cellist. That was an impossible situation. Bill looked at his blond
wife, Norma, and the young man who helped carry the borrowed in
struments into the concert hall.

"You two will pky cellos for tomorrow s concert!" he said.

Neither had ever touched a cello, except to move it from place to
place, but at the concert they played. And well! Throughout the nigjit
the three young people sat with the conceit orchestrations that would
be played next day, painstakingly changing cello notes to combinations
of figures such as 1-3, 2-4 and such. The first figure of each combina
tion gave the fret, the second the string, enabling the player to sound
the right note without knowing a thing about music.

270 Hurrah for Arkansas!

Now the Arkansas Symphony Orchestra has become an established
part of the state s musical life. An annual Music Workshop is held at
Eureka Springs each summer, with talented young people coming from
all over the state to engage in an almost continuous round of rehearsals
for two weeks. During that time the works of Beethoven, Tschai-
kovsky apd Mozart take an awful beating, but at the end of the session
two conceits of extremely high quality are given to the public.

When the concerts are over, the kids linger on the stage, gathering
about the bull fiddle for a jam session. Because these young people are
Arkansans, the music drifts gently from concert stuff to popular airs,
then to a bit of boogie-woogie, and at last simmers gently to a good old
tune that has floated on the Arkansas air through generations: "Tur
key in the Straw.**

I do not deny that many travelers find Arkansas folk "jist a-settin *
but I wonder if they notice how those complacent people are often
engaged in a bit of handwork that would baffle a person with a roomful
of tools. For instance, there is a man who carves canes for our craft
cabin, the old barn which Vera Becker, Ruth Webb, former school
teachers, and I have rigged up as a market place for handcraf t. He takes
small, out-dated Christmas trees, whittles off the branches and carves the
heavy end of the trunk into a quaint figure or a head with characterful
eyes and mouth. One day a tourist stood in the cabin spouting some
poetry he had written, and Vera silently handed me one of the canes
out whittler had just brought in. I glanced down at it, then stared
in fascination. By coincidence the cane had been carved into a face
exactly like that of the men who recited before me!

Sometimes our whitder finds branches that have a sharp curve at the
heavy end. These make fine dog heads, an excellent handle for a good
walking cane. The shape of the curve, of course, determines the type
of dog, and the whittler brings them out to perfection, with brass tacks
for eyes. Once I saw him seize on a fallen branch as though he had
found his personal pot of gold.

"That will make a fine cane with a bulldog head," he said.

To me it was just a branch torn from a tree by a recent storm.

Smart People, Tkv$e A^^m^ms! 271

Carved doll heads, dogs, candlesticks aad other Interesting gadgi#s
come from fingers that have had iKithiag with which to work accept a
jackknife and imagination. Given a few more tools, primitive as those
known to the earliest pioneers, they contrive baskets of delightful sturdi-
ness, chairs that last a lifetime, tables, beaches or dbests. Not with
speed, of course, but in a fairly steady flow* Usually thp gcimmndings
in which these excellent pieces are made bring a gasp from the wood
worker who has what is modestly known as a home workshop. Dirt
floors, sagging doors, if any, and piles of shavings around a stove that
is red-hot in winter or tobacco-spotted in summer, feature most of the
workshops of Arkansas. But the products of one of those littk shops
may be treasures for generations to come.

Anyone who has ever seen the quilts hanging on washday clothes
lines in Arkansas could never doubt that women, too, know their
handiwork. It must be remembered that what you see on the lines are
the "usin* " quilts. If you could persuade a housewife to let you come
in and go through some big old chest or old-fashioned wooden cup
board in her home, you would find the choice ones which she considers
too good for common use. They are being saved for the day when
someone has a new baby or is so ill a doctor must be called in and
neighbors volunteer to sit up with the sick one. Sometimes they are just
saved period! Occasionally a choice quilt may be purchased, but
mainly the maker clings to each one with the same fervor with whkh
she would cling to a child being wrested from her grasp. Each quilt is
indeed a brain child, produced with labf r and suffering. If you doubt
it, just try sewing by the light of a kerosene lamp when you have hoed
all day in a garden on a slanting hillside, and cooked three meals over
an old wood-burning cookstove, after you have chopped the wood
needed for cooking.

Other nimble fingers produce dolls so quaint and amusing in charac
ter that they become treasured souvenirs long after a tourist has returned
to her city home. One peculiarity of the makers is outstanding. Each
woman manages to turn out dolls that resemble herself. One woman
deep in the hills below our home makes long, lean, slightly stooped

272 Hurr&h for Arkansas!

figures just like her own. She likes to dress them in the same sort of
cloches she wears, and often she makes them carrying a sack of flour,
a sack of quilt pieces or a good-sized baby in a long white dress. Her
best production, however, is an old grandma, with her knitting or a
pipe, wearing the black bonnet, apron and calico dresses commonly seen
on old grannies of the hills. The doll maker also makes the chairs on
which the grandmas sit, and these are as truly folk art as the dolls.
Each is made from cornstalks, matches and bits of string.

At Christmastime last year she surprised me with three Santa Clauses
in the traditional red and white. There tradition ended. Each Santa
was long, lean and lanky.

This woman lives on a farm and tends their garden, always "the
woman s job." Each year she raises several hundred baby chicks to
become meat for the family, or layers. She has five children of her own,
the youngest three years old, and she cares also for three grandchildren.
Her dolls, like many quilts, are made at night by lamplight. Some
times I have to call her attention to seams that are not quite straight,
and she anxiously promises to do better. With her doll money she is
making payments on a bright-blue velours davenport and chair, the first
"new boughten" furniture she has ever owned.

Another type of doll is made by a tiny, black-eyed woman, whose
fingers can contrive something out of nothing with more speed than
one should ever expect of an Ozarkian. Characteristically her dolls are
tiny and neat and have tip-tilted noses, although they are made entirely
of doth.

For several years many women of the hills have been making dolls
with hickory-nut heads. About eighty or ninety years ago some pioneer
mother made a toy for her small daughter by sewing, a hickory nut
firmly in a litde white bonnet and attaching it to a small rag body
dressed in old-fashioned, voluminous petticoats and dress. Unknow
ingly she started a popular tourist item. Somehow the doll survived
the years and at last came to rest in Maude Henderson s exquisite Al
bert Pike Museum, in the Boston Mountains of Arkansas. One day a
neighbor asked Mrs. Henderson to suggest a kind of doll to attract the

Smart People f These Arfy&ms&ms} 275

tourists that came in aiEter a new highway was built. The little &>U
with the hickory-nut head was brought out* From that tiny hint die
neighbors developed a doll with a rigid body and hickory 0ut head
wearing the sunbonnet, apron and print dress o a hill woman. M0rt
and more women have taken up making these dolis, and I doubt if many
tourists go home without one.

For our craft cabin, we specialize in hickory-nut dolls made by a
woman who actually tailors clothes to fit the small bodies* Garments
arc cut by pattern, even though she makes thousands o little coats,
sunbonnets or aprons in the course of a year. The difference of an
eighth of an inch might cause an unwieldy bunching in a day sleeve!
The buttons are French knots.

All this sewing is done after nuts have been gathered for the heads,
and attached to bodies jigsawed from the ends of orange crates. Not
just any hickory nut will do for a doll head. It must be a symmetrical
nut with a long, pointed stem end that will suffice as a nose* Eyes and
mouth are painted on the nut.

The Harry Webb factory in Eureka Springs now employs thirty
men who slice black walnuts with sharp cutting saws, then dry and
varnish the slices. Girls and women then weave them on leather
thongs, making belts and costume jewelry. Ten-cent stores all over
the country now sell this popular item which started as a simple baisA-
craft idea.

A picture made of seeds may sound unbelievable, but we have them*
Each year hundreds of tourists carry away "seed pictures" as mementos.
You should see the wispy little grandmother who makes them! She sits
down before a small desk where little glass jars of seeds occupy each
cubbyhole. She spreads glue over a square of black sandpaper. Then
with a pointed stick the little picturemaker spears one tiny seed after
another, and places them on the sandpaper in the exact position they
should occupy. When she has finished, she has a picture of a bouquet
of flowers, with each petal a seed in its natural color. Striped sunflower
seed, shining weed seeds, Indian corn, scarlet magnolia seeds, golden
split peas, wheat and a hundred other kinds are used to make her pic-

274 Hurrah for Arkansas!

Hires. A list of the seeds used for pictures is pasted on the back. Then
she puts a check mark after each actually used in that particular
picture.

I have yet to see anyone who could identify all the seeds checked.
But then few of us have given to seeds of garden, highway and woods
the study this little gray-haired woman has given. Each year she raises
a big garden, just to get the seeds she will need for her pictures. And
eadb year she collects pounds and pounds from woods and roadside.
Sometimes this brings heartbreak. Once she walked two miles in the
hot sunshine of a broiling summer day to gather a particularly fas
cinating weed seed. When she reached home, she noticed that a border
of the weeds had grown up along her garden and there were all the
seeds she could use ready for picking.

Seeds for pictures must be gathered when they are in full color.
They must not be allowed to stay on the plant until they are hard and
black, in the pale ivory or delicate milky stage they are far more artistic
as petals for picture flowers.

Hand weaving is another craft that comes naturally to Arkansas
girls. In many homes one can still find the looms on which rugs and
beautiful coverlets were once woven. At the School of the Ozarks,
located nine miles from the Arkansas line, with the post-office address
of Point Lookout, Missouri, I have seen the finest weaving known to
the hills. It had been done by students at this school where tuition,
board, dormitory and even clothes are paid for with work. In the
summer students can stay at the school, picking beans or tomatoes in
the school fields or working in the canning factory to pay for their
tuition. During the school year they must work sixteen hours each
week in factory, weaving room or dining room, or at clean-up jobs or
construction work, in addition to carrying a full-time schedule of high-
school studies. Girls learn to cook in the school kitchen and boys learn
to become good dairymen by working with the herd of registered
Jerseys provided for the school by its good friend, Wilk Hyer.

Only boys and girls who live so far back in the hills or in other cir
cumstances that might prevent them from acquiring a high-school edu-

Smwt People -, T&ese Ar^mnmnst 275

cation are permitted to attend this school. Money is no consideration.
Often the students arrive without a change of clothes. That is no dis
grace. A room filled with garments donated by format students aad
friends o the school is opened to them, and each garment is plainly
marked with its price, not in terms of money, but in hours of work. A
tweed coat may be four hours of work, a new pair of shoes may be two
hours, so that the student who chooses the coat and the shoes will not
feel that he is wearing charity garments. He has bought and paid for
them!

The school is financed by donationsand prayer! Robert M. Good, the
president, is a firm believer in good coming to those who deserve it, and
somehow donations miraculously appear just when his need is greatest.
As proof that the boys and girls deserve the good that comes to them,
not one of the students who have gone out of the school in its thirty
years of existence has ever been in serious trouble. One of them is now
our county judge.

Boys and girls eat together at tables for eight in the big dining room,
Along with their high-school studies and their farming, cooking and
sewing, they are learning social manners. Boys are taught to hold chairs
for the girls, to pass the bread and hold the gravy bowl while the girls
help themselves. *

"That little courtesy may not mean much to this generation/* said a
fifteen-year-old girl who was working out her third-year tuitio% *faut
the next generation will be a lot better."

XXL

Jiwrah for Jtrkansas!

ARKANSAS is "plumb sick and t arecT of being the nation s
Cinderella. No longer is she willing to sit back in the chimney corner
whik her sister states cavort in mink and pearls. Somehow, she has
fotmd that a lot of the mink-and-pcarl glamour came out of Arkansas
in dbe first place* Now she has decided she won t stop with trapping
tfi mkik or digging the pearls out of mussel shells! She has learned
that if she does some of the polishing and curing, she stands a better
diance of getting invited to big parties, like the other girls.

Seriously, Arkansas is experiencing a great revival in all the eco
nomic factors affecting her welfare. Since 1944, she has been fortu
nate in having a businessman for governor, and with Ben Laney at the
head of state affairs for two years more even greater progress is antici
pated. At the latest General Assembly, the Resources and Develop
ment Commission was created, with Colonel Hendrix Lackey as direc
tor. Through this commission all the state agencies interested either
in the conservation or development of our resources are consolidated.
Heretofore, all the state agenciesAgriculture and Industry, Forestry
and Parks, Geology, Flood Control, Water and Soil Conservation,
Planning and Publicity had carried on independently of one another.
Under the new commission a saving in appropriations will undoubtedly
result and very likely time and effort will be saved by co-ordinated
development of projects. It is the commission s sworn objective to pro-

276

Hurrah for Ar^&mmsl 277

mote conservation of our resources and to lead an organized effort on
the part of our citizens to improve our economic position as a state*
Arkansas is humming with activity* In 1946, TOO new industries came
into the state, increasing the employment of our workers by 20$OQ to
25,000 people. Fortunately they are about as depression-proof as indus
tries can be! Most of them are small and diversified, and are therefore
less liable to suffer in hard times than big business. A state with a
wealth of small businesses can weather a financial storm better thaa
one whose eggs are all in one basket. Many of these new

utilize raw products from the farms* Comes a depression, the farms
will still be there producing raw materials, the industrial planes wiH
still be there waiting to process them, and people will still be eating.
In addition, most of the businesses utilize the state s minerals, oil and
timber, and do not have to rely on outside resources.

It must be remembered that the 25,000 workers who will have jobs
in these enterprises represent only a small portion of the population
who will benefit financially from them. For every new worker who
enters a paid position, two service jobs are created* Another factor to
consider is that fresh markets are provided for products already being
grown or manufactured. Add these together, and you can sec that,
from the standpoint of labor and income, Arkansas is indeed going
places.

With all this emphasis on industry, the Resources and Development
Commission has not lost sight of the fact that fifty-seven percent of
Arkansas population is engaged in agriculture. Conservation of soil,
high production, better farming practices, labor-saving machinery, all
get their share of the limelight in every meeting. Not an angk of im
provement is overlooked.

As an example, consider the sweet potato. The time has come, says
the commission, when Arkansas sweet potatoes must occupy a mote
prominent position than merely costarring with baked ham. Someone
discovered recently that sweet potatoes are an excellent stock feed. I
could have told them that long ago! Back in the days when I could

27^ for

oC en 1 had a

the fit no

ll too to go emu to cat* or to

euvk. the On I

boil a of swcLi on and

I fell 1 go to the fish out a

ami cat it out of No BO BO 10

i 1 of lost

of Now tell me

of arc equivalent to of in

ia a can 600 bushels of

on an of lie be put to

01 of to large acreage in to

to his livestock, he can farm a lew

of The can be ground into meal to

Ms and the not for cultivation can be put

dehydrating plants are being established
and art for early

require considerable effort in cultivation,
the believes farmers will be glad to switch to them

what can be accomplished with sweet-potato meal.

are already producing specialized crops such as cu
cumbers of particular varieties and certain kinds of tomatoes which
arc to near-by processing factories.

In regions farmers have turned to strawberries for their money

crop ? the building of lockers in every town of any importance wiU
undoubtedly lead to bigger and better fields. Arkansas strawberries
are rich* juicy* tempting morsels of ddiciousness. I have seen some of
the finest grown on a rocky old sidehill that looked as though it couldn t
produce a first-class weed*

For many years strawberries of high quality have been grown in the
vicinity of Bald Knob and Searcy. At the time the Jedge s jam and

for 27t

la It a we

our entire o 280

In New York, all

ate arc stilS foe

more.

The and Be Is

of agricultural switch-over The is

already "pointing with pride n to the la

and wild blackberries

As for the old Popeye li

iag California look to Its laurels its crops. We caa
o spinach a year. In fact, so has in

beans and spiaach la Arkansas the Caa

it necessary to put in a new factory at Fort Smith, 10 the

center of the canning industry for this region was at
Missouri. Now it has moved so far into Arkansas a
had to be provided to supply tia cans to processors.

Besides working out new ways of using raw products* the
and Development Commission is seeking aew methods for
waste. For Instance, the straw and hulls left over
has been milled will no longer go to waste. Now it Is
rice straw makes a particularly good boxboard s while the be

lieve it or not, make an exceEent abrasive for grlading out
cylinders.

In the timber country it is definitely out of style to take a hunk o
the trunk and leave the rest of the tree to rot on the ground. Now
the twigs are boiled, ground, dried, pulverized and what not to make
wood smoke for curing meats and other important, if less amazing
products. The sawdust which formerly went to waste in lumber and
stave mills is being made into a wood flour that eventually finds Its
way into plastics- One plant in Arkansas formerly used a great quan
tity o wheat flour in the manufacture of veneer. When wood flour was
suggested and tried, it was found to be more satisfactory. In this in-

*P) /-/ir

21$ ill aa put to a

for a
of is a of the in

arc Alt

tor a the

:fo? of

in tie as

is no oi of

As dc*

uses arc for and great

to the at

la flic of

in in per la

Ut as a

fim.

the of the and

all the in the

will be cut It mill be

but a price. However,

of this loss of be by the can be

The by bad weather

the Is out over a period Is enough to

the I women in the

of in ankle-deep, and praying it

la the a of us out to the

lop the for one looks ready to give

the

out of employment by the mechanical cottoa

for the Resources and Development Commission*

But do not to be losing sleep over it. Members of the com-

told me that the change from hand labor to mechanized

will so gradually that the problem may be solved as it

arises. I have to believe that nobody ever really Eked to

for Ml

cotton. all the and all the

stage In and

break into a buck-aad-wlog by

never knew It to a all Tube fact thai

Negroes as one to buy and bos aad

out for war Jobs the of In the

future industrialists and less

before pickers* eyes will see sad in the

Land of Cotton, On the other hand, even

there will always be a certain number of for the

fields, and those who wish to stay OB the land may up

buy a little patch of their own. It has doEe,

on cotton-picking wages and share cropping!

It is hoped that more and more of our Arkansas cotton be put
into cloth right here at home. In all the state I know of only one
mill. It Is a good one 3 at Monticello. At the time I visited it. It
on plain dull cloth ordered by the Federal government, but in a
corner I found ends of cloth of delightful texture and weave, the
of earlier days. To go on to printing patterns on that cloth Is a
step. Then cloth for our dresses and sunbonnets would be made in
Arkansas.

A few industries devoted to making doth into work clothes and
other items of wearing apparel are in the South now, and many more
could be accommodated. A company planning to establish a factory
In the pretty little town of Mena made a survey of the workers it might
expect* Three hundred women promptly signed up an example of the
speed with which Industries may be put Into districts previously rural*

Some communities have organized their own new industries, basing
them on products already produced in the region* For instance, the
neighborhood of Malvern produced a great amount of milk, livestock
and poultry. The local businessmen decided to start their bigger and
better developments with these products, rather than try to bring in
outside interests. The plan worked beyond all expectations.

282 Harmb far dr

Maivcm has a pa^texsraation plant second to none. Its fccktr build-
log n 0ae oi the fijaest in the stale, with facilities for dressing chickens
and chitting up the meat. Now it is planning a slaughterhouse which
will dress the farmers* beef cattk and hags. This will undoubtedly
km the same sweat a$ the other two ventures, for Mahrcrn seems to
get dbkip done. In fttiatiaag the Jacket plant no one was albwed to put
in more tfass $5,000. A$ a result, cnrer 200 kxal people arc interested,
&&d if you tfei&k that doeso t make things hum, just look at any business
m whkh focal capita! is invcstcdparticuhriy Arkansas capital.

At Loooke a dairy has been established, and from that little
community a total of $2,500 worth of milk is shipped daily to Little
Rock* The local businessmen offered prizes for the devebpmcm of
pastures, a&d a well-paying business has resulted. Thoroughbred cattk
** sees everywhere io Arkansas now. And even the pigs arc plump
and round! Only oa back-country mads does ooe sec the once-common
raxorback hog with his gaunt sides, bony ridge, long snout and bclligtrr-
eai expression.

la the old days who would have thought of associating technology
wkh Arkansas? Now, new ways of using old products and old ways
of using new products arc contributing largely to the awakening of this
Sleeping Beauty state. Some day our minerals and ores may be as
important as the surface at the ground is now. The eyes of the nation
ait frequently turning toward our billion tons of coal. Although the
cost of coal production is considerably higher than in some of the
other states, we arc still far ahead of the British Isles in yield per man
per day. The coking qualities of Arkansas coal are being studied and
you could have knocked me over with a feather when 1 heard what
else was given serious consideration in connection with it. Butter!
Butter made from coal is said to be superior to other substitutes.

"Quick, Johnnie, run out to the North Forty and dig up a potind of
butter. The kinfolks will be here any minute! 15

What is the world coining to?

Arkansas rivers are receiving a great deal erf attention. Dans a*

for

are of

to the to

arc in to

to far the the

burden on arc I 10

be in Arkansas. ca& our

Ing until we can the we

Of coursej the has not the Bat you caa see we arc

working toward it. We re in to we

are getting out of the hole. Our are

but give us time! Remember arc so the

of the automobile made little stir

hard surfaces on remote country roads. Our face Is red we

find that we have to go over into to get to

from Memphis, but the road machinery is in

the year, and it is bound to make a showing

We need more hospitals* libraries and playgrounds* We arc
them gradually, I have had the pleasure of in

motion because city friends were willing to
good reading not those bound yearbooks of little-known

Our schools need more teachers as good as the ones we have, and we
need more schools here and there.

We could use a little less emphasis OB the way Grandpappy did
and thought things out, if ever, but we arc getting that, too. A lot of
Arkansas boys have gone places and done things these last few years
and they have discovered that Grandpappy was often an old mossback
who couldn t have made a living if his wife s father hadn t given her a
farm to keep her and the young uns from starving to death.

But any time anyone begins to crowd me about Arkansas, I have posi
tive proof that this Is an up-and-coming state. Believe it or not Holly
wood brassieres are made here*

In fact, Arkansas has so many good qualities we can afford to over
look shortcomings. We couldn t ask for a better climate. It may be a bit

284 Hwr&h jor

on the warm skk in simmer, but the housewife can plant two gardens,
an early one in spring for summer eating and canning, and another one
in the late summer for winter storing, The winters are so short we can
sell the furs we trap instead of having them made into coats which
only weight a girl down anyway! On February 28, 1946, at my home
in the hills I had five bushes of shrubbery in full bloom, one fragrant
tad alive with honeybees! In southern Arkansas roses were blooming
and wisteria was clambering over porches.

In this one state we have a variety of scenery to satisfy all tastes. We
have rivers for those who like to feel a big one snatch the hook, lakes
for those who like to see the moon make a shimmering path of light on
silver water, hills for those who like to sit on a mountaintop and watch
a golden sun silhouette a fringe of pine trees on the next ridge, plains
for those who like far horizons, and valleys for those who like to rest
in cool shadows and watch a little brook tumble down a rocky ledge
after it has bubbled out of the ground. Our woods hide deer, fox,
squirrel, rabbit and even the sinuous bobcat, and we have meadows for
quail and bayous for wild ducks,

We have dawns in which the sun comes up like a golden ball, send
ing even a staid, slightly blase reporter to reciting poems about rosy-
fingered Eos, particularly when a whole skyful of soft fleecy clouds
arc high-lighted with rose. We have sunsets that are a blaze of glory
with purple and scarlet clouds forming battlements and turrets in the
sky. We have springs that bring healing balm to those who believe in
them and some come ready-heated for the bath! What more could
Nature do?

In fact, the more one looks about Arkansas the more one realizes
that God was certainly accommodatin when He made this part of the
country. From now on, so help us, we are going to make the most of
the opportunities that a beneficent God has put into our hands. What
was it Mark Twain s boy, Arkansaw, went around shouting? From
now on we shall borrow his words and make them ours.

Look at us! We re splitting the everlasting rocks with our glances

Hwr&h for Arfy&m&fl 285

and squenching the thunder when we speak, YOOOCKKKSOOOF! Stand
back and give us room according to our strength.

We re not fooling!

Just cast your eye on us, gentlemen! And lay low and hold your
breath, for we re about to turn ourselves loose.

HURRAHHHHHHHHHH FOE

INDEX

INDEX

Adams, Charles, 177
Albert Pike Museum, 272
American Orchard, 143
Anchor Travel Village, 54
Anderson, Bert, 25-29
Andrews, Mrs. Dessie, in

Batesvilk, 54, 164
Bauxite, 102
Baxter County, 54
Baxter County Bt4ktin f
Becker, Bob, 89, 90
Becker, Vera, 270

% 98

Arkansas Gazette, 56, 89, 100, 102, Bedenhamer, O. L, 158

an, 214, 247 Benton, Thomas Hart, 37

Arkansas Post, 45, 214, 215 Benton County, 30-31, 34, 37

Arkansas Power and Light Com- Bentonville, 37-38, 43

pany, 159, 160 Berryville, 20, 21

Arkansas River, 122, 189, 216 Billings, Florence, 221, 226

Arkansas Symphony Orchestra, Blytheville, 136, 202-206

268,270

"Arkansaw," 13, 17, 284
Arlington Cafe, 70

Arlington Hotel, 244
Ashley County, 114
Askins, Mrs.

73

Ault, Mrs. B. C^ 29

Bald Knob, 278-279
Ball, Gussie, 224
Bancroft, Wilbur, 93
B&rlow, Addie, 221, 222, 223, 224,
225, 226, 230, 235, 236, 239
, Capt.J.C, 177
Park Hotel, 22, 93

Borin, Inez, 224-225
Branson, Mo n 54
Brown, Beatrice, 58-61
Brown, Betty, 58-61
Brown, Selby, 58
Brown, Vern, 57-61
Brown, Mrs. Vern, 57-61
Brown, Verna Ree, 58, 6061
Brown, W.C n 243
Bryan, William Jennings* $
Bryson, Bernice, 169
Budd, Kelly, 137
Buffalo River, 227, 239-240
Bull Shoals Dam, 54
Bundy,Jack ? 26,28

289

290

Bums, Wallace, 143, 144
Button, Dr. S. F*, 262

Cage, Lycurgus, 176
Cairo & Fulton Railroad, 132
Calamity, 146-147
Camden, 161-164, 248
Campbell, Mrs, Sarah B., 211, 215
Carlisle, 88
Carrolton Dome, 107
Carter, Jesse, 261
Carter, Tebo, 260, 261
Cassville, 25, 29

Cassville & Exeter Railway, 25, 29
Catherine Lake, 242
Chapel Hill, 148
Chicago Tribune, 89
Clark, Betty, 67-68, 71
Clark, Chad, 67
Clark, Mrs. Nora, 67, 69
Clarksville, 56-57, 62, 72
Cleburne, Maj. Gen. Patrick, 177
Cleburne County, 264, 265
Clements Hotel, 145
Clinton, 265

Coffee, C. A., 252-253, 254-255
"Coin" Harvey Pyramid, 39, 41
Cole, Laura D., 149-151
College of the Ozarks, 56
Colony Mountain, 61, 73-75
Columbia County, 169
Commercial Hotel, 234-235, 239
Conway, Elias N., 211, 215; home
of, 215

Hurrah (or Arkansas!

Conway, James S., 215

Coolidge, Capt. Joe, 185

Coolidge, Col. Joseph, 177

Cossatot River, 149, 151

Couch, Harvey, 159

Cox, Joe, 63, 69

Grain, Jim, 190-191

Cranford, Norma Lee, 122-124, *3P

Craw, Nicholas, 192

Crescent Hotel, 22

Crossett, 113-120, 157,283

Crossett Companies, 114, 117, 120

Crowley s Ridge, 172, 175, 181

Daniels, Mrs. A. A., 165-166
Davis, Mrs. Ola, 169
Denny Extension Club, 73
DeQueen, 56, 121-151, 279
DeQueen Bee, 143, 144, 147, 148,

149

DeQueen Citizen, 143
Diamond Cave, 93
Dierks Sawmill, 146
Dill, Nell, 14
Dingier, Mrs. Ida, 29
Dingier, Mrs. Lona, 29
Dingier, Ray, 29
Dobbyns, Mrs. Etta, 216
Doepel, Mrs. Lisa, 75
Doepel, Martha, 75-76

Dolney, Grandma , 86

Don Gardner golf ranch, 54
Drew County, 114

Index

291

East Towson Road, 145

Ebony, 199, 200, 201

Edwards, Mrs. Olive, no

El Dorado, 157-159, 160, 162, *66>

i6 7

El Dorado Daily News, 157

Emerson, 165

English Inn, 116

Erwin, Mrs, - , 118-119

Eureka Springs, 14, 19-24, 39, 79,

92, 121, 160, 270, 273
Exeter, 25, 28

Fayetteville, 43, 238
Fort Smith, 70, 215-218, 279
Frazer, J. D., 259-260
Fulbright, Mrs. R. Y., 72
Fuller, W.H., 85-89
Fulton County, 54

Garland City, 156

Garrich, Johnny, 86-87

Goeijen, J. de, 146

Goeijen, Mena de, 127

Good, Robert M., 275

Grand Prairie, 79, 86-88

Grannis, 149

Green, Bud, 13-14

Green Bay & Western Railroad,

25,29

CJreenville, Miss., 101
e, no

)$egory-Robinson-Speas Plant, 39
Gttrdon, 194, 245, 246

Hacker, William C 268*369
Ham, Carl Grant, 228
Hamburg, 1 13
Hamilton Lake f 242
Hanks, Anne, 182
Hanks, FleetwoodL, 181-182
Hanks, Judge James Miknder, 182,

184

Hanks, John, 182
Harmony Hills, 243
Harris Hotel, 38
Harrison, 107
Harvey, "Coin," 39-42
Harvey, Jimmie, 230-234
Harvey, Tom, 230-234
Haskins, Abbott, 5052
Hazen, 88

Heber Springs 124, 258-259, 264-267
Heffington, Henry, 260
Helena, 172-186; battle of, 177-179
Helena Herald, 176
Helms, Arthur, 134-138, 141-142
Helms, Mrs. Arthur, 135, 138, 140-

142

Helms Hereford Farm, 135-141
Henderson, Maude, 272
Highland Orchard, 143
Hill Lake, 189
Hodge, Cecil, 26, 28
Hoffman, A. J., 103-107
Hog Scald Holler, 93-95, 100
Hollister, Mo., 116
Holmes, Lt. Gen. Theophilas H.,

178

292

Hurrah for Arkansas!

Hope, 134, 245, 248, 250-256

Hope Sto-, 251

Horatio, 143

Hornor, Mrs. Fannie May, 179, 185

Hoc Springs, 122, 134, 241-245

Hoi Springs Mountain, 241

Howe, Bob, 78,81, 86

Hoyt, Don, 31, 35-36, 42, 43

Huddleston, John M^ 98-99

Hurrah City, 145

Hyer,Wilk,274

Independence County, 54
Izard County, 54

Jacks, Mrs. Lloyd D^ 117

Jackson, Dr. , 20, 22

Jackson Springs, 22

Jasper, 102, 107, 220, 225, 234

Jennings, John, 92-97

Jim Owen float trips, 55

Johnson, Oscar, 202

Johnson County, 56-57, 60, 62-64,

69, 70, 71, 72, 75; peach festival,

63-71

Johnson County Graphic, 63
Jones, Joe Kenneth, 227
Jones, Ted Ray, 225
Jonesboro, 43, 124

Kansas City Southern Railway,

145-146
Keeling, Betty, 235

Keller, Helen, 177

Kerens, Richard 0,23

Killion, Helen, 206

Konkler, G. C, 126, 129

Krakow, Jean, 14

Kuhn, Mrs. Mary, 197-202, 209

Lackey, Col. Hendrix, 278
Lake Lucerne, 20
Lake Tanneycomo, 54
Land, Willard H., 155-157
Lane Tourist Court, 133-134
Laney, Gov. Ben, 205, 276
Lawrence, Marjorie, 243
Leachville, 206
Lejier, Elizabeth, 177

Lenhardt, Mrs. , 75

Lester, Helen, 206, 207-208

Lester, Martha, 206, 207-208

Lester, Mrs. Shelby, 206, 207-208

Lichty, Katie, 15

Liedtke, John T., 243

Little Rock, 103, 107, 145, 146, 160,

187, 190, 194, 211, 214, 218-219,

282

Lockesburg, 150
Log Hall, 225

Long, Maj. Stephen H., 215
Lonoke, 282

Lonsdale, Mrs. Marie, 243
Looper Tourist Court, 63
Lorey, Gracie, 103-107
Loughborough, Mrs. Silas, 211-212
Lucy, Lycurgus, 178

Index

293

Lum and Abner, 126
Lutherville, 61-62, 73
Lyon, Miss,, 108

MacArthur, Gen. Douglas, 218
MacArthur Park, 218-219
McCail, Becky, 206
McCord, May Kennedy, 102
McKune, Mrs. Marjorie, 178

MacMasters, , 54

MacMasters, Mrs. , 54

McRee, Bessie, 185, 194

Magnet Cove, 107

Magnolia, 124, 153, 164, 166-167,

169

Majestic Hotel, 244

Malvern, 281-282

Marion, 197, 199

Marion County, 54

Marmaduke, Gen. John S., 179

Marvel Cave, 93

Maxwell, Melba, 117

Melville, Hugh, 50

Mena, 54, 121-131, 279, 281

Mena Park, 125

Mena Star, 127

Merrell, Mrs. Dora, 191-194

Middlebrooks, Oscar D., 251

Midland Railway, 176

Miles, Mary Elizabeth, 177, 185

Mississippi River, 172, 175, 176, 180,

283

Missouri Pacific Railroad, 132
Missouri Row, 40

Mitchell, Jessie, 57, 63, 64, 71, 72,

74

Monte Ne 42
Mondcello, 117,281
Moon, Yandeil* 259, 160, 261, 262*

263

Moore, Mrs. Dovic, 72
Moore, Col. Hi, 153*156* 158
Moore, Margaret, 179
Moore, R.C, 178
Moss, Eleanor, 228-230
Moss, Frank, 228-230
Mountain Home, 49-50,98
Mountain Lake Ranch, 50
Mountain View, Mo., 14
Murfreesboro, 98
Murphy, Dennis, 178

Nashville, 56, 144
Neel, A. C., 160
Nelson, Joe Wilson, 192
Newton County, 50, 93, 101-102,

220-240; fair, 223-228
Nichols, Dwight, 22
Noland, Lt. C. F. M., 21 1 ; home o

213-214, 215
Norfork Ferry, 46
Norfork Lake, 46-50, 54
North Litde Rock, 187

Ogden Switch, 137
Oklahoma Row, 40
Old 345, 25-29
Oliver, Grandma

294

Huffith for Arkansas!

O Neill, Rose, 223

Onachita County, 161

Ouachita National Fprest, 122, 123,

128

Qzark Mountain Farm, 14
Gzark Mountains, 30, 32, 43, 94,

95,98,122,233
Ozark Plateau, 25

Palmer, Mary Lois, 224
Paraclifta Seminary, 149
Parker, Judge Isaac C, 216-217
Parkhill, Joe, 22, 93, 97
Park Hotel, 244
Parrish, Porter, 260
Parrish, R. R., 260
Peace Tourist Court, 167
Pea Ridge, 38-39
Phillips, Mildred, 238
Phillips, Roberts, 239
Phillips, Sylvannus, 176
Phillips County, 174, 177
Pigpen Bottom, 149-151
Pike County, 98
Pine Ridge, 126
Plummer, L. R., 260
Polk County, 122
Pomrenke, Albert, 74
Pomrenke, Mrs. Annie, 74
Pomrcnke, Mary Ann, 74
Ponca City, 41
Poole, Mrs. Helen, 206
Poole, Jim, 252-253
Portageville, Mo., 206

Posey, Ben, 120
Poteau River, 216
Powell, Dick, 251
Prentiss, Gen. B. M^ 178
Prescott, Doc, 260
Price, Gen. Sterling, 178
Pyle, Ernie, 177

Ray, Lee, 66

Red River, 153, 157, 158

Red Rock, 225

Rice Carnival, 88

Riceland Hotel, 89, 91

Richmond, Ted, 222-223

Rich Mountain, 123, 127-128

Ricks, CoL Earl, 243

Rim Rock Ranch, 231-233

Robins, Minnie Lee, 257

Robins, O. B., 258, 261, 264

Rockaway Beach, 54

Rogers, 31, 34, 37, 38-39, 42, 43, 264

Rogers, Florence, 246-250

Rogers, Reba, 246-250

Roosevelt, Nicholas J., 176

Rose Inn, 116-117

Rowland, Spider, 56, 89

Russellville, 70

St. Elizabeth s Catholic Church, 23
St. John, Ernest, 127
St. John, Mrs. Ernest, 128-129
St. Louis, Arkansas & Texas Rail
road, 37
St. Louis Southwestern, 132

Index

295

Saunders, Bertram, 21-22
Saunders, Col. C Bertram, 19, 21
Saunders, Mrs. C. Bertram, 21
Saunders Springs, 22
Schoolcraft, Henry Rowc, 14, 131,

166

School of the Ozarks, 274-275
Searcy, 278

Sevier County, 144, 145, 146, 148
Sharp County, 54
Shiras, Tom, 98, 99, 100, 266
Shreveport, 168
Sigel, Gen. Franz, 38-39
Silver Ridge, 147-148
Skyway Drive, 124, 128
Smart oil field, 161
Smith, Dr. Ferdinand, 151
Smith, Horace, 43
Smith, Mrs. Horace, 43-44
Smith, Gen. Thomas A., 216
Southwestern Democrat, 149
Southwestern Gas and Electric

Company, 124
Spadra Creek, 56
Springdale, 37, 42-44, 45, 264
Springfield, Mo., 43, 138, 139,279
Stacy, 199, 200
Starr, Belle, 217
State Capitol, 212-213, 219
Steel, Judge Custer, 147
Stephens, 161

Stephens, Harry, 180, 182-183
Stephens, Helen, 182
Stephens, Johnnie, 176, 180-184, 186

Stoae, Coring 185

SCODC, Floy, 185

Stone, Leiand, 175

Stone County, 54

Stuttgart, 78, 79-81, 85, 86 88%

9*
Sugar Leaf Mouataifi, 258, 260,

261,265
Sunrise Mountain Farm, 223

Sunshine Mine, 57
Sylamore Mountains, 52-53

Tappan, Brig. Gen. James* 177
Taylor, Anna Jane, 66
Texarkana, 131-134, 142, 143
Texas & Pacific Railroad, 132
Texas & St. Louis Railway, 132
Thompson, Richard R., 20
Tolbert, Gene, 65
Tonitown, 44-45
Tonti, Henry de, 45
Twain, Mark, 13

2oth Century Tourist Court, 194-
197

Union County, 114

Van Dora, Gen. Earl, 38
Villa Moderae, 48
Virdon, A., 139

Waldo, 164
Walker, Gen. L,

179

Hurrah for Arkansas!

Walton Rice Mill, 78, 79, 85
Washburn, Alexander H^ 251
Washington County, 44
Waters* 126
Webb ? Ruth, 270
Wesson oil field, 161
West, Dewey, 260
Western Grove, 225, 227
West Memphis, 187, 190, 194, 197
White River, 31, 38, 96
Wildcat Mountain, 107
Wilderness Library, 222
Wilhelmina Inn, 128-130
Will, Glen, 35-37

Will, Mrs. Jean, 36-37

WilI,Vick, 3 i ?3 5

Willhill Ranch, 31-37

Wilson, 190, 193

Wilson, R. E. Lee, 190; home of,

192

Wilson, Mrs. R. E. Lee, 191, 192
Woodruff, William E., 211, 214;

home of, 214-215
Woods, Betty, 185

Yates, T. V., 153, 154-156
Yonan-Malek, Milton, 84
Young, Mrs. Gertrude, 188-190

100952