John Henry: Roark Bradford's Novel and Play

John Henry: Roark Bradford's Novel and Play

STEVEN C. TRACY

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

JO HN HE N RY

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JOHN HENRY Roark Bradford’s Novel and Play

Introduction and Scholarly Materials by STEVEN C. TRACY

2008

Oxford University Press, Inc., publishes works that further Oxford University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education. Oxford New York Auckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto With offices in Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam

Copyright © 2008 by Oxford University Press Published by Oxford University Press, Inc. 198 Madison Avenue, New York, New York, 10016 www.oup.com Oxford is a registered trademark of Oxford University Press All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Oxford University Press. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Bradford, Roark, 1896–1948. John Henry : Roark Bradford’s novel and play / introduction and scholarly materials by Steven C. Tracy. p. cm. ISBN 978-0-19-537104-8 1. John Henry (Legendary character) — Fiction. 2. John Henry (Legendary character) — Drama. 3. John Henry (Legendary character) — Legends. 4. John Henry (Legendary character) — Songs and music. 5. African Americans —Fiction. 6. African Americans — Drama. 7. African Americans — Folklore. 8. Folklore—United States. 9. Bradford, Roark, 1896 –1948. John Henry. I. Tracy, Steven C. II. Title. PS3503.R2215J6 2008 813'.52 — dc22 2008006184

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

AC K NOWLE D GME NTS

First, thanks must go to those people who generated the songs and ballads of John Henry in answer to a need deeply registered in their lives and souls. Their creation has provided solace and strength for many people in the years since the ballad was first sung and has continued to resonate with people whose experiences have been connected to the story only through their own need to find the strength to stand up and persevere against tremendous odds, at the expense, perhaps, of their lives, but with the reward of a connection to an immortal human spirit. To all those who have performed and recorded the songs, keeping them alive in different times, recognizing that the meaning of the story is not anachronistic but relevant to all times, we owe our gratitude as well, as to the folklorists, aficionados, and scholars who have tirelessly tracked down and collected versions over the years. Roark Bradford himself, whose works presented here brought John Henry to a much broader audience, has been overshadowed, unfortunately, for too long. His efforts in this vein, imperfect as they may be, demonstrate an American effort to recognize and embrace a broader variety of cultural elements than racism had allowed previously. He should be recognized and lauded for his efforts. For their graciousness and pride in their uncle’s written legacy, I would also like to thank Thomas and Richard Flynn, whose helpfulness and blessing for the publication brought it to this happy ending. Closer to academic home, the Interlibrary Loan Department of the W. E .B. Du Bois Library at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, has been invaluable in retrieving a variety of documents and reviews important to the introduction and notes. As always, my colleagues in the W. E. B. Du Bois Department of Afro American Studies have helped to inspire me with their breadth and depth of interests in American culture. I still think back to my high school days, where my interests in African American music began to blossom, and I thank the teachers at Walnut Hills High School for creating such an exciting and intellectual atmosphere in which to learn. My teachers at the University of Cincinnati, especially Professors Robert D. Arner, Amy Elder, Wayne Charles Miller, and Edgar Slotkin, inspired me early in my career, and their inspiration continues to drive me toward new goals. Musically, I thank those with whom I have played over the years who have helped me realize the value and meaning of the music: Albert Washington, Big Joe Duskin, Pigmeat Jarrett, James Mays, H-Bomb Ferguson, Big Ed Thompson,

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Lonnie Bennet, Phil Buscema, Hudson Rivers III, Dudley Radcliff, Rich Berry, Dick Amberman, Leif Laudamus, Bob Veronelli, Ed Pedruczny, Tom Spooner, David Tracy, and many others. Playing with them and opening for such artists as B. B. King, Muddy Waters, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, James Cotton, Doc Watson, and many other greats has truly been inspirational, keeping those rhythms and that spirit flowing through my veins. Finally, to my family—Edward R. Tracy, a wonderful harmonica player who worked as hard as any John Henry I know; Jean Tracy, my nurturing and self-sacrificing mother who persevered through many trials; and my wife, Cathy, and my children, Michelle and Michael, who inspire me with their generosity and love, as always, I dedicate my work.

C ONT E N TS

INTRODUCTION BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND TRANSCRIPTIONS Works Cited Discography of Recordings Echoing the Folk Tradition in Bradford’s John Henry Transcriptions of Several Versions of “John Henry” Recorded or Collected Between 1900 and 1931 John Henry Folk Song Bibliography John Henry Selected Bibliography, 1932–Present John Henry Discography, 1921–1931 Roark Bradford Selected Bibliography Roark Whitney Wickliffe Bradford Chronology

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PART I. John Henry: A Novel

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PART II. John Henry: A Play

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I N T RO D U C T I O N

“Put your John Henry right there,” my father cracked with a twinkle and a double knuckle-nudge to the bicep of a customer at the Oakley Gulf gas station where we worked in Cincinnati in the 1970s, indicating that the customer needed to sign the credit card receipt for his purchase. I later learned that it was not only my father who made this substitution—it was, in fact, rather common. It is a mark of the fame of the John Henry legend that John Henry’s name can displace in the popular mind the signature of a founding father and first signer of the Declaration of Independence. In legend, John Hancock expressed defiance of King George, or John Bull, as he affixed his now-famous signature to the epochal document; as legend, John Henry acted out his defiance of authority and mechanization for the marginalized with his signature nine-, ten- (sometimes even twenty) pound hammer in a battle of epic dimensions. John Henry was the quintessential natural man, who wielded his hammer on behalf of himself and the dignity of the common man and, as attested by the numerous ballads collected and recorded multi-annually over the years, as well as his life in art and literature and even on Madison Avenue, was an exceedingly popular figure himself. Like the character “John Henry,” the ballad emerged from humble origins in oppressed and abused African American communities to become known the world over as the chronicle of incredible strength and perseverance that demonstrates that winning what seems to be a Pyrrhic victory can, through the chronicle, actually be winning the war.

I In the 1920s when sociologist Guy B. Johnson of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and folklorist Louis W. Chappell of West Virginia University first began their separate searches for information on “one of the most fascinating legends native to America” ( Johnson, John Henry xvii), the elusive “John Henry” ballad and work song variants, collectors and mainstream American society knew little about the story. Indeed, many of the oral “texts” collected, mentioned, or published by the two and by other important collectors like Louise Rand Bascom (1909), Hubert Shearin and Josiah Combs (1911), E. C. Perrow (1913), G. L. Kittredge (1913), Henry Davis (1914), John A. Lomax (1915), Natalie Curtis-Burlin (1919), Thomas Talley

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(1922), Josiah Combs (1925), and Dorothy Scarborough (1925) were varied and fragmentary, evidencing the typographical and performative difficulties, as well as the scholarly incongruities, of transcribing a dynamic African American oral text for the static print medium. The first version collected was a brief couplet: Johnie Henry was a hard-workin’ man, He died with his hammer in his hand. (Bascom 249) The lyric was itself accompanied by a comment from Bascom that indicates an unfortunate condescension toward her folk sources: The latter is obviously not a ballad of the mountains, for no highlander was ever sufficiently hard-working to die with anything in his hand except possibly a plug of borrowed “terbac.” However, the author’s informant declares that it is very sad and tearful, “very sweet,” and it may appear in print “when Tobe sees Tom, an’ gits him to larn him what he ain’t forgot of hit from Muck’s pickin’ .” (Bascom 250) Bascom’s comments remind us that when we approach the material collected and commented upon by scholars, we must be careful to take into account race, class, and gender differences in examining the materials. E. C. Perrow’s versions, collected in Tennessee, Indiana, Mississippi, and Kentucky between 1905 and 1912, primarily from “mountain whites,” included the first printed version of the hammer song,“This old hammer killed John Henry / Can’t kill me; can’t kill me” (164), and of the ballad. The ballad version (164) included the well-known stanzas recounting the young John Henry “[s]itting on his papa’s knee” and prophesying his death, his weeping moment of weakness at his overwhelming task (“Threw down his hammer and he cried”), and his vow to persevere until his death (“I’ll hammer my fool self to death”). The version that Kittredge prints, titled “John Hardy,” collected by E. C. Smith and sent to Kittredge by Professor John H. Cox of the University of Morgantown in West Virginia, clearly merges two different ballads, “John Henry” and “John Hardy.” Several verses are common to versions of “John Henry,” including two stanzas that Kittredge identifies as stemming from the British ballad “The Lass of Roch Royal” (Child, No. 76) and a stanza about being a baby sitting on his mother’s knee in the ballads “Mary Hamilton” and “The Cherry Tree Carol”— an indicator of how the ballad took shape from actual events and pre-existing folk sources, including traditions other than African American (180–182). One of those stanzas—altered slightly in lines four and six to “Who’s gonna be your man?”—is another oft-repeated stanza in a range of variants, demonstrating

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John Henry’s concern for his wife after he is dead—making him a tough but tender and caring hero: O, who will shoe your pretty little feet, And who will glove your hands, And who will kiss your sweet rosy lips, When I’m in a foreign land, Poor boy, When I’m in a foreign land? (Kittredge 181) This stanza also exemplifies the ballad stanza commonly used for the song, with the repetition of the final line, frequently with some intervening epithet. Other versions make it clear that John Henry doesn’t have to worry about his wife—sometimes named Julie Anne, sometimes Polly Ann—as illustrated in several versions reported by Odum and Johnson in Negro Workaday Songs in 1926: John Henry had a little girl, Name was Polly Ann. John Henry was on his dyin’ bed, O Lawd, She drove with his hammer like a man. (226) While this stanza does not appear in all versions, its presence is perhaps an indicator that this seemingly very masculinist text with the macho hero shows a vulnerable John Henry (when he cries) and makes room for a female hero (even if she is described in chauvinistic terms as driving steel “like a man”) who can step up to do John Henry’s work. It is an indicator that whether there was a real John Henry or not, there were “John Henrys,” male and female, who could step in to do the job. The mysterious broadside “John Henry, The Steel Driving Man,” credited to W. T. Blankenship, that was sent to Guy B. Johnson from Rome, Georgia, after he advertised in various newspapers for versions of the ballad, was dated by Johnson at approximately 1900, though subsequent researchers have suggested a later publication date, perhaps as late as the 1920s. And yet, Johnson asserted, “[h]is fame is sung in every nook and corner of the United States where Negroes live, sung oftenest by wanderers and laborers who could tell three times as much about John Henry as they could about Booker T. Washington” ( John Henry 1). Hyperbole and, perhaps, racist assumptions aside—such wanderers and laborers might also have known and sung “You don’t know my mind” and practiced the masking tradition in African American life—the fact that the ballad’s story was so extensive and its distribution so widespread speaks to the power of African American folklore and the national importance of a local story.

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II The veracity of the local story has been examined in print ever since Johnson and Chappell set about their searches for the elusive ballad hero. It has still not been verified, and may not need to be in its particulars, since it has persisted and developed without such verification in the African American community since the 1870s. Still, scholars have generated various theories about whether John Henry existed, where he lived, and whether he could and actually did do what the ballad claimed. Earliest reports placed the events described in the ballad at the Big Bend Tunnel in West Virginia on the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad c. 1870, and Johnson concluded that “1) there was a Negro steel driver named John Henry at the Big Bend Tunnel; 2) he competed with a steam drill in a test of the practicability of the device, and that 3) he probably died soon after the contest, perhaps from fever,” though Johnson was “not irrevocably wedded to this position” ( John Henry 54). A testy Chappell asserts in his own study “that the John Henry tradition is factually based seems too obvious now for serious doubt,” that a person known as John Henry did in fact exist at the Big Bend Tunnel (92). However, their findings were (and are) problematic. Variants of the John Henry stories and ballads (which some have extended to include “John Hardy”) have placed the events in a variety of locations, ranging from Alabama, Georgia, and North Carolina, to Virginia. This is to be expected in the oral tradition when a celebratory chronicle of a figure of obscure origins who functions as not only a racial symbol but also as a symbol of human potential is told. Though Johnson and Chappell arrived on the scene early enough to collect some authoritative firsthand information, the slippery nature of eyewitness information and the uneasy and sometimes tricksterish interactions between blacks and whites at the time left their conclusions open to question. More recently, two scholars on the trail of the story have reached differing conclusions regarding the identity of John Henry and the location of the events, though both conclude that the events are real. In 2002, John Garst concluded that Johnson and Chappell had ignored materials that placed the events of John Henry’s story near Leeds, Alabama, in 1887 on tracks owned by the Columbus and Western Railroad Company. Garst’s candidate for John Henry turns out to be an ex-slave, “John Henry Dabner,” placed through census searches as Henry Dabney working on railroad construction in northern Alabama at the time the events allegedly occurred. Alternatively, in 2006, Scott Reynolds Nelson published Steel Drivin’ Man: John Henry, the Untold Story of an American Legend, in which he reconstructs the events, concluding that the steam drill was not used at the Big Bend Tunnel at all, but was employed at the nearby Lewis Tunnel up until the summer of 1871. Nelson’s John William Henry was a black convict pressed into service at the Lewis Tunnel after being shipped to Richmond to be used as convict labor. According

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to Nelson, a black cook named Cal Evans transmitted stories about John Henry at the Lewis Tunnel to workers at Big Bend, and the events erroneously became connected with Big Bend (89). Whether the event took place at Big Bend, or Lewis, or somewhere else, it seems counterproductive to look at the events so narrowly when the story obviously resonates nationally, and even internationally, in music and lore.

III Whoever John Henry actually was and wherever his story took place—if it actually did—it seems clear that the figure of John Henry would not, like much in the oral tradition, find absolute verification and affirmation in the record books, but live on in the swinging of other drivers, miners, roustabouts, and muleskinners and the celebratory songs of those who needed verification and affirmation of their own importance by hearing and singing of the impossible exploits of the man furthest down. Guy Johnson dedicated his book “To Every John Henry Who Drives the Steel on Down” (v), acknowledging implicitly the multiplicity of John Henry’s existence. So while references to the ballad began to turn up in the collections of folklorists in the early twentieth century, the ballad existed most importantly in the hearts and throats of people in the African American community, and would have been best experienced in oral performance.The recording industry thus becomes important to our knowledge of the John Henry tradition, not because in its permanent or makeshift studio conditions it replicated the settings in which the ballad might have been performed, or because the technology allowed the song to continue beyond the length of three minutes or so, as the song sometimes did, but because it let us hear the song at all before what was probably the second generation to sing the song had disappeared. Actually, one must be careful when referring to the “John Henry ballad,” since there is not only a narrative ballad itself but “hammer songs” that are related to the John Henry story, as pointed out earlier. The first recorded song related to John Henry was made by the Harlem Harmony Kings for Paramount Records, possibly in Harlem, New York, c. April 1921. Little is known about the group— they were very likely black, since the two recordings that preceded their release on Paramount and the ones that followed were by black performers—but the song was advertised as a “foxtrot” in the August 19, 1922, issue of the Chicago Defender, which listed “Hard Time Blues” as the flip side (Vreede 12003). The song was not the traditional ballad, but the W. C. Handy composition that was copyrighted as sheet music in 1922, which placed John Henry in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. The first version of the ballad was not recorded until three years later by the white old-time musician Fiddlin’ John Carson, who recorded it in March–April 1924, five or six months before another old-time version by the white Gid Tanner.

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This points to the interesting phenomenon of the ballad’s extreme popularity among white southern musicians, as Ted Olson explains: “In the early twentieth century, John Henry became an icon for many working-class Southern whites, who viewed the folk hero as symbolizing the importance of economically marginal people resisting the dehumanizing forces of industrialization” (759). Thus, John Henry transcends issues of race for Southern whites to become a symbol of the strength of the common person, not just the black person. There was no question of John Henry’s race with regard to the story; the fact that whites of the day felt buoyed by a black man’s success, dignity, and strength is remarkable in and of itself. Georgiabased Riley Puckett even prefaced his version by referring to his source, Blind Willie McTell, who, as it turns out, never recorded the song: Hello, folks. Now I’m with you once again. I’m gonna play for you this tune which an old Southern darky I heard play, comin’ down Decatur Street the other day ’cause his good gal done throwed him down. (“A Darkey’s Wail”) Between 1924 and 1931, the year that Roark Bradford’s novel was published, there were nineteen versions of songs dealing with “John Henry”—ballad or hammer song—recorded by white old-time performers. There were actually fewer—only thirteen commercial and noncommercial recordings—by African American bluesoriented performers during the same period, the best probably being the two-part version of the ballad by Furry Lewis, which contained twelve stanzas, providing the most extensive set of lyrics commercially recorded; the hammer song “Spike Driver Blues”(1928) by Mississippi John Hurt; and the brilliant Grand Ole Opry harmonica player DeFord Bailey’s ringing instrumental “John Henry” (1928). A total of thirty-four versions of jazz, blues, and old-time versions of the song were recorded up to the year of Bradford’s novel, and although we don’t know how many of them Bradford actually heard, if any, the idea that the song was recorded at the rate of more than three versions per year over eleven years a half century after the events occurred is a good indicator of the strength and lasting power of the story.

IV The story of how a rich white southern boy came to be a writer of African American tales is an intriguing one. Roark Whitney Wickliffe Bradford was born on August 21, 1896, in Lauderdale County, Tennessee. The eighth of eleven children, he was the son of Richard C. and Patricia Adelaide Tillman Bradford, who came from prominent families—William Bradford was an ancestor—and his two grandfathers had both fought for the Confederacy during the Civil War. The Bradfords raised their children on a cotton plantation situated in the Nankipoo–Knob Creek area near the Mississippi River, “fifteen miles from a railroad” (related in the novel

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John Henry, “Roark Bradford and His Books” 227). Bradford’s childhood was filled—as he later recalled in his book blurb biography for his novel John Henry, with an eye likely toward establishing his own “authenticity”—with contacts with African Americans from the sharecroppers who worked the plantation, in local levee camps, and on the river to the black nurse and playmates he had as a child. Publishers would use this “evidence” to assert with the type of paternalism and arrogance associated with the plantation tradition of literature “that Roark Bradford [was] perhaps better fitted to write of the southern negro than anyone in the United States,” a statement to which Sterling Brown, among others, strenuously objected (Negro Poetry and Drama 126). Educated at home early in life, Bradford also attended public schools, where, according to friend and playwright Marc Connelly, he found himself puzzled by manifestations of race consciousness. All the white boys he knew had inherited the philosophic clichés of their elders. Bradford was merely puzzled and interested in determining why those clichés existed. I don’t mean that he brought precocious impersonality to his considerations. He was simply honestly puzzled. (Connelly, “Story about Roark Bradford” 11) This seeming naiveté on Bradford’s part lay dormant in his experience at a white Louisiana college, but his experiences shortly following the U.S. entry into World War I and his service at that time worked more actively on his consciousness. After volunteering and serving as a first lieutenant in the U.S. Army Artillery Reserve stationed in the Panama Canal Zone, he remained in the Army until March 1920 as an instructor of military science and tactics at the Mississippi Agricultural and Mechanical College. He received an LL.B. degree from the University of California after exiting the service, squarely aimed at a career in law. It was at the University of California that, as a member of the class football team, Bradford stood out in treating an African American on the team with seeming equality. The teammates decided to haze the African American teammate— and perhaps teach Bradford a lesson—using Bradford as the vehicle for the hazing. Perhaps unbeknownst to Bradford, more than trickery was planned for the teammate. An expedition to steal fruit turned violent and Bradford suffered an injury probably meant for the black man. A “self-conscious and suddenly shamefaced Negro-baiter,” Bradford was picked up and carried to safety by his black friend (12) amidst revolver and rifle shots from the roadside. From this, Connelly concluded Bradford has never let the Negro down in anything he has written about him. The young Negro indeed put him on his feet. He has kept his balance ever since as a man and as a writer. He has never swayed into sentimental patronizing.

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He looks at the Negro with a steady eye and considers him with an alert and honest brain. His Negro talk has the rhythm and actuality of life and his fun making is such that his team mate could share with him. (13) Critics may not agree with Connelly’s conclusions about the the nature of Bradford’s work. It certainly undermines his authority to refer to “the Negro” as if all black people act and sound alike, and to subsume both men and women under the masculine pronoun as if the male experience is more important—though of course sexist language was not so consciously recognized in Connelly’s time—but the story does provide some instruction as to Connelly’s interest in African Americans. By way of contrast, Bradford is reported to have “admitted he was more interested in ‘the nigger’ than in ‘the Negro” (North 118), a distinction that apparently referred to the lack of sophistication, as well as unself-consciousness, characteristic of Bradford’s characters. Bradford’s judgment regarding Nella Larsen’s short novel Quicksand in 1928, which portrays the “descent” of an educated, middle-class African American woman into a racial and gender “trap,” was muted: “in spite of its failure to hold up in the end, the book is good,” he wrote, and praised the “ ‘real charm’ of ‘Larsen’s delicate achievement in maintaining for a long time an indefinable, wistful feeling’ ” (Davis 278). Bradford clearly wrestled with his feelings about and approaches to the lives and culture of African Americans in his life. From 1920 until 1922, Bradford worked as a reporter for the Atlanta Georgian and the Macon Telegraph, deciding in 1921 to become a professional writer. In 1924, he relocated to New Orleans and the Lafayette Advertiser, followed by a stint at the New Orleans Times Picayune, but by 1926 he had decided to retire from the newspaper business to concentrate on writing fiction, particularly fiction dealing with African Americans. He made his home in the French Quarter in New Orleans, living there and at Little Bee Bend Plantation in Benton, Louisiana, from then on, with his first wife, Lydia Sehorn, and, after her death, with his second wife, Mary Rose Sciarra Himler, fathering one son, Richard, who became a novelist as well. For the rest of his life, Bradford continued to publish stories and novels dealing with African Americans and to receive popular acclaim in the white mainstream press. A testimony to his popularity (and perhaps connections) was the recasting of his novel by playwright Marc Connelly on Broadway as The Green Pastures in 1930. The play won the Pulitzer Prize for Connelly, staging 640 New York performances from February 26 through August 29 and mounting five national tours, though it was banned by Lord Chamberlain in Great Britain. It was successfully revived in 1935 and released as a feature film in 1936 starring Rex Ingram, Eddie Anderson, and the Hall Johnson Choir. The 1930s, of course, were a politicized time among writers and artists especially, and Bradford was not untouched by events related to racial matters at the time. Langston Hughes mentioned in a December 6, 1933, letter to Carl Van Vechten that he had gotten no response from Bradford regarding a contribution to the defense of the Scottsboro Boys—nine

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black teenagers accused of raping two white mill girls, ages 21 and 17—though three months later another letter to Van Vechten achnowledges that Bradford sent something for auction “at the last minute” (Bernard 113, 120). Hughes indicated that a number of other southern writers had responded to his call as well, suggesting that he had on his mind the social consciousness of southern white writers as the country wrestled with racial issues and political affiliations and commitment. In 1940, Bradford himself decided to stage a version of his 1931 novel John Henry, but he lacked Connelly’s dramatic flair and, despite the presence of the redoubtable Paul Robeson, the play received harsh reviews from critics and closed after seven performances. When the United States entered World War II in 1942, Lieutenant Bradford was assigned to the Bureau of Aeronautics Training of the United States Naval Reserve. He contracted amoebiasis, an infection or inflammation of the intestines caused by an infestation of amoebae, in Africa in 1943—an infection from which he would eventually die, though he remained in the service until 1946. An acclaimed writer, Bradford took a post as “Consultant in Creative Writing” at Tulane University in 1946. The department at Tulane arranged a “flexible” program for Bradford, meeting with undergraduate and graduate students, addressing “the girls in Newcomb College and students in night school,” lecturing on “The Technique of the Short Story,” “the Place of Humor in Fiction,” and “the Literary Culture of New Orleans as it had been reflected in her newspapers and magazines” (Stibbs 3). Bradford enjoyed, apparently, a successful tenure at Tulane, a fitting ending to a prolific career. He died on November 13, 1948, in New Orleans. The next year his final novel, The Green Roller, was published, as was the last story of a run of over 100 stories to appear in Collier’s Magazine, “Low-Down Cotton.” A revival of Green Pastures ran just over a month, from March 15 through April 21, in 1951.

V Bradford was not, of course, the first white man to treat African American characters and subject matter in his work. At least since the time of the inauguration of the “Plantation tradition” of Southern writing initiated by such works as Swallow Barn by John Pendleton Kennedy in 1832, whites had been taking up the pen to weigh in on African Americans, and the tradition reached its greatest popularity in the 1870s and 1880s. In these works, nostalgia for the days when mostly happy darkies were content in the bosom of kindly and benevolent paternalistic masters was frequent; slow-moving, lazy children, and sometimes sly tricksters spoke in a supposedly comical but actually extremely distorted dialect that betrayed their need for both supervision and intellectual force to help guide them through a world for which they were not well fitted. The stereotypes that emerged from the period 1832 to the 1890s, whether part of the “Plantation tradition” or not, were formative and

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highly influential on subsequent writers who, whether “champions” or detractors, or somewhere in between, wrote about African Americans. On the one hand, there was the black brute whose African background would always win out over whatever civilizing effects of society were taught. He was primitive, violent, appetitive, and threatening, an affront to moral Christian white folks who felt compelled to protect the inevitable object of his appetities, white women. On the other hand, there was the childlike Negro: gullible, carefree, ignorant, unmotivated, and intellectually hapless, and obviously in need of paternalistic protection for his or her own benefit. Thomas Dixon’s The Clansman presented memorably repulsive portraits of both types and fed into the popular consciousness even more forcefully when D. W. Griffith adapted Dixon’s novel to the screen in his epic The Birth of a Nation (1915), which garnered supportive recommendations from Supreme Court justices and President Woodrow Wilson. These two depictions dominated the portrayals of African Americans in fiction by whites throughout the nineteenth and into the twentieth century, along with portrayals of African Americans created and fostered on the minstrel circuit. There had been a tradition dating from the late 1700s of whites “blacking up” and portraying their distorted versions of African Americans in performance, a tradition given greater impetus by the work of Thomas D. Rice. It was 1828 when Rice witnessed a crippled African American stable hand doing a dance dubbed “Jump Jim Crow,” which Rice decided to imitate and take on the road in the 1830s—to great popular success. Shortly thereafter, the Virginia Minstrels, Dan Emmett, the African American minstrel troupe The Mocking Bird Minstrels, and many other troupes formed to carry minstrelsy around the country. Reenactments of minstrel shows, racist jokes, and songs done minstrel style, contorted dialect and all, were still being recorded commercially into the 1920s. One such song, “Ida, Sweet as Apple Cider,” was recorded for a Bing Crosby movie in 1940 (included on the CD Monarchs of Minstrelsy)—and the beloved singer-actor Al Jolson emerged from the minstrel tradition into full-blown movie stardom. There are recordings of minstrel and coon songs by black performers as well, though the dynamics of performance likely change significantly when a masked African American, restealing original African American materials, performed the songs in segregated or mixed audiences. The shows projected two primary stereotypes of African Americans in their performances: the lazy, buffoonish, superstitious, and gullible figure, on the one hand, and the dapper, egotistical, exaggeratedly proud figure, on the other, both full of “comical” demeanors and speech designed to mock and ridicule African Americans while stealing and distorting African American culture. It was a strange combination of what Eric Lott calls “love and theft”: an irresistible and larcenous attraction to the power of African American culture even as white society was recoiling from and demeaning those who had originated the materials being performed. Besides the social, political, and psychological damage being

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perpetrated by such performances on the African American community, part of the collateral damage included a black middle-class recoiling from the African American culture that was taken up and distorted by the minstrel tradition, resulting in an unfortunate rejection of part of an African American cultural past that had undeniably generated some beautiful and valuable songs, stories, dances, and speech. Another prominent African American figure in the fiction of the nineteenth century, one that cast a long and controversial shadow over not only the author’s career and reputation but subsequent depictions of African Americans, was Uncle Tom. This figure from Harriet Beecher Stowe’s novel has been raising tears and hackles since his appearance in 1852. Depicting what Stowe clearly meant to be a Christlike figure in his piety, nonviolence, capacity for love, and unbelievable forbearance (though even Christ, it might be pointed out, violently threw the moneylenders from the temple), Tom, for many, in his acquiescence to physical slavery approaches traitorous proportions. Despite a physically imposing strength and presence, Tom demonstrates an inability to think outside the slavery box and translate his sadness into social enlightenment leading to rebellion in this world, as well as ignorance with regard to how his own strategy for existence affects those about him who might prefer rebellion. Beyond that, Stowe’s “color coding” in the novel, presenting light-skinned characters as more intelligent and articulate (though they are still not Stowe’s “heroes” in the novel), has been offensive to many readers as well. The extreme popularity of Stowe’s novel—selling more copies than any book other than the Bible in its time—and subsequent plays and other spinoffs, including novels written to counter Stowe’s depictions of African Americans and slavery such as Mary Henderson Eastman’s Aunt Phillis’ Cabin (1852), Martin Delany’s Blake, or the Huts of America (1859–1862), and Thomas Dixon’s The Clansman (1905) helped to fix Uncle Tom as a figure to be reckoned with in subsequent American literature. Finally, the character that has come to be known as the tragic mulatto has been a major figure in the history of African Americans in literature as well. The situation traced back at least as far as Lydia Maria Child’s stories “The Quadroons” (1842) and “Slavery’s Pleasant Homes” (1843) and William Wells Brown’s Clotel (1853), and received significant treatment in Dion Boucicault’s play The Octoroon (1859), plus a notable popular treatment in the twentieth century in Fanny Hurst’s novel Imitation of Life (1934), which was also made into two feature films. These characters— called mulattoes (“little mules,” or persons of mixed race) because of an admixture of “white” and “black” blood due to a frequently hidden and undiscussed miscegenation—were portrayed as tortured and doomed figures because they were lightskinned enough to pass for white and were usually refined and intelligent people as a result, it is implied, of that white blood, but lacked a “place” in both white society because of the “one drop rule” and in black society because of their whiteness. Often a tragic mulatta engaged to a white suitor finds her condition revealed to

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herself and others, which precipitates her “downfall” and exile from the polite and cultured society to which she feels she belongs but from which she becomes forever exiled, bringing about her ruination—and often a death that alone could provide peace. Their conditions would frequently provoke horror or tears in readers whose sympathies were awakened by what they considered to be the unfortunate taint of black blood that prevented them from taking a place of superiority in American society, but the result did not frequently manifest itself in an insistence upon erasing racial lines and barriers in American society. At the end of the nineteenth century, Charles Chesnutt perceptively explored many of these issues in his volume The Wife of His Youth and Other Stories of the Color Line (1899). The other important element related to the plantation tradition was the employment of regional dialect speech. Since those in the plantation tradition wished to appear as realistic as possible while displaying their own political feelings about race in their depictions of racial interactions, speech needed to be rendered in such a way as to seem accurate but reinforce ideas of hapless inferiority, simplicity, and vanity. The attitudes of those who spoke standard English, often in a frame narrative that established a standard and context for language, was frequently discernible to the extent that distortion and hyperbole were used as a means of mockery. This was not always the case in the dialect tradition as a whole—John Greenleaf Whittier, an influence on many dialect writers to follow, was frequently nostalgic and admiring of his regional ancestors in his works. Frequently white writers, however, drew upon their own experiences and the minstrel stage, filtered through their own prejudices, to render the speech of African Americans. The most frequent distortions captured only the surface sound of the speech, without any sense of distinctive phraseology, patterns, imagery, or systematic rules. Furthermore, sometimes inferiority was implied through the misspellings of words that would be pronounced the same way in the correct and misspelled versions (such as “trubble” for “trouble,” Harris 221). Obviously, given that African American writers frequently had different agendas for their works than marking the inferiority and lack of sophistication of blacks, frequently black writers such as Paul Laurence Dunbar, Daniel Webster Davis, James Edwin Campbell, and Charles Chesnutt displayed a greater sensitivity to capturing the nuances of black dialect. Indeed Dunbar, inspired in part by his parents and in part by Whittier’s style and popularity, was cited by William Dean Howells (albeit in racist fashion) for his successful employment of black dialect, and Dunbar passed on his influence to important writers like Langston Hughes and Sterling Brown in the next generation. Of course, there were those in the black community who responded negatively to the employment of dialect, not because of Dunbar’s lack of skill in employing it but because it had becoame associated so crucially with racist minstrel stereotypes from which the language was difficult to separate. Unfortunately, such a rejection left behind many positive aspects of nineteenth-century African American culture in the quest to sepa-

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rate from minstrel associations. The expectations with regard to the portrayal of African Americans in language and action created by nineteenth-century white writers was thus an issue with which twentieth-century white writers had to deal as they sought to employ black characters and speech in their works, still exposed to and influenced by mainstream racist depictions of African Americans in their own time.

VI The 1920s found a renewed and exploding interest in the portrayal of African Americans in the work of white writers. Works by African American authors such as W. E. B. Du Bois’s The Souls of Black Folk (1903) and James Weldon Johnson’s Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man (1912) began exploring the lives of African Americans and their position in American society with greater depth and psychological insight, and the riots of the “Black Summer” of 1919 that “greeted” black troops returning from service in World War I brought to a head issues of citizenship that needed to be addressed by American society at large. The emergence around this time of a strong black tradition of African American jazz and blues performed by African Americans on phonograph records, pushed along by the great success of vaudeville blues singer Mamie Smith in 1920, assisted in bringing more of the cultural contributions—and social backgounds and political ramifications—of African Americans to the fore. Minstrel and coon songs, sometimes in ragtime garb, and ragtime itself, in sheet music, on piano rolls, and in performance had previously defined black secular music for whites. In this period the emergence of jazz and blues from the field holler, work song, and ballad traditions, expressing in creative and direct language a range of experiences faced by African Americans, caught the imagination of America and the world. Bands like Lt. Jim Europe’s and Wilbur Sweatman’s helped bridge the stylistic spread between ragtime and jazz. As they moved the new music toward the mainstream, a certain ennui regarding the nature and meaning of contemporary existence manifested itself in a mania for jazz and blues among whites who sought to (1) respond to their chaotic, mannered, and mechanized lives directly and emotionally (“primitively,” they might say); (2) live in the moment rather than for some far-off event that could disappear in a cloud of mustard gas, the detonation of a bomb, or the dropping of a coffee spoon (an analogue to improvisation); and (3) challenge white middle-class taboos (including sex, which was very much associated in their minds with sexually objectified African Americans and which found open expression in jazz and blues). A spate of novels by whites that depicteded blacks, including George Kibbe Turner’s Hagar’s Hoard (1920), T. S. Stribling’s Birthright (1922), and other novels by DuBose Heyward, Clement Wood, Sherwood Anderson, and Carl Van Vechten

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demonstrated white interest in exploring (or exploiting?) the subject, as well as the existence of an audience for the subject matter. The success of Stribling’s novel, in fact, provoked Jessie Fauset to write her own novel, There Is Confusion (1924), in response to Stribling’s portrait of the tragic mulatto, in an attempt to demonstrate that African Americans could and should write their own works on the subject. Of course, the ability to write the novels did not translate necessarily into the opportunity to get them published. Frequently black writers needed white sponsors such as Carl Van Vechten and Charlotte Mason to make contacts and vouch for their abilities, as had been the case since the examination of Phillis Wheatley by male elders of her hometown before publication of her first book of poems. Beyond that, prejudice in society frequently led publishers and editors to assert that whites knew better how to describe the lives of African Americans than blacks did, so that publication of works by African Americans was frequently ghettoized and subject to condescension. The employment of texts written by African Americans on the stage rapidly increased as well. Though they were generally less noticed than the plays by many white writers, significant works such as Angelina Weld Grimke’s Rachel (1916), Alice Dunbar Nelson’s Mine Eyes Have Seen (1918), Mary Burrill’s “They That Sit in Darkness” (1919), and Willis Richardson’s “The Deacon’s Awakening” (1920) evidence an interest in using African American subject matter on the American stage. Richardson also began contributing essays regarding the appearance of African Americans on stage in 1919 with “The Hope of the Negro Drama” (followed by Alain Locke’s “Steps Toward a Negro Theater” in 1922 and Raymond O’Neil’s “The Negro in Dramatic Art” in 1924), and was the first African American writer to have a serious play appear on Broadway, The Chip Woman (1923), produced by the National Ethiopian Art Players. The founding of the Howard Players at the David Belasco Theater in New York by Locke and Montgomery Gregory helped to initiate the black university theater movement in 1920 as well. As Walter White recognized in an essay in The English Journal in 1935, the activity was “evidence of a process of birth, of creative recognition of the inherent beauty and strength and power of this material” (White 188). Meanwhile, white writer Ridgely Torrence, who wrote Three Plays for a Negro Theater (1917), predicted at that time that the Negro “might produce the greatest, the most direct, the most powerful drama in the world” (White 188). Eugene O’Neill staged The Dreamy Kid (1919), The Emperor Jones (1920), featuring Charles Gilpin, and All God’s Chillun Got Wings (1924), the latter producing a great deal of attention and controversy when staged by the Provincetown Players with Paul Robeson in the lead role having his hand kissed by a white actress. Robeson himself provided a spirited defense of O’Neill in print. During the era, Paul Green won the Pulitzer Prize for drama for In Abraham’s Bosom (1927), featuring an all-black cast, and Marc Connelly won the same prize for his adaptation of Bradford’s first novel into The Green Pastures (1930). Meanwhile, the first musical revue written

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and performed by African Americans, Shuffle Along (1921), opened at the David Belasco Theater in New York to great popularity and acclaim, making a star of Florence Mills and spawning a number of African American revues to follow. This was, of course, the time of the emergence of the Harlem Renaissance, when the confluence of black assertiveness, pride, and confidence, white interest and sponsorship, and sociopolitical imperatives helped produce the opportunity for an outpouring of black writing the like of which had not been seen in America previously. Writers like Du Bois, Johnson, Locke, Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, Sterling Brown, Countee Cullen, Jessie Fauset, Anne Spencer, Charles Johnson, and A. Philip Randolph and others produced essays and manifestoes, poetry, fiction, and art, that were monuments to a group of writers prepared to take ownership of portrayals of African Americans in literature and responding variously to the productions of white writers whose privilege granted them easier access to publication. As Jean Wagner points out, “in literature, too, the Negro was in vogue on both sides of the Atlantic” (163), with works by Blaise Cendrars, Rene Maran, Andre Gide, and others proving there was an audience for literature treating African Americans that many in the Harlem Renaissance thought might best be addressed by black writers. William Stanley Braithwaite complained of the well-meaning but deficient efforts of contemporary white writers to deal with African American subject matter: Mr. Stribling’s book broke new ground for a white author in giving us a Negro hero and heroine. There is an obvious attempt to see objectively, but the formula of the Nineties—atavistic race heredity—still survives and protrudes through the flesh and blood of the characters. Using Peter as a symbol of the man tragically linked by blood to one world and by training and thought to another, Stribling portrays a tragic struggle against the pull of lowly origins and sordid environment. We do not deny this element of tragedy in Negro life—and Mr. Stribling, it must also be remembered, presents, too, a severe indictment in his painting of the Southern conditions which brought about the disintegration of his hero’s dreams and ideals. But the preoccupation, almost obsession of otherwise strong and artistic works like O’Neill’s Emperor Jones, All God’s Chillun Got Wings, and Culbertson’s Goat Alley with this same theme and doubtful formula of hereditary cultural reversion suggests that, in spite of all good intentions, the true presental of the real tragedy of Negro life is a task still left for Negro writers to perform. (174) In 1931, Sterling Brown lamented the absence of the Negro playwright from the Broadway stage (“Concerning Negro Drama” 192), though he suspected that a concerted effort might produce positive results. His review of Richard Wright’s Uncle Tom’s Children in 1938 praised Wright’s “power and originality” in portraying the dignity of black characters caught in violent struggles for their lives, contrasting

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Wright’s success to the work of Peterkin and Bradford (“From the Inside” 448). Zora Neale Hurston was rendered “furious when some ham like [Octavus Roy] Cohen or Roark Bradford gets off a nothing else but and calls it a high spot of Negro humor and imagery (Kaplan 269), feeling that “white writers drastically transformed, simplified, and stereotyped many folkloric patterns” (Lowe 215). Hurston’s anger was directed at artificial uses of speech carried over from the plantation school and minstrel dialect tradition as well. Charles S. Johnson, in his introduction to the collection Ebony and Topaz (1927), which included contributions by white writers Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Paul Green, Julia Peterkin, Guy B. Johnson (on “John Henry”), and Dorothy Scarborough, praised certain white writers for their contributions: It is evident in many quarters that Negroes are being discovered as “fellow mortals,” with complexes of their own to be analyzed. With Julia Peterkin, Paul Green, DuBose Heyward, Guy Johnson, there has been ushered in a refreshing new picture of Negro life in the South. Swinging free from the old and exhausted stereotypes and reading from life, they have created human characters who are capable of living by their own charm and power. There is something here infinitely more realand honest in the atmosphere thus created, than in the stagnant sentimental aura which has hung about their heads for so many years. (12) Interestingly, in an argument made slightly earlier in his introduction on behalf of a multiplicity of individuated portrayals of African Americans, Johnson acknowledges that “[s]ome of our Negro readers will doubtless quarrel with certain of the Negro characters who move in these pages” (“Introduction” 11). Johnson does not note to what portrayals he is referring. Though African American artists and critics such as Hughes were willing to grant a writer like Van Vechten his share of artistry and validity in a work such as Nigger Heaven (1926), and indeed assist Van Vechten by supplying replacement lyrics when he was sued for using copyrighted material, it was clear that African American writers were ready to settle in the saddle and tighten up on the reins with regard to portrayals of African Americans in literature.

VII It was into this environment that Bradford introduced himself upon his decision to become a writer focusing on African American materials. Once he began serious work on his fiction, his success was almost immediate: his second published story, “Child of God,” printed in Harper’s Magazine in April 1927, won the O. Henry Award—the first of three that Bradford’s stories won, including “River Witch” in 1928 and “Careless Love” in 1930—and Bradford began publishing that

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same year in Collier’s Magazine, which became a regular outlet for his stories. In 1928, Bradford began his period as a novelist, publishing Ol’ Man Adam an’ His Chillun, a book that achieved some popular acclaim and success—it was compared to the Uncle Remus tales and called “howlingly funny” by the Chicago Post— especially when revived as Green Pastures by Marc Green in 1930 for the Broadway stage. Poet and critic Sterling Brown responded negatively as a whole to the way Bradford’s work employed the lives and materials of African Americans, even if he thought that Bradford wrote with some talent, but praised the ways that Connelly utilized Bradford’s materials, seeing Connelly as the greater artist in capturing the spirit of the culture: Ol’ Man Adam an’ His Chillun is rip-roaring burlesque, a book of tall tales told by an imaginative humorist in the fine tradition of Mark Twain. . . . For all the truth to idiom, this is obviously not Negro religion. The difference between the personified God in the spirituals, and God with a fedora upon his head and a ten-cent segar in his mouth should be apparent to anyone in the least familiar with Negro believers and their dread of sacrilege. The Green Pastures, suggested by Ol’ Man Adam an’ His Chillun, did something toward getting reverence and awe back into the material, but here it is pure farce. (Negro Poetry and Drama 126) Brown saw “tenderness and reverence” in Connelly’s recasting of Bradford’s novel, a play “movingly true to folk life” (Negro Poetry and Drama 119), whereas his opinion of Bradford’s work became less enthusiastic. Brown was even more dismissive of Bradford’s King David an’ the Philistine Boys (1930), which he found repeated the formula used in Ol’ Man Adam, “with flagging powers” (Negro Poetry and Drama 127). Years later, the strength of idiom that Brown recognized was still acknowledged when black actor Mantan Moreland recorded an LP for Caedmon of materials from Ol’ Man Adam an’ His Chillun, attesting to its continuing popularity. In January 1931, Sterling Brown reported in “The Literary Scene” in Opportunity magazine that “Roark Bradford is creating a new John Henry myth in the Cosmopolitan Magazine; a new tall tale written out of wide acquaintance with Negro speech. It will probably stir controversy among the folk-lorists, and dismay at some tea parties, not only in Boston . . . But where, o where is the Negro author . . . ?” (182). Bradford had indeed begun publishing his work on John Henry in Cosmopolitan, beginning in the December 1930 issue and continuing in January and March of 1931. In September, Brown reported a “vague rumor” that playwright Paul Green was working on a version of “John Henry” for the stage (“Concerning Negro Drama” 192), and the story itself was definitely in the air. Brown himself had published his poem “Odyssey of Big Boy,” which made structural use of the “John Henry” ballad stanza, in 1927; Frank Shay had published Here’s Audacity!

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American Legendary Heroes in 1930, setting the stage for a re-orientation of the John Henry story for popular audiences, in this case children (Pawlowski 595). Whatever the source and reality of the rumor was that Brown heard, however, the real story was in the release of Roark Bradford’s novel John Henry in 1931. If the story had belonged to railroad workers, miners, and convicts and the communities from which they came since the 1870s, its fame was about to increase exponentially through its dispersal in mainstream popular culture. This distribution brought narrative development in concrete artifacts that transformed the book from its almost protean nodal and oral state to a fixed one, dependent largely upon those from outside the original culture and audience for sensitive artistry in representation. Singer-guitarist Big Bill Broonzy commented on his version of “John Henry” at a concert in Amsterdam in 1953: “John Henry, that’s a American, what they call American folk song, which we call it in Mississippi, where I come from, we call it a work song” (Amsterdam Live Concerts 1953). Broonzy was aware of the bifurcation between the song as it was understood, used, and termed in his community and how it was treated outside of it. Critics were split on the quality of Bradford’s work in the novel. On the positive side, authors frequently singled out the prose for acclaim, including Sterling Brown’s assertion that the book was being written written “out of wide acquaintance with Negro speech.” Stating that “Penthouse Negrophils [sic] will not bow and scrape before this book” because it presents the “Negro’s conception of a Negro” rather than a biblical portrait like earlier works by Bradford, Don Wharton nonetheless celebrates the book’s “rhythm” and “understanding,” showering “blessings on Roark Bradford” for the book (89). In the New York Herald Tribune, Constance Rourke praises Bradford for transcend[ing] the legend. It is a gauge of his power as a story-teller and poet (he is unobtrusively both) that he gives a new compulsion to its simple sequences. He has penetrated beneath its established outlines, but without sophistication. He has widened its channels without violence. If he has created new episodes here and there it is with no effect of embroidery, for he has kept the stark outlines of the primary songs, and above all kept their music. The prose rings with it—like John Henry’s hammer. (2) The writer of the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh’s “Among Our Books” column asserted that “the simple folk-ways of the Southern Negro stevedore are told in prose which almost sings” (75). Guy B. Johnson, while praising the book in The Nation, described it as more of a near miss, interestingly because of the language: “John Henry” just misses being a brilliant piece of work. At times it almost gets down to something vital, something elemental in Negro life. There is a

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little too much of the tall-tale and big-talk sort of thing—and yet it may be it will live for just that reason. The dialect is of a sort that never was on land or sea, but that is perhaps appropriate and quite forgivable in a strong man extravaganza like this. If it is a whopping tale told interestingly that one wants, then here it is, but Bradford will not do his best Negro work until he gets rid of his tendency toward burlesque. (“Mighty Legend” 367) Indeed, Bradford does seem to aim for a “heightened” language, or perhaps better a “loaded” language, since to some the language seemed not elevated but debased, that may well be “of a sort that never was on land or sea” in its incessant masculinist bulldozing. In his qualified praise, Johnson is much like the book’s critical detractors. Alain Locke, concurring with Johnson’s judgment, argues that “Bradford has the gift of genuine low comedy; and low comedy is heavens above the bogs of burlesque and slapstick,” and that Bradford’s works “are good surface transcriptions of Negro humor and folk idiom” (“This Year of Grace” 256). A year later, Locke added, “Roark Bradford, particularly, still romanticizes overmuch and lays on his local color with too broad and flat a brush,” but he still views John Henry as “closer to real folk-lore than anything he has previously done” (“We Turn to Prose” 262). Hamilton Basso, in the New Republic, complains that, though the book is “shot with the kind of humor and has the same penetrating understanding of certain aspects of Negro psychology” of Bradford’s other work, it “fails to come alive” (186). Calling the novel a “Black Beowulf ” (and Basso was not alone in making that connection, though a comparison to Paul Bunyan was also made), Basso finds the hero amusing and picturesque, “but it is all on the surface” (187). For Jonathan Daniels in the Saturday Review of Literature, the book is not Rabelaisan enough, and the characters remain “figures . . . almost too polite” (131). Daniels’s advice to Bradford is to “write about Negroes, not these ludicrous stage Negroes, but true ones who walk and breathe and whose comedy is sharp in escape from their dark skins and their darker lives” (131). Contrasting Bradford to William Faulkner in These Thirteen, Sterling Brown snorts contemptuously, “Now John Henry purports frankly enough to be a tall tale, and perhaps we shouldn’t ask for anything more than momentary amusement. But when this is called interpretation of the Negro!” (“The Point of View” 196). However, in 1976, folklorist, anthropologist, and novelist Harold Courlander included an excerpt from Bradford’s novel in A Treasury of Afro-American Folklore, commenting, Many writers with a special interest in Negro life in the South have beeninspired to use the John Henry legend creatively, bringing still new dimensions to the subject. One of the most successful efforts was by Roark Bradford, a Southern writer of distinction. . . . Mr. Bradford was an observant student of

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black oral literature, and it is not easy to know what he, as a creator, may have contributed to the legend, and what may have come to him directly from the oral tradition. (391) Out of the welter of folklorists, sociologists, literary artists, and social commentarians weighing on the quality and value of the book come a number of issues important to consider in evaluating what we can glean from Bradford’s work today. Bradford, drawing his language from African American oral traditions, including the genres of storytelling (frequently termed “lying” by the participants, without negative connotation), boasting, and the “bad man” tradition (also without negative connotations), places his language in the context of a larger American tradition of tall tales. The uses of folklore to entertain, record historical or psychological individual or group events, teach practical lessons, pass on ways of generating culture, form a philosophy, chide or excise negative elements of the community, reintegrate those elements, and reorient the community in terms of goals and attitudes has been particularly well served by folk artists in African American culture. Antiphonal or call and response elements of African American folklore that encourage participation by an audience and frequently recognize the artificial, gameplaying nature of the performance are an important part of an African American culture cognizant that the ability to wear a mask selectively and effectively is frequently a matter of life and death. Recognizing the mask or veil of artificiality while working the characteristics of a genre or system to one’s own advantage is a central impulse of African American consciousness. Playful and comic hyperbole is frequently employed to mock, destroy, and rebuild, while the hyperbolic “bad man” of the ballad and toast traditions such as “Stackerlee”(who appears also in Bradford’s work), “Railroad Bill,” and “Two Time Slim” represents the outlaw who, in his badness, becomes good because he is defying a bad system—as in math, two negatives equal a positive. While such elements are depicted with understanding by a folklorist such as Hurston in Mules and Men, for example, when Bradford employs these traditions, they seem to be more in the service of John Henry’s large ego and selfcenteredness than any type of educational, practical, or communal importance. As such, though Bradford does mine the territory, he does not get deep enough to mine all the ore in the deposit. It is, then, a somewhat limited—interesting and lively but not always connecting to core cultural elements—depiction and success that Bradford achieves in language.

VIII The novelization of an episodic and elliptical oral narrative ballad of somewhat limited length like “John Henry” presents a variety of problems for the writer of fiction. As always with the transcription of oral materials, the writer must find

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ways of representing sound and performance that accurately reflect the rhythm and spirit of the work. That, of course, involves understanding fully what the spirit of the work is, not just plodding through the bare-boned plot. The writer can retain the episodic nature of the narrative but, especially for a writer whose work at the time was not structurally experimental, the narrative ellipses needed filling in, and the characters required greater development in order to fulfill novelistic conventions and achieve a broader audience weaned on those conventions. Transferring the enactment of the story from the oral performance arena to the written one can present seemingly insurmountable challenges as well. Writing frequently requires and is limited to the visual apprehension of the story, whereas the oral performance has visual, aural, and frequently tactile participatory dimensions (watching the performers, listening to the music, and clapping, stomping, perhaps even singing along, as is frequently the case in African American folk environments). Finally, when the story and lore itself is something that has been studied and categorized by “experts” who are sometimes anxious to see that the “sanctity” of the material is not violated by “foreign” material, the task can be quite daunting. Bradford, who seemed to have confidence in “knowing his Negroes,” had to confront and solve these problems in order to provide what, to the contemporary reader, seems to be a successful novel. One way to think of Bradford’s John Henry is as an example of folklorismus, which can be defined as a commercialization of folklore. The term has been applied to such material as the story of Paul Bunyan and Babe, the blue ox. Often thought of as a folk creation, Bunyan actually first appeared in a newspaper article by James McGillivray in 1910, followed by an appearance in an advertising booklet written on behalf of a lumber company by W. B. Laughead in 1914. This seems to place Bunyan outside the realm of folklore proper—Richard Dorson called it “fakelore”—but others such as B. A. Botkin saw something quintessentially American about this lumberjack hero and felt that the print influence on Bunyan did not discount the figure being classified as folklore. In a slightly different tactic, Bradford took a distinctly American figure, John Henry, and commercialized him by adding in other elements that would appeal to an audience familiar not only with American tall tale and tall talk traditions but also with contemporary views of the nature of African Americans, placed in a more conventional and written novelistic context. Bradford claimed that he was at least partially motivated by an enlightened attitude toward African Americans to foster an interest in their culture, and to emphasize how such materials were proper materials for the creation of literature. If folklorists examine the Paul Bunyan legacy “in the small group context of loggers’ camps while recognizing how the local occupational tradition interacts with the larger context of the national media” of this “invented tradition” (Mullen 74–75), then examining the “John Henry” legacy in the context of how commercialization influenced the arc of exposure, apprehension, and appreciation of the “John Henry” tradition should be valuable as well.

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It can also be useful to think of Bradford’s novel as a collection of brief stories or tales in the tradition of such works as Joel Chandler Harris’s Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings: The Folk-Lore of the Old Plantation (1881) and Charles Chesnutt’s The Conjure Woman (1899) and as a precursor to Hurston’s Mules and Men. In the former two works, the writers, one black and one white, create a landscape in which significant characters move episodically from one situation to another, in the end collectively characterizing the connections in a way that simulates a linear portrait while actually continually circling core ideas that define the social, political, and aesthetic landscape. In this they are much like the performance of a ring dance or buck dance within a circle that ritualistically asserts and reinforces community. Though both capture something of the spirit of the life and language of the settings they describe, Chesnutt goes deeper than Harris, the author who inspired his own narrator, providing greater suggestions of the strategies whereby materials and masks were used covertly and intelligently by African Americans to gain advantage. Reinforcing the validity and potency of “conjure,” a trope for the magic of the storyteller as well, Chesnutt affirmed the wit, dignity, intelligence, and strategy of the oral tradition while he debunked the notion of slaves who wished to return to the happy days before the war. Harris himself always self-effacingly insisted he was more of a folklore collector than a literary artist, since his stories came, as has been validated by Harris and subsequent folklorists, from the African American folk tradition, told by a plantation tradition apologist’s unthreatening notion of what the old-time Negro was like. Though there are at times a sense that Uncle Remus is more than he seems to be—“Well, you des oughter see me git my Affikan up. Dey useter call me er bad Nigger long ‘fo’ der war, an’ hit looks like ter me dat I gits wuss an’ wuss” (Harris 222)—and he is described as having a “quick ear” (133) that allows him to adapt what he is doing or saying to the approach of the youngster, much as Chesnutt’s Uncle Julius does at the Northern gentleman’s approach in “The Goophered Grapevine,” he is mostly loving and deferential to his white folks. Thus, while Harris’s tales are a literary landmark and have their value as preservers of the African American folk tradition in reasonably decent dialect, they fall short in their adherence to elements of the plantation minstrel tradition stereotypes that frame the tales. Hurston, too, provides a more extensive folkloric context in that, as a former group member re-integrated into the community, she can portray the materials as they occur without much white or scholarly interference. Indeed, Hurston becomes a character who is endangered by her involvement in the traditions, demonstrating how the folklore lives and breathes in the community. However, Bradford is not without insight and nuance. In Bradford’s John Henry there is a greater distance between the author of the text and the subjects. Although the energy of the language suggests a physical proximity to the people who generated the John Henry story, it still seems as if Bradford is looking down admiringly and bemusedly from a ways off, telling more of a chanced-upon tall tale than a

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cherished myth of a living spirit or presence in the community. The play, generated after the novel, does supply us with recognition of John Henry’s meaning to the community: Blind Lemon’s desire to fondle the cotton hook and hammer of John Henry suggests Bradford’s greater insight into this meaning, but it is a brief moment in the text. While there is still much value to Bradford’s portrait, this absence presents a significant difference from the secular-spiritual presence of John Henry in the African American community. Although Courlander commented that scholars don’t quite know what Bradford brought from the oral tradition to his novel, an analysis of what is extant from the oral as it has been recorded and copied in print can provide some clues. For example, Bradford gives John Henry a home in the Black River country, identified in the stage directions to the later play as being in North Louisiana. Although John Henry’s prophesying in childhood is usually referenced in the ballad, a birthplace is usually not named. Thus, the traditional hero of obscure origins is replaced here with a hero of known birthplace, though the exact location of Black River country is not clear. There may be several reasons for this. First, because this is an early introduction of John Henry into popular culture, the need to create a strong identity for him may have motivated Bradford. Since birthplace is a strong marker of identity, Bradford gave him one, even though he employed the notion of the itinerant black man wandering the country in search of adventure—a type rooted in the reality of post-Reconstruction African American migration, which allowed for greater mobility than was possible during slavery. Black River country gave John Henry a home place to have pride in—it was “whar all de good rousterbouts comes f ’m” (122), tough, hard-working men—and it gave John Henry an Odyssean aura of the wandering hero a long ways from home. When he returns, he reflects on how “warm and lazy” the Black River country is; away from his job and his women troubles, it is a refuge (101). Second, being born in river country associates John Henry with the type of work at which he will be initially employed, and at a traditionally fertile location. As Langston Hughes pointed out in “The Negro Speaks of Rivers,” entire civilizations, and black civilizations and achievements, have proliferated around rivers, with the possibilities of work, commerce, and mobility wedded to the archetypal symbol of the water as the source, meaning, and rhythm of life analogous to the blood in human veins and the soul of a race. Even further, presenting John Henry’s origins as being at the Black River emphasizes his black origins. This is black folklore, black culture, black life—black power. As John Henry presents it, likely with the hyperbole of the tall-talking tradition in American folklore, it is a unique place, mysterious and foreboding—“where the sun don’t never shine” (14) and “whar hit’s night all de time” (143). Darkness, of course, is frequently associated with chaos, the unknown, disorder, but for John Henry it is part of the source of his power. In a chaotic, mysterious, and disordered world, it is valuable to know those things. It is, in a sense, like the subversion of the

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meaning of “bad” in African American culture—to be bad is to be good in a bad world. And John Henry makes it clear that he is black and powerful: “I’m big and I’m black and I treads strange ground when I travels” (106). While “big and black” as a description has sometimes been at the center of the stereotype of the brutish and violent African American, here it seems to be an indicator of John Henry’s strong sense of himself. Clearly Bradford wants John Henry associated from his beginnings, and from the beginning of the novel, with blackness, and in placing John Henry’s birth in Black River country rather than in obscurity, he is willing to sacrifice that traditional detail of what is otherwise clear—John Henry’s heroic status. Bradford’s sense of what it is to be black, and to be John Henry, can in some ways be linked to previous stereotypes of African Americans in literature. While John Henry may be seen as in some ways like Stowe’s Uncle Tom—Tom was himself a powerful man who was sorely tested and saddened at a number of turns by his experiences, and a man who unself-consciously followed his path oblivious to the imminent danger that would envelope him—the two differ in that John Henry is not the Christlike figure that Stowe creates Uncle Tom to be. John Henry needs to be converted in the end to repent his ways, while Tom is unwavering in his Christianity. Many of the characters in Bradford’s novel are poor, rough, ignorant, appetitive, violent, promiscuous, superstitious, dishonest people, responding to life in the moment. John Henry is propositioned by Ruby, Delia, and other women, and Julie Anne continues to cheat on him—though John Henry makes it clear that he is sexually enslaved to no one (82). Versions of the ballad in the oral and recorded tradition, such as Furry Lewis’s 1929 version alternately portray John Henry’s fidelity and his great attractiveness to women in the community, capturing the tension between the desired faithfulness of the everyman and the mythic and sexual attractiveness of the hero. This is an element Bradford clearly develops in his novel. John Henry is insulted by many people he first approaches, and is threatened by others, including Stacker Lee (another Bradford addition to the John Henry story, drawing on another story from black folklore), who shoots off John Henry’s clothes (86–87). The men are in fact called “bullies” on twenty-three different occasions, sometimes when they are first addressed, with the clear expectation that they are (8). The use of cocaine is mentioned three times, the first with reference to an actual folk song, a whimsical and celebratory song titled “Take a Whiff On Me” (77). Poor Selma even brags, “I’m worse’n cocaine. You can quit cocaine and den die, but when you tries to quit me, you can’t quit and den you can’t die” (77). This is self-aggrandizing hyperbole, to be sure, but an interesting and telling metaphor to use, and one that perhaps taps into the tradition among some folks, especially Christians, of the blues as the “Devil’s music,” drawing some of its strength from sinister powers. While these characterizations are in part due to the social class from which John Henry comes—the poor, uneducated, overworked, underfed, and brutalized working class—whose secular songs like the blues com-

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monly employed these elements as well, to stereotype the bulk of those people in that way, especially for amusing entertainment, is a libel on the group. Moreover, Bradford does not extend his portrayals to include any middle-class African Americans, preferring to concentrate on what some middle-class blacks might describe, in their own condescending way, as riff-raff (at best). Why, they might ask, must whites always write about poor blacks and use them to typify African American “development” and contributions? Such criticism extended to black writers of the time as well. Langston Hughes was dubbed a “Sewer Dweller” for his depictions of poor blacks in Fine Clothes to the Jew (Hughes, The Big Sea, 266–68), and Claude McKay was criticized for his novelistic portrayals as well. Of course, there are other ways to portray poor black folks, too, but social and political situations being what they were, unfortunate stereotypes about poor blacks in the time existed and were employed to their detriment. The most common epithet used to refer to African Americans in the text—by narrator and characters—is “niggers.” The word occurs, in the original publication, on 55 of 225 pages, or roughly 24 percent, of the pages in the book. While, of course, one might find that epithet commonly used at the time, especially in this social class, and thus is an accurate local color or realist touch, the insistence of the term in some ways can reinforce notions of inferiority, especially when combined with unrealized and negative portraits of the characters. These lower-class types of characters are inherited from the stereotypes of African Americans in popular novels of the nineteenth century, not developed and individuated as fully as they might be, and thus lacking in a depth that Bradford perhaps assumes is not there. What is there is a great verve and energy that comes from the speech and the lore. It must be acknowledged that Bradford seems still to be writing in the tradition of earlier local color dialect writers, providing readers with a narrator who employs standard English before bringing in the language of the blacks of the story. This was sometimes seen as an attempt to establish standard English as a model from which dialect speakers comically diverged. Certainly here it provides a contrast to the language of blacks in the story, and it may have been perceived as setting up the dialect as comical—though Bradford seemed to appreciate the liveliness of the speakers, and did indeed have a sensitive ear for catching the spirit, rhythm, and sound of dialect. The language becomes an irresistable force in itself, especially that of John Henry. In true rip-roaring American tall-talk traditions, John Henry roars out of the gate, part preacher, part roustabout, part conjure man, gifted with musical ability. After all, he “came into the world with a cotton-hook for a right hand and a river song on his tongue” (1). The notion of being born with a hook for a right hand, indicative of the hard and rough life he is born to lead, sets up the life of the black child born to hardship and, in his case, prepared to face it head on. The description, however, also smacks of the stereotype of African Americans as a musical people. Wonderfully descriptive of John Henry’s natural (a natural man) creative ability with music, the metaphor is repeated later in relation to work: John

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Henry has “a song in [his] shoulder” (132), another beautiful way of suggesting the relation of music to work in the African American tradition. However, the suggestion that the ability is not earned or developed but inborn is indicative of, perhaps, the stereotype of black musicality that was still being resisted by the protagonist of Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man in the mid-twentieth century. We do encounter a good bit of music in the text—John Henry and others breaking naturally into song—that could be viewed either as veering into stereotype or representing the importance of music to the daily lives of African Americans, an inheritance from African American and West African ancestors. For example, the “John Henry” ballad stanza is employed on 42 pages of the original edition, nearly 19 percent of the pages in the book—often with Bradford making up relevant verses, even one in which John Henry sings about Stacker Lee, who has his own song, in the John Henry stanza (90). Additionally, Bradford’s text employs lyrics and language that are familiar to blues researchers through commercial recordings done around the time Bradford was writing. This does not mean that Bradford heard these recordings or used them. The phrases Bradford employs were certainly known and used in the folk blues tradition at the time. Still the partial list of recordings (table 1) indicates the breadth of Bradford’s familiarity with the tradition. The African American spirit and rhythm of the language seems to stem to a large degree from Bradford’s employment of such musical elements, combined with a careful ear for dialect. While this emphasizes the oral origins of the John Henry story, and delivers zest and rhythm to the text through the use of the idiom, it can have the unfortunate collateral effect of reinforcing the musical stereotype. This may also be true of the way John Henry presents himself in his world. As Bradford presents him, he seems intent on naming himself (on 17 separate pages or 7.5 percent of the pages of the text) everywhere he goes. On the one hand, this could be a positive indicator of John Henry’s ability to name and define himself—it is a godlike characteristic, and indicates a pride and self-reliance that is admirable. It is also a way for John Henry to demand respect: “When you tawk to me, . . . call me by my name” (7), he tells “Copperhaid,” the “he-coon on de Big Jim White” (8). This is, significantly, the white man’s head Negro that John Henry upbraids and cautions against disrespectful address—Copperhaid had called him “boy,” and John Henry would have none of his infantilizing condescension. In fact, on 27 occasions, he calls attention to the fact that he is a “man” or a “natural man”—an insistence to which many whites would not accede at the time, especially in the South. He also mentions on 30 pages (11.1 percent) that he is six feet tall, calls attention to Black River country on 28 pages, and twice explicitly calls himself a natural man, one who tells the natural truth—meaning not artificial or fabricated, but for real. At one point, he even invokes his African past as either an indicator of his uncontrollable emotions or, alternatively, of his unstoppable power: “Don’t let me get

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ta b l e 1 Recordings Featuring Language Also Employed in Bradford’s Novel pages

artist

title and year

5, 11, 156, 157

Irene Scruggs

Itching Heel (1930)

7, 20, etc.

“Ramblin’” Thomas

Poor Boy Blues (1928)

11–12

Georgia Tom, Tampa Red, and Frankie Jaxon

Kunjine Baby (1929)

28

Scott’s Chapel Choir

What Shall I Do (1941) Levee Camp Moan (1927)

30

Texas Alexander

29–37

Blind Lemon Jefferson

Broke and Hungry (1926)

38–48

The Black Dominoes

Back O’ Town Blues (1923)

40–42, 67

Leadbelly

John Hardy (1943)

52–55, etc.

Esther Bigeou

Stingaree Blues (1921)

71–72

George “Bullet” Williams

Frisco Leaving Birmingham (1928)

57

Henry Thomas

Bull Doze Blues (1928)

66

Mississippi John Hurt

Got the Blues (1928)

67

Scrapper Blackwell

Back Door Blues (1928)

67

George Williams

A Woman Gets Tired of the Same Man All the Time (1923)

74

Son House

My Black Mama Pt. 1 (1930)

76

Lucille Hegamin

He May Be Your Man But He Comes to See Me Sometimes (1922)

77

Memphis Jug Band

Cocaine Habit Blues (1930)

79

Jimmy Oden

Going Down Slow (1941)

79

Bob Coleman

Tear It Down (1929)

83–84

Mississippi John Hurt

Stack O’ Lee Blues (1928)

112, 183

Whistler’s Jug Band

Foldin’ Bed (1930)

114

Speckled Red

The Dirty Dozen (1929)

116

Trixie Smith

Freight Train Blues (1924)

127, 129, etc.

Ida Cox

Tree Top Tall Papa (1928)

141

Negro Songs of Protest

Nine Pound Hammer (c. 1933–37)

146

Mississippi John Hurt

Spike Driver Blues (1928)

146, 199

Memphis Minnie

Frisco Town (1929)

151

Papa Charlie Jackson

Fat Mouth Blues (1926) Savannah Mama (1933)

172, 189

Blind Willie McTell

173

Black Ace

Triflin’ Woman (1937)

190, 194, etc.

Kid Cole

Hey Hey Mama Blues (1928)

201

Sutton Griggs

A Surprise Answer to Prayer (1928)

215

Alphabetical Four

Bye and Bye (1941)

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my Af ’ican up, or I’m liable to wreck and ruin you, ’cause I’m big and I’m bad and I been around” (103). “I bows my haid,” he vows, “to no man” (97). For some readers, this incessant repetition extends beyond a healthy ego to overbearing braggadocio. This is perhaps what Guy Johnson and Alain Locke were referring to when they wrote that Bradford overdid the language. It is rich, but it is relentlessly repetitive. Tempered by the artist, this can be seen as an attempt to approximate a characteristic of folklore. Folklore can be formulaic and repetitive, setting up certain kinds of performances in particular, established, and inherited ways. In Hurston’s folklore collection Mules and Men, for example, characters repeat the saying before adding in their own contributions to performance. So it is not that Bradford is going outside the tradition, but in focusing on a single character over a sustained period of time and employing characteristics of folk performance that are common, he may in fact be overloading through incremental usage. Conversely, Bradford delineates John Henry as a well-meaning hero who has an interest in serving the community as well. He is on a mission to help save starving people by finding them hog meat to eat (13–21). They must go back to his birthplace, the Black River country, in order to get food, and he teaches them how to deal with hogs when brute force will not work—he strategizes. It may seem comical—indeed it is—to think of John Henry talking to the hogs (19), but the diverting strategy allows John Henry and the others to sneak up on and capture the hogs and thus feed themselves. It may look funny, and it may sound funny, and it may feel funny—the ways we perceive oral performance as described earlier—but it works to be seeming to deal with the hogs on their own level. It is, thus, a part of a well-developed, tried and true masking tradition that had served African Americans well since their need to use it upon arrval in this country—but is it animalistic and demeaning, too? The episode is, perhaps, related to the portrayal of Jim and his performance with the hairball in Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. He also shows weary cotton pickers how to pick successfully (25–28), saving them from becoming unemployed and allowing them to receive their full pay. Later, he shows his boss Billie Bob Russell how to build a railroad by demonstrating how the white boss had been following orders mechanically rather than being goal oriented in his overseeing: “You kin build a railroad or you kin drive niggers. But you can’t do bofe at once” (35). After advising the walking boss not to sing about hurt mules—John Henry recognizes that morale is hurt by calling attention to injuries and difficulties on the job, and feels it is necessary to positively reinforce—he offers more advice to Russell that seems to come from behind a mask once again: “Shade,” said John Henry, “is made for white fo’ks and hosses. Sun is made for mules and niggers. But don’t drive ’em. Drivin’ make a nigger weary, and

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a weary nigger make a mule fall offn his feed jes to look at ’em. So efn you wants to git dis Yaller Dog built, Mister Billie Bob Russell,” said John Henry, “you give yo’ wawkin boss his time and give yo’ niggers two big mules and a wheeler. And den you lay back in de shade and watch dis railroad grow.” (36) At this point, John Henry is attempting to get the walking boss fired and the railroad built. He realizes he is a black man giving a white man advice, and as such must figure out a strategy to get the white man to listen to him, so he suggests that it is natural to separate white folks (and horses) from black folks (and mules)—a reinforcing of the social situation in the South at the time. He succeeds in getting Russell to listen to his idea, eliminates a nasty walking boss, gets the railroad built, and the men paid. Once again, through his wits and knowledge, he has improved a situation without danger to himself. His references to the Black River country “where the sun don’t never shine” may have relevance here as well: while John Henry asserts that sun is for black folks, he acknowledges coming from a place where the sun doesn’t shine—his home, a place out of the sun. He also watches out for the defenseless against those who would take advantage of them, teaching a lesson to gamblers about not cheating poor folks (46). He emphasizes that a man ought not just lie around, but should work for his keep (56–57). And he stops women from fighting, telling them to make up and be friends (90). He is even portrayed as the inventor of the “coonjine” dance, originating in a work motion that he executes (11–12). Certainly he has his faults, but he accomplishes a great deal of good as well. In all this, John Henry can again be seen as a strong, self-reliant man who is competent and hard-working. But Bradford also portrays him as a black man who is subject to the discriminatory rules of whites as well. When John Henry tells the captain he is looking for work, the captain calls the police to throw John Henry in jail for vagrancy (58–59). It is a quite “common” experience for a quite “uncommon black man,” and brings John Henry the powerful back down to his place, so to speak, in society of the time. In a text that seems to present a good many humorous episodes treating African American life, Bradford seems to insert materials almost covertly to balance out the light-hearted ambience. Of course, Bradford has had to add many other different elements to stretch the story over a 200-plus-page novel. Foremost is his changing of John Henry from being a steel driver to a roustabout whose first working encounter, as well as his last one, is with cotton. It is likely that Bradford, who grew up on a southern plantation, uses cotton here as a metaphor for the hardships African Americans faced in their lives, and thus what they needed to overcome in order to transcend those societal limitations. But there are also versions of “John Henry” in which he is portrayed as more than just a steel driver. In Furry Lewis’s 1929 version, part two, when the captain asks John Henry what kind of work he can do, John Henry replies

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I can set your track and I can line your jack I can pick and shovel, too. Additionally, as Louis Chappell pointed out in John Henry: A Folk-Lore Study, John Henry had been portrayed in variant versions as cotton-picker, hog-catcher, ironbreaker, railroad man, riveter, roustabout, steel driver, and watermelon-catcher (143), though it is as steel driver that he is most commonly portrayed and known. Fleshing out the novel are episodes emphasizing sexual promiscuity and betrayal in the lives of the characters, which have their genesis, perhaps, in such verses as those Furry Lewis sang in his version of the ballad in 1929: Woman, where you get your little shoes, And the dress you wear so fine? Got my shoes from the railroad man, And my dress from the man in a mine, mine, Got my dress from a man in a mine . . . Woman take this ring I give you, And put it on your right hand, And when I am dead and buried, poor girl, You can give it to your other man, You can give it to your other man. Other episodes that help expand the story include a rocky relationship with Julie Anne; visits to conjurors; episodes with Blind Lemon, presumably based on Blind Lemon Jefferson; mastery in a variety of jobs, not just the railroad of the traditional story; and the religious tones of the ending—perhaps a nod back to his earlier story collection Ol’ Man Adam an’ His Chillun. Bradford even has John Henry say “I wa’nt bawn wid no hammer in my hand” (143), almost in contradiction to the John Henry identified and depicted in such a way, though he does battle “Sam” driving spikes (145–47). His death in the novel, rolling bales of cotton in a battle with a steam winch operated by Sam, departs from his traditional death as well. Bradford’s ending draws upon religion to help elevate John Henry to the canon of hero where the ballad did not, but there is a suitably reverent tone at the end as Bradford’s novel closes on John Henry. We have, of course, been prepared for his death—the novel’s opening sentence relates that he is “long dead” (1). Still, in the oral tradition, and in Bradford’s novel, that death has not killed him off.

IX It is likely that Bradford’s decision to produce John Henry for the stage in 1939 was influenced by the phenomenal success of Marc Connelly’s adaptation of

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Bradford’s Ol’ Man Adam into Green Pastures. On paper in its planning stages, an adaptation of the novel looked like a great idea. However, the play was a monumental failure, despite the presence of Paul Robeson in the lead and Josh White as Blind Lemon. White wanted to make some changes to the play before it opened: “I know damn good and well I will not be in a show with all that dialect and all that ‘nigger’ stuff ” (Wald 53), and he reported that some of the language was in fact changed. Both Paul Robeson’s wife, Essie, and Larry Brown advised Robeson not to take the part because they “thought the script inadequate” (Duberman 238), but Robeson forged ahead. The reviews were merciless. In Books, W. P. Eaton identified “a rigidity or monotony of method in fitting music to the scheme” and high expectations at the beginning that never deliver “rip-roaring dramatic action” as the reason the play “never rises to the stature of its hero” (21). The reviewer for The Boston Transcript was even harsher: “It is difficult to see who would care to read a stage piece without plot, without genuine dramatic conflict, and without character interest” (1). The critic for Time Magazine complained: John Henry performed his feats as though they were vaudeville acts. The music rose & fell, ebbed & flowed, without seeming to come from the hearts of the black people who sang it. Crowds moved sheeplike about the stage as though at the bidding of a traffic cop. Even Robeson could not save the situation. He could not carry on his back 800 pounds of bad play. (50) The Theatre Arts reviewer asserted that “John Henry failed because its script was unwritten” (Gilder 166), while a writer for The Catholic World suggested “if the cast of seventy-five Negroes had been given the John Henry legend and had been told to act it out, they would have made a more passionate tale” (598). While many critics praised Robeson’s performance as rising above the material, most agreed with George Jean Nathan that “the inner materials of the play lay too heavy a burden on the stage” (33). There are a number of differences between the novel and the play that make them unique. At less than half the length of the novel, the play indeed has far less time to fill in plot and character development, which makes it seem rather skeletal. This compression emphasizes the musical structures to a much greater degree, since there are fewer nonmusical prose passages, and makes it more artificial, more like a spectacle, which Bradford probably intended. On the other hand, there is less repetition—necessarily—in the play than in the novel, which makes John Henry come off as slightly less of a braggart. He even emphasizes, in song, two weaknesses: “I got a head like a rock and a heart like a marble stone” (17), which, depending on how one views it, can be some needed self-deprecation or a use of stereotypical ignorance and selfishness. And John Henry seems somewhat more vulnerable at the end of the play when, as he is looking for work, he is estranged from his home, saying “I comes from I don’t know where” (79). Whereas Blind

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Lemon entered the novel at page 171, he is a character from the beginning of the play, helping to provide a bit more continuity and setting up the touching scene at the end where Bradford emphasizes John Henry’s importance to the community through the wistful desire of the blind singer: Let me tetch his cotton hook, And let me feel de handle. Let me hold hit in my right hand, And make like I’m a cotton rollin’ man, Let me play like I’m John Henry. (88) Here Bradford seeks to capture how much the figure and story of John Henry meant to a community of creative human beings handicapped by their situations in society that prevented them from rising above certain stations in life to accomplish the heroic. John Henry demonstrated that it could be done, and he demonstrated it with strength and style. And though he was brought down, ultimately, his life had a meaning that people in the community clung to for hope of their own. The simple words of Blind Lemon in the play capture that desperate desire. While the play does seem less successful than the novel, it is not artless, not without its strengths. Ultimately, Bradford’s endeavors to bring the story of John Henry to mainstream American seem to be qualified successes. At a time when African American artists had been attempting to identify and champion distinctive elements of African American culture in their work and when ragtime, jazz, and blues had begun to emerge as important genres of American music in their own right and as influences on other popular and classical music, Bradford’s altered exposition of the John Henry story provided an important impetus. He helped to expose Americans to aspects of African American culture through a strong and energetic hero in a language that is vigorous and strongly rooted in African American orature. Furthermore, by placing the African American John Henry story in the context of the American tall tale, Southwestern humor, and blustering braggadocio tradition that included Mike Fink, Sut Lovingood, and Davy Crockett, Bradford reinforced the relevance and importance of African American culture to American culture as a whole. However, in his egotism, pettiness, and mundane love life, Bradford’s John Henry lacks the dignity of the figure in orature. He is less of a shining beacon of African American strength and perseverence on a fated collision course with elements of a destructive industrialism. And yet, by bringing John Henry to the fore, Bradford was able to provide an opening for the John Henry of folklore to slip through into the light of mainstream society where he might be heard (and exploited) in other ways. Additionally, popular success with African American materials by white writers frequently served as a way to facilitate

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other uses of similar materials by both whites and blacks, sometimes inspired by or in response to the published work. Ideally, that ought not to be the case; African American writers should have had equal access to publishing companies. But given the historical times, works like Bradford’s take on a significance that adds to their value as cultural artifacts supplementing their aesthetic value.

X In the years following Bradford’s John Henry novel and play, the visibility and popularity of the story and song increased greatly. Folklorists have continued to study early sources and transmission, including most importantly Brett Williams’s John Henry: A Bio-Bibliography (1983); Norm Cohen’s discussion in Long Steel Rail: The Railroad in American Folk Song (1981); Archie Green’s “The Visual John Henry” in Wobblies, Pile Butts and Other Heroes (1993); Richard Dorson’s “The Career of John Henry” (1965); John Garst’s “Chasing John Henry in Alabama and Mississippi” (2002); and Scott Reynolds Nelson’s Steel Drivin’ Man (2006). During that time John Henry was appropriated by Hugo Gellert for Leftist propaganda, appearing in radical magazines such as The New Masses and The Daily Worker as a proletarian hero and employed as an example of a martyr to labor in American Folksongs of Protest; written into cartoons, including the “John Henry and the Inky Poo” (1946) Puppetoon; depicted in more children’s books such as The Hurricane’s Children (1937), by Carl Carmer, and John Henry (1994), by Julius Lester (pictures by Jerry Pinkney); and recorded noncommercially and commercially by such performers as Big Bill Broonzy, Josh White, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, Buster Brown, and Big Walter Horton. The character was also utilized in poetry by Sterling Brown, Margaret Walker, and Melvin Tolson; in novels such as James Cloyd Bowman’s John Henry: Rambling Black Ulysses (1942) and Colson Whitehead’s John Henry Days (2001); in the visual arts, as in Palmer Hayden’s oil paintings and Fred Becker’s engravings; and in drama, films, comic books, and on Madison Avenue. Psychoanalyzed, historicized, politicized, idolized—the descriptions, intentions, and results have been various, but the story’s remarkable staying power in both vernacular and mainstream culture bespeaks a vital spark in the simple story of the power of human beings to strive, to persevere, to overcome, and, yes, to die, but to come back again and again and become immortalized in collective memory, with a multivocal expressiveness that catches the relation of the individual to the community. John Henry may have been a steel drivin’ man, but he could just as easily be a cotton pickin’ woman or a coal-minin’ teen, all speaking and singing with individual voices one big beautiful song of strength, pride, hope, and perseverence.

BIBLIO GRAPHIES AND TRANSCRIPTIONS

WORKS CITED “Among Our Books.” Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh 36.9 (Nov. 1931): 75. Bascom, Louise Rand. “Ballads and Songs of Western North Carolina.” Journal of American Folklore 22. 84 (Apr.–June 1909): 238–50. (247–49). Basso, Hamilton. “Black Beowulf.” New Republic (Sept. 30, 1931): 186–87. Bernard, Emily, ed. Remember Me to Harlem: The Letters of Langston Hughes and Carl Van Vechten. New York: Knopf, 2001. Botkin, B. A. A Treasury of American Folklore. New York: Crown, 1944. Braithwaite, William Stanley. “The Negro in American Literature.” The Harlem Renaissance, 1920–1940. Vol. 4. Ed. Cary Wintz. New York: Garland, 1996: 11–23. Broonzy, Big Bill. Amsterdam Live Concerts, 1953. Munich MRCD 275. Brown, Sterling A. “Concerning Negro Drama.” Opportunity (Sept. 1931): 192–93. ———. “From the Inside.” The Nation 146 (Apr. 16, 1938): 448. ———. “The Literary Scene.” The Crisis ( Jan. 1931): 20. ———. Negro Poetry and Drama and the Negro in American Fiction. 1937. Rpt. New York: Atheneum, 1972. ———. “The Point of View.” Opportunity 9 (Nov. 1931): 347, 350. Burrill, Mary. “They That Sit in Darkness.” New York: The Birth Control Review, 1919. Chappell, Louis W. John Henry: A Folk-Lore Study. Walter Biedermann, 1933. Chesnutt, Charles. The Conjure Woman. New York: Houghton and Mifflin, 1899. ———. The Wife of His Youth and Other Stories of the Color Line. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1899. Cohen, Norm. Long Steel Rail: The Railroad in American Folk Song. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1981. Connelly, Marc. “Story About Roark Bradford.” Wings 5: 9 (Sept. 1931): 11–13. ———. The Green Pastures. New York: Farrar and Rinehart, 1929. Courlander, Harold. A Treasury of Afro-American Folklore. 1976. Rpt. New York: Marlowe and Co., 1996. Daniels, Jonathan. “Sampson.” Saturday Review of Literature 8.9 (Sept. 19, 1931): 131. Davis, Thadious. Nella Larsen: Novelist of the Harlem Renaissance. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1996. Delany, Martin. Blake, or the Huts of America. New York: Beacon Press, 1971. Dixon, R. M. W., John Godrich, and Howard Rye. Blues and Gospel Records, 1890–1943, 4th ed. New York: Oxford University Press, 1997. Dixon, Thomas. The Clansman. New York: Grosset and Dunlap, 1905. Dorson, Richard. American Folklore. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1977.

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———. “The Career of John Henry.” Western Folklore, 24: 3 ( July 1965): 155–63. Duberman, Martin. Paul Robeson: A Biography. New York: New Press, 1989. Dunbar-Nelson, Alice. “Mine Eyes Have Seen.” Crisis 15 (1918): 271–75. Eaton, W. P. “Review of John Henry.” Book-List 36.10 (Feb. 1, 1940): 211. Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man. 1952. Rpt. New York: Vintage, 1995. Garst, John. “Chasing John Henry in Alabama and Mississippi.” Tributaries 5 (2002): 92–129. Gilder, Rosamond. “Broadway in Review.” Theatre Arts 24 (Mar. 1940): 166–67. Green, Archie. “The Visual John Henry.” In Wobblies, Pile Butts and Other Heroes. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1993. Green, Paul. In Abraham’s Bosom. New York: Allen and Unwin, 1929. Grimke, Angelina Weld. Rachel. 1916. Rpt. Selected Works of Angelina Weld Grimke. New York: Oxford University Press, 1991. Harris, Joel Chandler. Uncle Remus: His Songs and Sayings. 1880. Rpt. New York: Penguin, 1982. Hughes, Langston. The Big Sea. 1940. Rpt. New York: Hill and Wang, 1993. ———. “The Negro Speaks of Rivers.” In The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes. Eds. Arnold Rampersad and David Roessel. New York: Vintage, 1994. Hurst, Fanny. Imitation of Life. New York: P. F. Collier and Son, 1933. Hurston, Zora Neale. Mules and Men. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1935. Hutchinson, Percy. “John Henry, Mighty Man of the Roustabouts.” New York Times (Sept. 6, 1931): 4. Johnson, Guy B. John Henry: Tracking Down a Negro Legend. 1929. Rpt. New York: AMS Press, 1969. ———. “A Mighty Legend.” Nation 133 (Oct. 7, 1931): 367. Johnson, Charles S. “Introduction.” Ebony and Topaz: A Collecteana. Ed. Charles S. Johnson. New York: Urban League, 1927. 11–13. Johnson, James Weldon. Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man. 1912. Rpt. New York: Garden City Publishers, 1927. Kaplan, Carla. Zora Neale Hurston: A Life in Letters. New York: Doubleday, 2002. Kittredge, G. L. “Various Ballads.” Journal of American Folklore 26.100 (Apr.–June 1913): 174–82. (180–82 “John Hardy” mixed with “John Henry”). Locke, Alain. “Steps Toward a Negro Theatre.” The Crisis 25 (1922): 66–67. ———. “This Year of Grace.” Opportunity 9 (Feb. 1931): 48–51. ———. “We Turn to Prose.” Opportunity 10 (Feb. 1932): 40–44. Lowe, John. Jump at the Sun: Zora Neale Hurston’s Cosmic Comedy. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1994. Monarchs of Minstrelsy. Archeophone CD ARCH 1006. Mullen, Patrick B. “Bunyan, Paul.” Encyclopedia of Folklore and Literature. Eds. Mary Ellen Brown and Bruce A. Rosenberg. Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO, 1998: 74–75. Nathan, George Jean. “In The Black and The Red.” Newsweek ( Jan. 22, 1940): 33. Nelson, Scott Reynolds. Steel Drivin’ Man: John Henry, the Untold Story of an American Legend. New York: Oxford University Press, 2006. North, Michael. The Dialect of Modernism: Race, Language, and Twentieth Century Literature. New York: Oxford University Press, 1994. Odum, Howard W., and Guy B. Johnson. Negro Workaday Songs. 1926. Rpt. New York: Negro Universities Press, 1969: 220–40.

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Olson, Ted. “Henry, John.” The Greenwood Encyclopedia of African American Literature. Vol. 2. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2005. O’Neil, Raymond. “The Negro in Dramatic Art.” The Crisis 27 (1924): 155–57. O’Neill, Eugene. “All God’s Chillun Got Wings.” New York: Boni and Liveright, 1925. ———. “The Dreamy Kid.” New York: Boni and Liveright, 1925. ———. “The Emperor Jones.” New York: Boni and Liveright, 1925. Pawlowski, Lucia. “Henry, John.” The Greenwood Encyclopedia of African American Folklore. Vol. 2. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2006: 593–96. Perrow, E. C. “Songs and Rhymes from the South.” Journal of American Folklore 26 (Apr.– June 1913): 123–73 (163–65). “Review of John Henry.” Catholic World 150 (Feb. 1940): 598–99. “Review of John Henry.” Time ( Jan. 22, 1940): 49–50. Richardson, Willis. “The Deacon’s Awakening.” The Crisis 21 (1921): 13–39. ———. “The Hope of the Negro Drama.” The Crisis 19 (November 1919): 338–39. “Roark Bradford and His Books.” In John Henry, by Roark Bradford. New York: Literary Guild, 1931: 227. Rourke, Constance. “A Myth Comes into Its Own.” New York Herald Tribune Books (Sept. 6, 1931): 1–2. Russell, Tony. Country Music Records: A Discography, 1921–1942. New York: Oxford University Press, 2004. Rust, Brian. Jazz and Ragtime Records, 1897–1942 (2 vols). Denver: Mainspring Press, 2002. Stibbs, John H. “Roark Bradford at Tulane.” South Central Bulletin 7.3 ( June 1947): 3. Stowe, Harriet Beecher. Uncle Tom’s Cabin. 1852. Rpt. New York: Norton, 2006. Stribling, T. S. Birthright. New York: Century, 1922. Turner, George Kibbe. Hagar’s Hoard. 1920. Rpt. New York: Kessinger, 2007. Van Vechten, Carl. Nigger Heaven. New York: Knopf, 1926. Vreede, Max E. Paramount 12000/13000 Series. London: Storyville, 1971. Wagner, Jean. Black Poets of the United States. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1973. Wald, Elijah. Josh White: Society Blues. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2000. Wharton, Don. “Review of John Henry.” Outlook and Independent 159.3 (Sept. 16, 1931): 89. White, Walter. “The Negro on the American Stage.” English Journal 24.3 (March 1935): 179–88.

DISCOGRAPHY OF RECORDINGS ECHOING THE FOLK TRADITION IN BRADFORD’S JOHN HENRY Texas Alexander. “Levee Camp Moan” (1927). Complete Recordings in Chronological Order Vol. 1. Matchbox MBCD 2001. Alphabetical Four. “Bye and Bye” (1941). Complete Recordings in Chronological Order. Document DOCD 5374. Black Ace. “Triflin’ Woman” (1937). Oscar Woods and Black Ace: Complete Recordings in Chronological Order. Document DOCD 5143. The Black Dominoes. “Back O’ Town Blues” (1923), Gennett 5347.

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The Black Hillbillies. “Kunjine Baby” (1929). Tampa Red: Complete Recordings in Chronological Order Vol. 3. Document DOCD 5075. Scrapper Blackwell. “Back Door Blues” (1928). Complete Recordings in Chronological Order Vol. 1. Document DOCD 6029. Kid Cole. “Hey Hey Mama Blues” (1928). Cincinnati Blues. Da 3519-2. Bob Coleman. “Tear It Down” (1929). Cincinnati Blues. Da 3519-2. Ida Cox. “Tree Top Tall Papa” (1928). Complete Recordings in Chronological Order Vol. 4. Document 5325. Lucille Hegamin. “He May Be Your Man But He Comes to See Me Sometimes” (1922). Complete Recordings in Chronological Order Vol. 1. Document DOCD 5419. Son House. “My Black Mama Pt. 1” (1930). Legends of Country Blues. JSP 7715. Mississippi John Hurt. “Got the Blues” (1928). Avalon Blues. Sony 64986. ———. “Spike Driver Blues” (1928). Avalon Blues. Sony 64986. ———. “Stack O’ Lee Blues” (1928). Avalon Blues. Sony 64986. Papa Charlie Jackson. “Fat Mouth Blues” (1926). Complete Recordings in Chronological Order Vol. 2. Document DOCD 5088. Blind Lemon Jefferson. “Broke and Hungry” (1926). The Complete 94 Classic Sides. JSP 7706. Leadbelly. “John Hardy” (1943). Complete Recordings in Chronological Order Vol. 3. Document DOCD 5228. Blind Willie McTell. “Savannah Mama” (1933). Complete Recordings in Chronological Order Vol. 2. Document DOCD 5007. Memphis Jug Band. “Cocaine Habit Blues” (1930). Complete Recordings in Chronological Order Vol. 3. Document DOCD 5023. Memphis Minnie. “Frisco Town” (1929). Complete Recordings in Chronological Order Vol. 1. Document DOCD 5028. Jimmy Oden. “Going Down Slow” (1941). Complete Recordings in Chronological Order Vol. 1. Document DOCD 5234. Irene Scruggs. “Itching Heel” (1930). Blind Blake: Complete Recordings in Chronological Order Vol. 4. Document DOCD 5027. Scott’s Chapel Choir. “What Shall I Do” (1941). University of Texas, Austin. F 88-89. Trixie Smith. “Freight Train Blues” (1924). Complete Recordings in Chronological Order Vol. 1. Document DOCD 5332. Speckled Red. “The Dirty Dozen” (1929). Complete Recordings in Chronological Order. Document 5205. Henry Thomas. “Bull Doze Blues” (1928). Ragtime Texas. Yazoo CD 1080/1081. Various. “Nine Pound Hammer” (c. 1933–37). Negro Songs of Protest. Rounder 4013. Whistler’s Jug Band. “Foldin’ Bed” (1930). Times Ain’t Like They Used to Be. Yazoo DVD 512. George “Bullet” Williams. “Frisco Leaving Birmingham” (1928). Great Harp Players. Document 5100. George Williams. “A Woman Gets Tired of the Same Man All the Time” (1930). George Williams and Bessie Brown: Complete Recorded Works in Chronological Order Vol. 1. Document DOCD 5227.

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TRANSCRIPTIONS OF SEVERAL VERSIONS OF “JOHN HENRY” RECORDED OR COLLECTED BETWEEN 1900 AND 1931 A. “John Henry, The Steel Driving Man.” Blankenship printed version c. 1900 1. John Henry was a railroad man, He worked from six ‘till five, “Raise ’em up bullies and let ’em drop down, I’ll beat you to the bottom or die.” 2. John Henry said to his captain: “You are nothing but a common man, Before that steam drill shall beat me down, I’ll die with my hammer in my hand.” 3. John Henry said to the Shakers: “You must listen to my call, Before that steam drill shall beat me down, I’ll jar these mountains till they fall.” 4. John Henry’s captain said to him: “I believe these mountains are caving in.” John Henry said to his captain: “Oh, Lord!” “That’s my hammer you hear in the wind.” 5. John Henry he said to his captain: “Your money is getting mighty slim, When I hammer through this old mountain, Oh Captain will you walk in?” 6. John Henry’s captain came to him, With fifty dollars in his hand, He laid his hand on his shoulder and said: “This belongs to a steel driving man.” 7. John Henry was hammering on the right side, The big steam drill on the left, Before that steam drill could beat him down, He hammered his fool self to death. 8. They carried John Henry to the mountains, From his shoulder his hammer would ring, She caught on fire by a little blue blaze I believe these old mountains are caving in. 9. John Henry was lying on his death bed, He turned over on his side, And these were the last words John Henry said “Bring me a cool drink of water before I die.

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10. John Henry had a little woman, Her name was Pollie Ann, He hugged and kissed her just before he died, Saying, “Pollie do the best you can.” 11. John Henry’s woman heard he was dead, She could not rest on her bed, She got up at midnight, caught that No. 4 train, “I am going where John Henry fell dead.” 12. They carried John Henry to that new burying ground His wife all dressed in blue, She laid her hand on John Henry’s cold face, “John Henry I’ve been true to you.” Price 5 Cents ———W. T. Blankenship Note: A facsimile of this version by W. T. Blankenship was “obtained from Mrs. C. L. Lynn, of Rome, Georgia” and reprinted in Guy B. Johnson’s John Henry: Tracking Down a Negro Legend in 1929 (88–90). It is likely a composite version of versions heard by the unknown Mr. Blankenship rendered, perhaps thankfully, in a stiff standard English rather than a stilted dialect.

B. “John Henry.” Reported by Odum and Johnson in Negro Workaday Songs in 1926 (227–28) John Henry was a coal black man, Chicken chocolate brown; “Befo’ I let your steamer get me down, I die wid my hammer in my han’, Lawd, Lawd.” John Henry had a pretty little woman, She rode that Southbound train; She stopped in a mile of the station up there, “Let me hear John Henry’s hammer ring, Lawd, Lawd.” John Henry sittin’ on the left-hand side An’ the steam drill on the right; The rock it was so large an’ John Henry so small, He laid down his hammer an’ he cried, “Lawd, Lawd.” John Henry had a pretty little woman, Her name was Julie Ann, She walked through the lan’ with a hammer in her han’, Sayin’ “I drive steel like a man, Lawd, Lawd.”

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John Henry had a little woman, Her name was Julie Ann; John Henry took sick on his work one day, An’ Julie Ann drove steel like a man, Lawd, Lawd. John Henry had a pretty little boy, Sittin’ in de palm of his han’; He hugged an’ kissed him an’ bid him farewell, “O son, do the best you can, Lawd, Lawd.” John Henry was a little boy Sittin’ on his papa’s knee, Looked down at a big piece o’ steel, Saying, “Papa, that’ll be the death o’ me, Lawd, Lawd.” John Henry had a little woman, The dress she wore was red, She went down the track an’ never did look back, Sayin’, “I’m goin’ where John Henry fell dead, Lawd, Lawd.” John Henry had a pretty little girl, The dress she wore was blue, She followed him to the graveyard sayin’, “John Henry I’ve been true to you, Lawd, Lawd.” Note: One of a number of variants printed by Odum and Johnson, this version is notably nodal—a celebratory, nonsequential performance bouncing back and forth between episodes nonchronologically and using the beginnings of lines in a formulaic fashion that demonstrates how a single formula can generate a number of different responses or results. John Henry’s “coal-blackness” is accented here, as it is in Bradford, discussed earlier. “His woman,” here Julie Anne (and “Sally Ann” in the version by the Williamson Brothers and Curry), is rendered larger than life as she ranges across the countryside driving steel “like a man.” There is some lyric overlap with the Blankenship version, but the lyrics do not always proceed in the same direction, as is natural with different sources in the oral tradition.

C. “John Henry (The Steel Driving Man), Pt. 1.” Furry Lewis. Sept. 22, 1929 John Henry said to his captain, “Lord, a man ain’t nothin’ but a man, Before be beaten by the steel drivin’ gang, Lord, I’ll die with this hammer in my hand, hand,

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Lord, I’ll die with this hammer in my hand, I will die with this hammer in my hand. John Henry was a little boy, Sittin’ at home on his mother’s knee, Said, “That Big Jim Tunnel on that YMV, Cryin’, mama, that will be the death of me, me, Lord, mama, that will be the death of me.” Lord, they taken poor John Henry, For to help hew the mountain down, Lord, the mountain so tall, John Henry so small, ‘Til he laid down his hammer, Lord, and he cried, cried, Lord, laid down his hammer and he cried, cried. “Woman, where you get your little shoes, And the dress you wear so fine? Got my shoes from the railroad man, And my dress from the man in a mine, mine, Got my dress from a man in a mine.” John Henry had a little baby, Was just sittin’ on the palm of his hand, Cryin’, “Baby, baby, take your daddy’s advice, Don’t you never be a steel drivin’ man, man, Don’t never be a steel drivin’ man, man.” John Henry had several races, I was there when the race began, John Henry would drive down eleven solid steel, While the steel driver was drivin’ down ten, ten.

D. “John Henry (The Steel Driving Man), Pt. 2.” Furry Lewis. Sept. 22, 1929 John Henry hammered in the mountain, ‘Til the head of his hammer caught on fire, Cryin’, “Pick ’em up, boys, and let ’em down again, One cool drink of water ’fore I die, die, One cool drink of water ’fore I die, die.

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John Henry had a little woman, And the dress she wore was blue, Started down the railroad track, heard a voice hollerin’ and sayin’, “John Henry sure have been true to you, you, Poor John Henry’s sure been true to you, John Henry sure has been true to you.” “Woman, take this ring I give you, And you put it on your right hand, And when I am dead and buried, poor girl, You can give it to your other man, You can give it to your other man.” John Henry asked the boss man for a job, Boss man said, “What in the world can you do?” “I can set your track and I can line your jack, I can pick and shovel, too, too.” When the womens in the west hear of John Henry’s death, They couldn’t sleep at home in the bed, Some was dressed in white, some dressed in red, Say “I’m goin’ where John Henry fell dead, dead, Lord, I’m goin’ where John Henry fell dead.” Lord, they buried poor John Henry, And they buried him in the pits of the sand, And the people they gathered, ten thousand miles around, For the leader of his steel drivin’ gang. Note: Furry Lewis’s 1929 recording is justly famous for his guitar, vocal, and lyric artistry, and notable for its extended commentary over the length of two sides—the recording industry’s technology for recordings longer than around 3:30 was used primarily for classical music at the time. Given two sides of a 78 rpm record, Lewis touches on many of the most prominent themes in the ballad in the course of his eleven stanzas, and makes use of the repetition of the final line of the stanza that was common in performances of the song. In other versions here where that line was not repeated on the page, there may have been an interval where the melody of that line was played by an instrument, maintaining the repetitive elements on the structure of the song.

E. Hammer Song Reprinted by Newman I. White in American Negro Folk-Songs (261) This old hammer, mos’ too heavy—huh, Killed John Henry, killed ‘im dead—huh.

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F. “Spike Driver Blues.” Mississippi John Hurt. Dec. 28, 1928 Take this hammer and carry it to my captain, Tell him I’m gone, tell him I’m gone, Tell him I’m gone. Take this hammer and carry it to my captain, Tell him I’m gone, tell him I’m gone, I’m sure is gone. This is the hammer that killed John Henry, But it won’t kill me, but it won’t kill me, But it won’t kill me. This is the hammer that killed John Henry, But it won’t kill me, but it won’t kill me, Ain’t gon’ kill me. It’s a long way from East Colorado, Honey, to my home, honey, to my home, Honey, to my home. It’s a long way to East Colorado, Honey, to my home, honey, to my home, That’s why I’m goin’. John Henry, he left his hammer, Layin’ beside the road, layin’ beside the road, Layin’ beside the road. John Henry, he left his hammer, All over in red, all over in red, That’s why I’m goin’. John Henry’s a steel drivin’ boy, But he went down, but he went down, But he went down. John Henry was a steel drivin’ boy, But he went down, but he went down, That’s why I’m goin’. Note: This is one of the “hammer songs” mentioned in the introduction, very likely generated out of a smaller snatch of work song like the lines from American Negro Folk-Songs that precede it. These songs take a somewhat different attitude toward the heroic figure of John Henry. His fate has taught a lesson to the singer of the work song/hammer song—it is

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a cautionary tale that still partakes, in its own way, of John Henry’s rebellious and resistant nature.

JOHN HENRY FOLKSONG BIBLIOGRAPHY The following original sources have been consulted and checked against John Henry: A Bio-Bibliography, at which time additions and corrections were made. The final page numbers in parentheses refer to the pages on which John Henry texts and discussions appear.

Ballad Texts and Discussions, 1900–1931 Bascom, Louise Rand. “Ballads and Songs of Western North Carolina.” Journal of American Folklore 22.84 (Apr.–June 1909): 238–50 (247–49). Beckwith, Martha. Black Roadways. 1929. Rpt. New York: Negro Universities Press, 1969: 208. Combs, Josiah. Folk Songs du Midi des Etats-Unis. Paris: Les Presses Universitaires de France, 1925: 191–93. Curtis-Burlin, Natalie. Negro Folk Songs. Hampton Series, Book 4. New York: G. Schirmer, 1919: 22–27. Davis, Henry. “Negro Folk-Lore in South Carolina.” Journal of American Folklore 27.105 ( July–Sept. 1914): 241–54, 299 brief mention. Gordon, Robert W. “Old Songs That Men Have Sung.” Adventure Magazine 20 (Apr. 20, 1923): 191. Handy, W. C. Blues: An Anthology. New York: Albert and Charles Boni, 1926: 135–38. Hudson, Arthur P. Specimens of Mississippi Folk-Lore. Ann Arbor: Mississippi Folklore Society, 1928: 99. Johnson, Charles S., ed. Ebony and Topaz: A Collecteana. New York: National Urban League, 1927: 47–51. Johnson, Guy B. Tracking Down a Negro Legend. 1929. Rpt. New York: AMS Press, 1969. Kittredge, G. L. “Various Ballads.” Journal of American Folklore 26.100 (Apr.–June 1913): 174–82. (180–82 “John Hardy” mixed with “John Henry”). Lomax, John A. “Some Types of American Folk Song.” Journal of American Folklore 28.107 ( Jan.–Mar. 1915): 1–17 (13–14). Lunsford, Bascom, and Lamar Stringfield. Thirty-One Songs. New York: Carl Fisher, 1929: 32. Odum, Howard, and Guy B. Johnson. Negro Workaday Songs. 1926. Rpt. New York: Negro Universities Press, 1969: 220–40. Perrow, E. C. “Songs and Rhymes from the South.” Journal of American Folklore 26.100 (Apr.–June 1913): 123–73 (163–65). Sandburg, Carl. The American Songbag. New York: Harcourt, Brace, & World, 1927 (24–25, 362–63, 376). ———. “Songs of the Old Frontiers.” Country Gentlemen (Apr. 1927): 18, 19, 134, 135. (134).

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Scarborough, Dorothy. On the Trail of Negro Folk-Song. 1925. Rpt. Hatboro, PA: Folklore Associates, 1965 (28–22). Shearin, Hubert, and Josiah Combs. A Syllabus of Kentucky Folk-Songs. Lexington: Transylvania Printing Co., 1911 (19). Talley, Thomas. Negro Folk Rhymes. New York: MacMillan Co., 1922. (105). White, Newman I. American Negro Folk-Songs. 1928. Rpt. Hatboro, PA: Folklore Associates, 1965 (189–91, 261). Wimberly, Lowry Charles. “Steel-Drivin’ Man.” In Folk-Say: A Regional Miscellany. Ed. Benjamin A. Botkin. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1930: 413–15.

JOHN HENRY SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY, 1932–PRESENT Abbott, Lynn, and Doug Seroff. Out of Sight: The Rise of African American Popular Music, 1889–1895. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2002. Axelrod, Alan, and Harry Oster. “John Henry.” In The Penguin Dictionary of American Folklore. Ed. Axelrod and Oster. New York: Penguin, 2000. Broonzy, Big Bill. “Big Bill Talks—on Michiel De Ruyter.” Big Bill Broonzy: Amsterdam Live Concerts, 1953. Munich MRCD 275, 2006. Chappell, Louis. John Henry: A Folk-Lore Study. 1933. Rpt. New York: Kennikat Press, 1968. Cohen, Norm. Long Steel Rail: The Railroad in American Folksong. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2000. Courlander, Harold. A Treasury of Afro-American Folklore. 1976. Rpt. New York: Marlowe and Co., 1996. Dorson, Richard. “The Career of ‘John Henry.’” Western Folklore 24.3 ( July 1965): 155–63. Fishwick, Marshall. “Uncle Remus vs. John Henry: Folk Tension.” Western Folklore 20.2 (Apr. 1961): 77–85. Garst, John. “Chasing John Henry in Alabama and Mississippi.” Tributaries 5 (2002): 92–129. Green, Archie. “The Visual John Henry.” In Wobblies, Pile Butts, and Other Heroes. By Archie Green. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1993: 50–74. Grimes, William. “Taking Swings at a Myth, with John Henry the Man.” New York Times (Oct. 18, 2006): Books Section. Harris, Leon R. “That Steel Drivin’ Man.” Phylon 18.4 (1957): 402–6. Leach, MacEdward. “John Henry.” In Folklore and Society. Ed. Bruce Jackson. Hatboro, PA: Folklore Associates, 1966: 93–106. Levine, Lawrence. Black Culture and Black Consciousness: Afro-American Folk Thought from Slavery to Freedom. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977. Lightfoot, William E. “John Henry: A Bio-Bibliography.” Western Folklore 43.4 (Oct. 1984): 272–74. Lomax, Alan. The Land Where the Blues Began. London: Methuen, 1993. Mullen, Patrick B. “Henry, John.” In Encyclopedia of Folklore and Literature. Ed. Mary Ellen Brown and Bruce A. Rosenberg. Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO, 1998: 296–98. Nelson, Scott. “Who Was John Henry? Railroad Construction, Southern Folklore, and the Birth of Rock and Roll.” Labor 2.2 (Summer 2005): 53–79.

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Nelson, Scott Reynolds. Steel Drivin’ Man: John Henry, the Untold Story of an American Legend. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. Nikola-Lisa, W. “John Henry: Then and Now.” African American Review 32.1 (Spring 1998): 51–56. Porter, Jack Nusan. “John Henry and Mr. Goldberg: The Relationship between Blacks and Jews.” Journal of Ethnic Studies 7.3 (Fall 1979): 73–86. Puckett, Newbell Niles. “Names of American Negro Slaves.” In Mother Wit from the Laughing Barrel. Ed. Alan Dundes. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1972: 156–74. Williams, Brett. John Henry: A Bio-Bibliography. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1983: 179–88.

JOHN HENRY DISCOGRAPHY, 1921–1931 Note: All songs titled “John Henry” unless noted.

The following discography lists recorded versions of some manifestation of the John Henry story up until 1931, the year Roark Bradford’s novel was published. The discography was compiled from entries in Dixon, Godrich, and Rye’s Blues and Gospel Records, 1890–1943, 4th ed.; Tony Russell’s Country Music Records: A Discography, 1921–1942; and Brian Rust’s Jazz and Ragtime Records, 1897–1942 (2 vols.). The list was then checked against the discography in Brett Williams’s John Henry: A Bio-Bibliography, and updated to include references to CD reissues where available. At the end of each entry is the musician’s place of birth or primary performance center. The presence of this discography does not imply that Bradford necessarily heard any of these versions of the story. Rather, these versions are referenced in order to offer the reader a representative gathering of versions recorded before or at the time of the release of Bradford’s novel. Indeed, there are inherent problems with both folk and commercially recorded versions of the song from this time period, given both the artificial milieu of the recording studio or folk-collector recording “occasion” and the time limitations of contemporary 78 rpm discs and Library of Congress discs. Still, these recordings offer some idea of the types of lyrics and structures offered by contemporary performers. Blues/Folk De Ford Bailey. Victor 23336, 23831, 1928. Harp Blowers. Document DOCD 5164, n.d. Nashville, TN. Birmingham Jug Band. “Bill Wilson.” OKeh 8895, Dec. 11, 1930. Jaybird Coleman and the Birmingham Jug Band. Document DOCD 5140, n.d. Alabama. Austin Butler. “Nine Pound Hammer.” Library of Congress, c. 1926–1928. Darien area, GA. William Francis and Richard Sowell. “John Henry Blues.” Vocalion 1090, Feb. 28, 1927. The Great Harp Players. Document DOCD 5100, 1992.

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Mississippi John Hurt. “Spike Driver Blues.” OKeh 8692. Dec. 21, 1928. The Greatest Songsters. Document DOCD 5003, n.d. Avalon, MS. Samuel Jones. Columbia unissued, 1924. Cincinnati, OH. Furry Lewis. “John Henry (The steel driving man), Pt. 1.” Sept. 22, 1929. Complete Recorded Works. Document DOCD 5004, n.d. Memphis, TN. ———. “John Henry (The steel driving man), Pt. 2.” Sept. 22, 1929. Complete Recorded Works. Document DOCD 5004, n.d. Memphis, TN. H. B. Oliver. Library of Congress, c. 1926–1928. Darien area, GA. Henry Thomas. Vocalion 1094, June 30, 1927. Texas Worried Blues: Complete Recorded Works, 1927–1929. Yazoo 1080/1, 1989. Big Sandy, TX. The Two Poor Boys ( Joe Evans and Arthur McClain). “John Henry Blues, Tk. 1.” Perfect 181, c. July 25, 1927. The Two Poor Boys. Document DOCD 5044, n.d. Birmingham, AL. Unknown laborer. Milton Metfessel phonophotographic recording, mid-1925. North Carolina or Virginia. A. Wilson. Library of Congress, c. Apr. 15, 1926. Darien area, GA.

Jazz Harlem Harmony Kings. “John Henry Blues.” Paramount 12003, c. April 1921. Harlem, NY (?). Novelty Blue Boys. “John Henry Blues.” Grey Gull 1465, c. June 1927. New York.

Country Green Bailey. “If I Die a Railroad Man.” Gennett 6732, Dec. 1, 1928. Ted Chestnut and Green Bailey. Juneberry CD 15072, n.d. Fiddlin’ John Carson. “John Henry Blues.” OKeh 7004, Mar./Apr. 1924. Complete Recorded Works, Vol. 1. Document DOCD 8014, 1998. Atlanta, GA. Fruit Jar Guzzlers (Stevens and Bolar). “Steel Driving Man.” Paramount 3121, c. March 1928. Gentry Brothers. “John Henry Blues.” Plaza unissued. June 15, 1927. Grant Brothers. “If I Die a Railroad Man.” Victor 21406, Feb. 18, 1928. ———. “If I Die a Railroad Man,” Tk 2. Unissued. Feb. 18, 1928. The Railroad in Folksong. RCA LPV532, n.d; RD7870, n.d. (LP reissues). Harkreader and Moore (Sid Harkreader). Paramount 3023, June 1927. Nashville, TN. Earl Johnson. “John Henry Blues.” OKeh 45101, Mar. 23, 1927. Complete Recorded Works, Vol. 1. Document 8005, 1997. G. B. Grayson and Henry Whitter. “John Henry The Steel Driving Man.” Gennett rejected, early October 1927. Ashe County, NC/Grayson County, VA. ———. “The Nine-Pound Hammer.” Victor V-40105, July 31, 1928. Complete Recorded Works, Vol. 2. Document 8055, 1999. Earl McCoy, Alfred Meng, and Clem Garner. “John Henry The Steel Drivin’ Man.” Columbia 15622-D, Apr. 23, 1930. Mountain Blues, 1926–1938. JSP 7740, 2005. Georgia.

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Uncle Dave Macon. “Death of John Henry (Steel Driving Man).” Vocalion 15320, Apr. 14, 1926. Classic Sides 1924–1938. JSP 7729, 2004. Warren County, TN. Riley Puckett. “The Darkey’s Wail.” Columbia 15163-D, Apr. 2, 1927. Country Slide. Acrobat 242, n.d. Alpharetta, GA. Hugh Shearer. Gennett unissued trial recording, Aug. 1, 1931. Ernest Stoneman. Edison 51869, June 21, 1926. Monarat, VA. Gid Tanner. Columbia 15019-D, Sept. 12, 1924. Thomas Bridge, GA. Gid Tanner and His Skillet Lickers. “John Henry (The Steel Drivin’ Man).” Columbia 15142D, Mar. 29, 1927. Welby Toomey. “The Death of John Henry.” Gennett 6005, c. October, 1926. The Williamson Brothers and Curry. “Gonna Die With My Hammer In My Hand.” OKeh 45127, Apr. 26, 1927. Old Time Music from West Virginia. Document 8004, 1997. Logan County, WV.

ROARK BRADFORD SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY Primary Materials Northwestern State University of Louisiana Libraries maintains a Roark Bradford Collection that includes letters, clippings, photos, and selected writings by Bradford and his sister Mary B. Alexander, as well as a 1931 thesis that deals in part with Bradford’s works. Bradford, Roark. The Green Roller. New York and London: Harper, 1949. ———. How Come Christmas: A Modern Morality. New York and London: Harper, 1930. ———. John Henry. New York and London: Harper, 1931. ———. John Henry [play]. New York and London: Harper, 1939. ———. “John Henry (what a man!).” Cosmopolitan (Dec. 1930): 32–35, 148. ———. “John Henry (what a man!).” Cosmopolitan ( Jan. 1931): 72–75, 137–38. ———. “John Henry (what a man!).” Cosmopolitan (Mar. 1931): 56–58, 108, 110, 112. ———. Kingdom Coming. New York and London: Harper, 1933. ———. Let the Band Play Dixie and Other Stories. New York and London: Harper, 1934. ———. Ol’ King David an’ the Philistine Boys. New York and London: Harper, 1930. ———. Ol’ Man Adam an’ His Chillun: Being the Tales They Tell about the Time When the Lord Walked the Earth Like a Natural Man. New York and London: Harper, 1928. ———. “Roustabouts and Razorbacks.” Saturday Evening Post 201 (Aug. 17, 1929): 10–11, 136, 139. ———. This Side of Jordan. New York and London: Harper, 1929. ———. The Three-Headed Angel. New York and London: Harper, 1937.

Secondary Materials Anon. “About This Book.” In Uncle Tom’s Children. New York: Penguin, 1947: 1. Brown, Sterling. “Concerning Negro Drama.” Opportunity 9 (Sept. 1931): 284, 288. ———. “From the Inside.” The Nation 146 (Apr. 16, 1938): 448.

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———. “Kingdom Coming.” Opportunity 11 (Dec. 1933): 382–83. ———. “The Literary Scene: Chronicle and Comment.” Opportunity 9 ( Jan. 1931): 20. ———. Negro Poetry and Drama and The Negro in American Fiction. 1937. Rpt. New York: Atheneum, 1972. ———. “The Point of View.” Opportunity 9 (Nov. 1931): 347, 350. ———. “Poor Whites.” Opportunity 9 (Oct. 1931): 317, 320. Davis, Thadious M. Nella Larsen, Novelist of the Harlem Renaissance. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1994. Duberman, Martin. Paul Robeson: A Biography. New York: New Press, 1989. Gabbin, Joanne V. Sterling A. Brown: Building the Black Aesthetic Tradition. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1985. Garst, John. “Chasing John Henry in Alabama and Mississippi: A Personal Memoir of Work in Progress.” Tributaries: Journal of the Alabama Folklife Association 5 (2002): 92–129. Hall, Wade B. “Roark Bradford.” Dictionary of Literary Biography 86: American Short Story Writers, 1910–1945, First Series. Detroit: Thomson Gale, 1989: 43–48. Hemenway, Robert E. Zora Neale Hurston: A Literary Biography. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1977. Hutchinson, George. In Search of Nella Larsen. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 2006. Johnson, Charles S., ed. Ebony and Topaz: A Collecteana. New York: Opportunity, 1927. Kaplan, Carla. Zora Neale Hurston: A Life in Letters. New York: Doubleday, 2002. Kinnamon, Keneth, et al. A Richard Wright Bibliography. New York: Greenwood Press, 1988. Lowe, John. Jump at the Sun: Zora Neale Hurston’s Cosmic Comedy. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1994. North, Michael. The Dialect of Modernism: Race, Language, and Twentieth Century Literature. New York: Oxford University Press, 1994. “O. Henry Award Winners.” Available: http://www.randomhouse.com/boldtype/ohenry/ 0999/winnerslist.html. “Roark Bradford.” The Tennessee Encyclopedia of History and Culture. Online edition. 2002. Simpson, Lewis P. “Roark Bradford.” A Bibliographical Guide to the Study of Southern Literature. Ed. Louis D. Rubin, Jr. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1969: 159–60. Stibbs, John H. “Roark Bradford at Tulane.” The South Central Bulletin 7.3 ( June 1947): 3. Wagner, Jean. Black Poets of the United States. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1973. Wald, Elijah. Josh White: Society Blues. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2000. White, Walter. “The Negro on the American Stage.” English Journal 24.3 (Mar. 1935): 179–88. Wintz, Cary. The Harlem Renaissance, 1920–1940. Vol. 4: The Critics and the Harlem Renaissance. New York: Garland, 1996.

Reviews of John Henry the Novel “Among Our Books.” Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh 36.9 (Nov. 1931): 75. Basso, Hamilton. “Black Beowulf.” New Republic (Sept. 30, 1931): 186–87. Daniels, Jonathan. “Sampson.” Saturday Review of Literature 8.9 (Sept. 19, 1931): 131.

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Hutchinson, Percy. “John Henry, Mighty Man of the Roustabouts.” New York Times (Sept. 6, 1931): 4. Johnson, Guy B. “A Mighty Legend.” Nation 133 (Oct. 7, 1931): 367. Kellogg, Frances Loeb. “Review of John Henry.” The Survey 67.3 (Nov. 1, 1931): 150. Locke, Alain. “This Year of Grace.” Opportunity 9 (Feb. 1931): 48–51. ———. “We Turn to Prose.” Opportunity 10 (Feb. 1932): 40–44. “More Negro Legend.” Springfield Republican (Sept. 6, 1931): 7e. “Review of John Henry.” Book-List 28 (1931): 60. “Review of John Henry.” Wisconsin Library Bulletin 27 (Nov. 1931): 255. Rourke, Constance. “A Myth Comes Into Its Own.” New York Herald Tribune Books (Sept. 6, 1931): 1–2. Wharton, Don. “Review of John Henry.” Outlook and Independent 159.3 (Sept. 16, 1931): 89.

Reviews of John Henry the Play Eaton, W. P. “Review of John Henry.” Book-List 36.10 (Feb. 1, 1940): 211. Gilder, Rosamond. “Broadway in Review.” Theatre Arts 24 (Mar. 1940): 166–67. Nathan, George Jean. “In The Black and The Red.” Newsweek ( Jan. 22, 1940): 33. “Review of John Henry.” Books (Feb. 25, 1940): 21. “Review of John Henry.” Boston Transcript ( Jan. 13, 1940): 1. “Review of John Henry.” Catholic World 150 (Feb. 1940): 598–99. “Review of John Henry.” Colliers 105 ( Jan. 13, 1940): 15–16. “Review of John Henry.” Time ( Jan. 22, 1940): 49–50.

ROARK WHITNEY WICKLIFFE BRADFORD CHRONOLOGY 1896

1917

1920 1921 1924 1926 1927

August 21, born in Lauderdale County, Tennessee, to Richard Clarence and Adelaide Tillman Bradford on the family’s cotton plantation in the Nankipoo– Knob Creek area. Educated at home and in local public schools. Volunteers for military service in the U.S. Army and serves in the Panama Canal Zone as an artillery officer; later serves at the Mississippi Agricultural and Mechanical College teaching military science and tactics; receives an LL.B degree from the University of California. March, discharged from military service; works as a reporter for the Atlanta Georgian and the Macon Telegraph until 1922. Makes a conscious decision to become a professional writer. Relocates to New Orleans, employed by the Lafayette Advertiser before he becomes a staff member of the New Orleans Times-Picayune. Leaves newspaper work to concentrate on writing fiction. His second published story, “Child of God,” printed in Harper’s Magazine in April 1927, wins O. Henry Award; “Tricker,” Bradford’s first published story in

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1931 1933

1934 1935 1936 1937 1939 1940

1942 1943 1946 1948 1949 1951

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Collier’s Magazine December 31, initiates a run of more than 100 stories in that magazine. Ol’ Man Adam an’ His Chillun; wins O. Henry Award for “River Witch,” published in Forum in November 1927. This Side of Jordan. Ol’ King David an’ the Philistine Boys; How Come Christmas: A Modern Morality; wins the O. Henry Award for “Careless Love,” published in Collier’s Weekly January 4, 1930; Marc Connelly adapts Ol’ Man Adam an’ His Chillun into Broadway play The Green Pastures, which staged 640 New York performances from February 26 through August 29 and five national tours, winning the 1930 Pulitzer Prize; play is banned by Lord Chamberlain in Great Britain. John Henry (novel). Kingdom Coming; Langston Hughes writes to Carl Van Vechten that he has received no response from Bradford with regard to support for the Scottsboro Boys. Let the Band Play Dixie and Other Stories. February 26 to April 27 revival of Green Pastures. Film Green Pastures is released. The Three-Headed Angel. John Henry (play). January 10–January 15 Broadway staging of John Henry at the 44th Street Theatre with Paul Robeson in the title role and music by Jacques Wolfe; critically panned, it closes after seven performances. Lieutenant Bradford assigned to the Bureau of Aeronautics Training of the United States Naval Reserve. Contracts amoebiasis (infection/inflammation of the intestines caused by infestation of amoebae) in Africa. Discharged from the Navy; serves as visiting “consultant in creative writing” in the English department of Tulane University. November 13, dies in New Orleans. Green Roller; “Low-Down Cotton,” Bradford’s last story to appear in Collier’s Magazine. March 15 through April 21, Green Pastures revival.

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PART I

JOHN HENRY: A NOVEL

He went to the East and he went to the West And I reckon he went all around. He went to the river and he got baptized, So they laid him in the burying-ground, Lord, Lord, ’Cause he died with his hook in his hand.

THE BIRTH OF JOHN HENRY Now John Henry was a man, but he’s long dead. The night John Henry was born the moon was copper-colored and the sky was black. The stars wouldn’t shine and the rain fell hard. Forked lightning cleaved the air and the earth trembled like a leaf. The panthers squalled in the brake like a baby and the Mississippi River ran upstream a thousand miles. John Henry weighed forty-four pounds. John Henry was born on the banks of the Black River, where all good rousterbouts come from. He came into the world with a cotton-hook for a right hand and a river song on his tongue: “Looked up and down de river, Twice as far as I could see. Seed befo’ I gits to be twenty-one, De Anchot Line gonter b’long to me, Lawd, Lawd, Anchor Line gonter b’long to me.” They didn’t know what to make of John Henry when he was born. They looked at him and then went and looked at the river. “He got a bass voice like a preacher,” his mamma said. “He got shoulders like a cotton-rollin’ rousterbout,” his papa said. “He got blue gums like a conjure man,” the nurse woman said. “I might preach some,” said John Henry, “but I ain’t gonter be no preacher. I might roll cotton on de boats, but I ain’t gonter be no cotton-rollin’ rousterbout. I might got blue gums like a conjure man, but I ain’t gonter git familiar wid de sperits. ’Cause my name is John Henry, and when fo’ks call me by my name, dey’ll know I’m a natchal man.” “His name is John Henry,” said his mamma. “Hit’s a fack.” “And when you calls him by his name,” said his papa, “he’s a natchal man.” So about that time John Henry raised up and stretched. “Well,” he said, “ain’t hit about supper-time?” “Sho hit’s about supper-time,” said his mamma. “And after,” said his papa. “And long after,” said the nurse woman. “Well,” said John Henry, “did de dogs had they supper?” “They did,” said his mamma. “All de dogs,” said his papa. “Long since,” said the nurse woman.

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“Well, den,” said John Henry, “ain’t I as good as de dogs?” And when John Henry said that he got mad. He reared back in his bed and broke out the slats. He opened his mouth and yowled, and it put out the lamp. He cleaved his tongue and spat, and it put out the fire. “Don’t make me mad!” said John Henry, and the thunder rumbled and rolled. “Don’t let me git mad on de day I’m bawn, ’cause I’m skeered of my ownse’f when I gits mad.” And John Henry stood up in the middle of the floor and he told them what he wanted to eat. “Bring me four ham bones and a pot full of cabbages,” he said. “Bring me a bait of turnip greens tree-top tall, and season hit down wid a side er middlin’. Bring me a pone er cold cawn bread and some hot potlicker to wash hit down. Bring me two hog jowls and a kittleful er whippowill peas. Bring me a skilletful er red-hot biscuits and a big jugful er cane molasses. ’Cause my name is John Henry, and I’ll see you soon.” So John Henry walked out of the house and away from the Black River country where all good rousterbouts are born.

COONJINE Cotton was piled a mile high on the levee, both ways twice as far as you could see, the fall John Henry took to the river. He hadn’t meant to take to the river, but the old woman told him, she said, “John Henry, you’s a man, but yo’ home ain’t hyar.” “Well,” says John Henry, “I b’lieve I’ll be gittin’ around. I got a eetch on my heel and a run-around on my weary mind. I got to scratch my feet on strange ground and rest my weary mind on a strange pillow. So fix up my bundle, old woman, and gimme my hat. ’Cause I’m fixin’ to git around some.” So the old woman got his bundle and his hat. “Whar you bound to, John Henry?” she asked him. “You’s a man of movements, but livin’ is hard. Whar you bound to, son?” “I’m bound, all right,” said John Henry, “but I ain’t made up my mind whar. I might be bound to Memphis, and I might be bound to Natchez. But f ’m what de song say, I’m a windin’ ball and bound to N’Awlins.” And he stood up and sang the song: “Backed up to Memphis and she turned around. Run right by Natchez but she didn’t slow down— She give a long, keen whistle, sweet thing, ’Cause she’s N’Awlins bound!” “Dar, now!” said the old woman. “Got a steamboatin’ song already, son, and you ain’t started to gittin’ around yit! Listen at me, John Henry. N’Awlins is too

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far to wawk to, and you ain’t got no wings. But de steamboats has tuck many a good nigger down de river, and dey ain’t never brang one back. So jest mind out!” John Henry went to the landing where the cotton was piled a mile high. A hundred steamboats had their stages down, and a hundred niggers were rolling cotton on every steamboat. A hundred mates were cussing and a hundred drivers were bawling for the niggers to roll that cotton down. But the faster the niggers rolled, the more cotton piled up from the gins. And the more niggers that got on the stage, the more the stage would swing and spring, until they could hardly walk it down. But the driver yowled louder for more cotton, and the niggers rolled faster and sang louder: “Grab dat bale and make hit roll, Down dat gang-plank, damn my soul!” So John Henry climbed up on top of the cotton and watched. “Look like dem bullies is workin’ hard,” he said. “And hit look like dey’s singin’ hard. But de cotton pile higher, and de plank weave and wave.” So about that time the driver of the Big Jim White spied John Henry sitting a mile high on top of the cotton. “Hey, you, boy!” said the driver. “Dat ain’t no way to roll cotton! Settin’ on hit like a turkey buzzard on de aigs. Cotton is comin’ in fast enough, widout you up dar hatchin’ more out.” “When you tawk to me,” said John Henry, “call me by my name. My name is John Henry; and my home ain’t hyar.” “Well, John Henry,” said the driver, “my name is Copperhaid, and I’m de hecoon on de Big Jim White. And hit takes a natchal man to roll cotton for me!” “Efn I ain’t a natchal man,” said John Henry, “you show me a natchal man, and I’ll mock him.” “Well, roll hit, den,” said the driver. “Roll dat cotton like a natchal man!” So John Henry got down and started to roll. “Two men to de bale,” said the driver. “A bale weighs five hund’ed pounds, and hit takes two men to swing hit.” So a big nigger named Sam got with John Henry, and they started to roll. But when Sam and John Henry and that five-hundred-pound bale of cotton all three got on the stage, it started to pitch and swing like a tree in a storm. “Uh-uhh!” said John Henry. “Somethin’ wrong dis time. When I’m on de solid ground, I’m a man and you can’t stop me. But on dis hyar jumpy gangplank, I ain’t got no place to set my strenk. Keeps all er my strenk busy to keep f ’m gittin’ bucked offn dis plank, let alone to roll de cotton.” “Ain’t nothin’ wrong wid de plank,” said Sam. “ ’Cause dat’s de way hit’s made— long and springy. And hit ain’t nothin’ de matter wid de cotton, ’cause dat’s de way

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hit’s baled—weighin’ five hund’ed pounds. So efn hit’s somethin’ wrong, hit must be wid you.” Well, that made John Henry mad! “Git away f ’m dis cotton, Sam!” he said. “Git away, ’cause I’m gittin’ mad.” And when he said that he got so mad he couldn’t see! So he picked Sam up and chunked him off the plank like a feather in the wind. Then he got down and laid his shoulders against the bale and heaved. And the bale rolled! “Look at that big nigger roll cotton,” said the mate. “He’s a bully and you can’t stop him!” But every time the bale rolled, the plank swung and pitched. And every time the plank weaved, John Henry couldn’t place his feet to get his strength behind the bale again. “Now, I’m done got mad!” said John Henry. “I’m a man wid strenk, but I can’t use hit. ’Cause ev’y time I gits ready to git set, dis plank bucks me out er place. And dat makes me mad! Now git out er my way, you bullies! ’Cause me and dis cotton goin’ round and round!” And while everybody was looking, John Henry backed his back up against that bale of cotton, and he caught it with his fingers like a cotton hook, and he heaved! And that John Henry—that big black man from the Black River country—heaved that five-hundred-pound bale of cotton squarely on his shoulders and started to walk! “Wrassle dat cotton, son!” said the driver. “You’s a cotton-rollin’ man on de Big Jim White, so wrassle dat cotton down. Hit’s cotton and you’s nigger. So wrassle hit down, son!” And John Henry took one step! “Wawk away, John Henry!” said the driver. “Wawk away wid dat cotton!” And John Henry walked! “Look at that big nigger walk with that cotton,” said the mate. “Yeah, but look at dat stage heave and pitch under his foots,” said the driver. “Mind out, John Henry. Dat plank is a solid hund’ed-feet long, and she spring like a willow tree! Mind out, John Henry, or dat plank will spring you off !” “Let de plank spring,” said John Henry, “and I’ll spring right back at hit. Let hit buck like a bull, and I’ll buck like two bulls! Let hit jump like a high-land frog, and I’ll jump like a pant’er in de brake! Let hit weave like a willow tree, and I’ll weave like a feather bed! ’Cause I’m John Henry, and I aims to be gittin’ around.” And so John Henry got a spring in his knees, and a weave in his hips, and a buck in his back, and the stage couldn’t do him a thing! “Look at dat bully swing along!” said the driver. “Hey, you niggers! Jine dat step. Roll yo’ cotton, but jine dat tread!” “Jine it, you coon, jine it!” said the mate. “Grab your cotton and jine that step!” So the niggers watched John Henry until they caught his weaving step, and then they started rolling their cotton down the plank, springing and bucking right

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back at the plank! And the first thing they knew, they had made up a song to roll cotton by: “Jine dat coonjine, roll dat bale! Jine dat coonjine, down de hill! Gimme little coonjine, coonjine, coonjine, Gimme little coonjine, please ma’am. Ain’t had none in a long time!” So with John Henry toting and all the other niggers rolling, and everybody coonjining and singing, the Big Jim White loaded on ten thousand bales of cotton that day and dragged it every bit down the river. “Biggest load of cotton we ever dragged,” said the mate. “Cotton-rollinest niggers I ever drive,” said the driver. “ ’Cause dey learnt how to coonjine from old John Henry, dat coonjinin’ fool!”

THE BLACK RIVER COUNTRY Hog meat was high. Too high for the people to eat. They could get all the turnip greens they wanted from the garden. They could lift a head of cabbage at the market, and nobody would mind. And anybody would give them a handful of whippoorwill peas. But who can eat turnip greens without a piece of middlin’ meat to cook them down with? What good is a head of cabbage if you haven’t got a ham shank to boil along in the pot? And a dog wouldn’t eat whippoorwill peas that wasn’t simmered with a hog jowl, let alone a man. So the old captain of the Big Jim White heard the news, and he decided that the people ought to have a heap of hogs. But he didn’t know what to do about it, so he asked the mate. And the mate didn’t know, so he asked the driver. “Hit’s a rousterbout named John Henry,” said the driver, “which go about singin’ a hog song. But I can’t tell what he means.” So they sent for John Henry and told him to sing his hog song. So he sang it: “Hog-eye gal name Lulu Bell, Hog-eye gal name Mabel. Hair on her haid like a hoss’s mane, And mouf as big as a table.” “Where’d you come from, John Henry?” said the captain. “I comed f ’m de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine,” said John Henry. “Whar all de good rousterbouts comes f ’m,” said the mate.

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“Any hogs in the Black River country?” said the captain. “Must be,” said John Henry, “or else how come me singin’ dat hog song?” So the captain turned to the mate and said, “Hoist your stage, you mate!” And he turned to the pilot and said, “Blow your whistle, you pilot!” And he turned to the engineer and said, “Twist her tail, you engineer! ’Cause we’re going hog-hauling so the people can eat! We’re going to the Black River country where the sun don’t never shine!” Hogs run wild in the Black River country. Wild and tall. When the Black River people want a side of middlin’ or a ham shank or a jowl, they set their dogs in the woods and the dogs run the hogs into a pen. Sometimes the people kill the tall, wild hogs, and sometimes the tall, wild hogs kill the people. If the people kill the hogs they have meat. If the hogs kill the people, they don’t need any meat. It is the way they do in the Black River country where the hogs grow high and wild, with razor-sharp backs and tusks like a knitting-needle. They are bad hogs, but they make good meat. So the captain landed the Big Jim White in the Black River country and asked the people if they had any hogs. “No hogs,” said the Black River people. “But we’ve got dogs and pens and the woods is full of hogs.” “Can’t the dogs run the hogs on the steamboat?” asked the mate. “No,” said the people. “They run the hogs into the pens. It is the best our dogs will do.” “We might build a runway from the pens to the boat,” said the captain, “but who is going to run the hogs down the runway?” “Put de hogs in de pen,” said the driver. “Since I been de he-coon on de Big Jim White, I ain’t never seed nothin’ yit my rousters couldn’t roust efn they kin git they hands on hit.” So the dogs ran the hogs into the pen. “There they are,” said the Black River people. “In a pen six feet tall. It’s the best our dogs will do.” “Dat’s aplenty,” said the driver. “Now ev’ybody jest stand back and gimme plenty room.” So everybody stood back, and the driver stood up tall and bellered: “Come on, you rousters! Gimme dem hogs! We been hyar too long now, and we ain’t gone yit! Gimme dem hogs on de Big Jim White, so’s we kin shake our tail on down de line! Hit dat plank, you bullies, and load dis steamboat down! ’Cause I’m de old he-coon on de Big Jim White, and I’m shoutin’ workin’ news!” Well, when the rousters heard the driver beller and bawl like that, they swarmed around the hog-pen like flies in molasses. One rouster got an ear of corn and tried to toll a big hog down to the boat. But as soon as the big hog got clear of the pen he made a break for the big woods. “Good-by, hog,” said the rousterbout. “Go find yo’ new-found home.”

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Another rouster grabbed a hog by the hind leg and tried to drag him on the boat. But the big Black River hog kicked just one time, and he kicked that rousterbout from the hog-pen clear to the main deck! “Dat ain’t no hog,” said the rouster. “Dat’s a mule. Or else he got mule blood in his heart.” So another rouster grabbed a hog by the ear, but the hog slobbered and whetted his tusks and all at once he reached up and nearly bit the poor boy’s arm off ! “Whyn’t I stay in de sawmill?” said the poor rouster. “I thought a band saw was bad. But dis hog done ruint me sho’!” “Gimme dem hogs, you bullies,” yelled the driver. “We been hyar too long and we can’t stay all day. Grab dem hogs and trot along. What kind er rousters is y’all niggers? Gimme dem hogs and le’s git goin’! ’Cause business is better down de line!” “Hold on,” said the captain. “Them niggers can’t handle them tall, wild hogs!” “A good rouster,” said the driver, “is jue’ to handle anything he kin git his hands on. But dem niggers ain’t good rousters. Dey had ought to be plowin’ cotton right now.” “I wisht I was,” said the rouster that got kicked. “Or else,” said the one that got bit, “I wisht I was settin’ blocks in a mean old sawmill some-whar.” “John Henry,” said the driver, “what do you wisht you was doin’? You’s f ’m de Black River country whar de good rousterbouts come f ’m, so tell me what you wisht you was doin’.” “Me,” said John Henry, “I wisht I was gittin’ around. But hit ain’t no way to git around to all dese hogs is on de boat. So stand back, you babies, and watch old John Henry roust dese hogs. I’m f ’m de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine! So stand back, you field hands, whilst I rousts dese hogs outn de pen! Line up, you bullies, and make yo’ shoulders bare! ’Cause when I h’ists dese hogs outn de pen, you gonter think hit’s rainin’ hogs on yo’ weary back. Line up, you clodhoppers and git ready to wawk away. ’Cause my name is John Henry and I’m six foot tall!” Then John Henry quit his big-talk and circled the pen seven times. Then he got down on his all-fours and circled it seven times more. Then he crept into the pen and lay down on the ground. “Look like a big boar shote,” said a rousterbout. “Don’t make no fuss,” said John Henry, “ ’cause I’m handlin’ dese hogs. You fight a hog and he fight back. You friend a hog and he friend back. So line up, you bullies, and git yo’ shoulders bare!” So John Henry eased along on his all-fours until he got to the biggest boar shote in the pen. “Oonk!” said John Henry to the boar shote. “Oonk! Oonk!” said the boar shote to John Henry.

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“Oomp!” said John Henry. “Oomp! Oomp!” said the boar shote. “Well, dat’s de way I likes to hyar a hog tawk to John Henry,” he said. And before that big boar shote knew what was happening, John Henry had done flipped him flat on his back and hoisted him over the pen and on the shoulders of a big rousterbout named Sam! “Now, grab him and wawk!” said John Henry. “Tote him like a sack er meal!” The rouster named Sam walked, and another and another, until the first thing anybody knew there were a hundred rousters walking up and down the plank, toting those big, wild Black River hogs on their shoulders! And before sundown there were ten thousand hogs on the Big Jim White! “I’m loaded down,” said the captain, “so hoist your plank, you mate, and blow your whistle, you pilot, and pull her tail, you engineer. We’ll take these hogs down the line so the people can eat.” “And all on account er big John Henry,” said the driver. “He got his hands on dem Black River hogs, and he rousted ’em down de line. And dat makes him a good rouster ’cause he’s f ’m de Black River country whar all de good rousters come f ’m.” “I’m f ’m de Black River country,” said John Henry, “and I kin roust what I kin git my hands on. But dat don’t make me no rouster. I’m f ’m de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine. My home ain’t hyar, and I’m fixin’ to git around. “So h’ist dat plank, you bullies, And mash dat whistle down! So pull her tail, you engineer, And watch me git around!”

BEND YOUR BACK AND SING It was the year of the big cotton crop when the price was low that John Henry came to the Bends. The stalks were high and white and the fields looked like snow on the mountain-top. The whiter the fields got the more niggers the boss man sent to the field and the more niggers the boss man sent to the field the whiter the fields got. “If you niggers don’t pick this cotton out,” the boss man told them, “it will drop out of the bolls and rot on the ground. Come on, you niggers! Snatch that cotton and sack it. It’s not worth but eleven cents a pound and we need every lock of it! Pick cotton, black folks! Pick white cotton!” “Pickin’ all de time, Cap’m; you jest can’t see me,” said the niggers. And they leaned against the cotton like a breeze in the tree. But the field stayed white and the sacks wouldn’t fill.

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“I picks to my fingers bleeds at de knuckles,” said a cotton-picking man. “I works to my back aches like a pain. But I jest can’t git dis cotton picked out clean.” “De bolls bust open right in my face,” said another man, “and de locks drop out and rot on de ground. But I’m workin’ as hard as I kin.” “Never mind the talking,” said the boss man. “Your job is to pick. Cotton don’t bring but eleven cents, and it’s dropping all the time. If we don’t get eleven cents for every lock of this cotton we can’t pay out this fall. If it goes to ten cents before we get it picked out, we’ll all go to the poorhouse. Now come on, you niggers! Snatch it, and snatch it clean! You can’t hardly sell clean cotton, let alone all the bolls and stalks you’re grabbing. Bend your backs and snatch cotton!” So the niggers bent their backs and snatched hard, but the cotton hung to the bolls and wouldn’t come out clean. The boss man watched them bend their backs and snatch cotton, and he saw he wasn’t getting anywhere. So he said: “Throw down, you niggers! Throw down your sacks, because we can’t get this cotton out this fall, and we can’t pay out. So throw down your sacks and line up. We’ll turn the cows in this cotton, and give the field to the sheriff, and we’ll all go marching up to the poorhouse door! So throw down your sacks, you bullies, and line up!” “Wait a minute, Cap’m!” It was John Henry, and he was six feet tall the day he said it. “Cows don’t want dis cotton and de sheriff don’t want dis land. Eleven-cent cotton will pay us out, but hit won’t he’p de cows. And de sheriff ain’t gonter git no good outn dis field.” “Neither is anybody else,” said the boss man. “The cotton is dropping and the niggers can’t keep up. They bend their backs and work hard as they can and don’t get nowhere; I’m going to make them throw down and quit. I won’t drive my niggers. So get your bundle, boy, and line up for the poorhouse. Because we can’t pay out this fall.” “Dat’s de trouble, Cap’m,” said John Henry. “Dem niggers is workin’ but dey ain’t pickin’ cotton. Hit’s all right to work when hit’s work to be done, but when hit’s cotton to be picked, well, you ought to forgit de work and go to pickin’.” “Big boy,” said a field hand, “efn you don’t think cotton-pickin’ is work, well, jest bend yo’ back and snatch. Look at my poor hands whar de bolls gnawed down to de bone! I snatches white cotton outn de bolls, but befo’ I gits hit in de sack hit’s turned red wid de blood from my poor knuckles. And when you do like dat, John Henry, well, dat’s pyore work.” So John Henry stood up straight and laughed. “Listen at me, you bullies,” he said. “Listen at John Henry show you somethin’ which don’t nobody but me know, and I’ll show you how to pick cotton.” So John Henry got him a sack and swung it to his left shoulder, and he got another sack and swung it to his right shoulder. “Now, line up, you niggers and watch me,” he said. “Line up and watch John Henry.”

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So all the niggers lined up and John Henry showed them. “Hold yo’ fingers a little bent and let yo’ hands pass by de bolls. Efn they’s nigger blood in yo’ fingers de cotton will stick and follow. But you won’t be gittin’ nowheres.” And he passed his hands over the bolls and the cotton followed his fingers, but it fell to the ground. “You got to cup yo’ hands to ketch hit, and move twarge de sack, all de same time,” he said. “Not fast; jest slow and stiddy.” And he showed them how. “But efn you straighten up and bend over, ev’y time you picks a boll,” John Henry told them, “you’ back will weary you down. So you got to bend yo’ back and keep hit bent.” And he showed them that, too, and the cotton fairly jumped from the bolls and rode his hands to the sack. “Now you niggers git at dis cotton like I showed you,” he said, “and we’ll all pay out dis fall.” So the niggers lined up and went at the cotton. And the locks stuck to their fingers and rode in their hands to the sacks. “Dis ain’t hardly no trouble a-tall,” said one cotton-picking man. “Not at first,” said another man, “but efn you holds yo’ back bent so long, hit’s gonter git mighty weary. And de more cotton you puts in de sack, well, de harder de sack gonter bear down on yo’ shoulder. I know my back gonter git mighty tired befo’ all er dis cotton is picked.” So he sung himself a little weary song: “Oh, my back hit hurt me so bad, darlin’, ’Cause dis cotton bears down so hard on me—” “And dat’s de trouble,” said John Henry. “You niggers is pickin’ weary cotton, and you’ll be burnt out in no time. ’Cause hit’s hard enough to pick cotton wid yo’ hands. But when you starts pickin’ wid yo’ hands and yo’ minds bofe, well, I couldn’t hardly do dat, and I’m John Henry. “Now, what y’all bullies got to do is pick cotton wid yo’ hands and do some yuther somethin’ wid yo’ minds. Now ev’ybody watch me and jine in de chorus!” So he sang: “Sell my cotton, Drink my cawn, ’n’ Haul my ashes Ev’y mawnin’, ’Cause dis— “Now, ev’ybody jine in on de chorus,” he said, and they did: “Cotton want pickin’ so bad, Cotton want pickin’ so bad,

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Cotton want pickin’ so bad— O Lawd, what shall I do?” Well, the niggers got to singing and got their weary minds off the cotton-picking. And the first thing anybody knew they had eleven-cent cotton piled tree-top high at the gin, and everybody paid out that fall! And all the niggers knew that John Henry was a man!

ROLL, YOU WHEELERS John Henry was getting around during the time when old man Billie Bob Russell was building the Yellow Dog Railroad from Yazoo City through the Delta. “I’m building me a railroad a thousand miles long,” said old man Billie Bob Russell. “I’m buying me a thousand mules and hiring me a thousand niggers, and I’ll have me a railroad when the sun goes down.” So he bought the mules and hired the niggers, and then he hired a walking boss. “Keep my niggers turning, you walking boss,” old man Billie Bob Russell said. “A thousand miles is a long piece, and you’ve got to keep the niggers turning to do it.” “I’ll keep ’em turnin’, ” the walking boss said. “I’ll keep ’em turnin’ f ’m can to can’t. I’ll drive ’em to de sun goes down. Niggers and mules.” “Mind out for my mules,” old man Billie Bob Russell said. “A mule costs a hundred dollars, and a nigger is free for the hiring. If a nigger gets too hot, give him his time and hire another. But if a mule gets too hot he gets off his feed and collar galls come on his shoulders. So don’t you waste no hundred-dollar mule in that sunshine, you straw boss. You shade my mules when the sun shines hot, and keep my niggers turning.” So that is the way it was when John Henry came to the Yellow Dog Railroad camp. The sun was hot and the mules were in the shade. The niggers were working on the dump, singing that water-roo song: “Water-roo, water-roo, bring yo’ water ‘round. Efn you ain’t got no water, set yo’ bucket down!” The niggers had been on that dump since before sunup and they wouldn’t get to leave until the sun went down. But the dump was too short and not high enough to build the Yellow Dog Railroad on. And although there were a thousand niggers in the sun and a thousand mules in the shade, the Yellow Dog Railroad wasn’t started! So John Henry went to the shade and looked at the mules. They were skinny and off their feed. He pulled up their collars and saw big heat galls on their shoulders. And then he went to the mule-pen to catch himself a team of mules.

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“How come hit ain’t no mule wid his shoulder well?” John Henry asked the stable boss. “ ’Cause when I drives a wheeler I got to have a bit team or mules wid they shoulders well. Or else I might git mad and drag dat big roller myse’f !” The stable boss didn’t say a word. He just lay back on a bale of hay and sang: “Caught old Blue and I caught old Bell, Captain! Caught old Blue and I caught old Bell, Captain! Caught old Blue and I caught old Bell, Couldn’t find no mule wid his shoulder well, And I wisht old Billie Bob was in hell— Captain!” “Stop dat singin’ about sore-back mules,” John Henry told the stable boss. “Stop dat singin’ and git me a pair er mules wid they shoulders well. ’Cause I’m John Henry and I’m six foot tall. Git me a black mule which weighs a thousand pounds. And git me a white mule which weigh de same. Git me mules wid jack stripes runnin’ f ’m they haid to they tail, wid rings around they forelegs and a back band on they withers. Now, git goin’, you stable boss, and git me some mules!” So the stable boss got him a white mule and a black mule with jack stripes from their heads to their tails and rings around their forelegs and a back band on their withers. “Now, git me some harness, you stable boss,” John Henry told him. “Git me some big harness for dis big team er mules. Git me second-growth hickory hames, and sweet-iron chains for traces. Git a sawmill belt for a back band, and balin’ wire for hame strings. Git me a bridle wid batwing blinds, and a bit er twisted crow bars. Git me some lines a hund’ed feet long, and a belly band made outn leather. Make me a double-tree wid a white-oak log, and a single-tree outn hickory. Hitch me to a wheeler wid ten foot-wheels, and a pole like Jacob’s ladder. I wants a Johnson bar twenty foot long, and a cypress tree for a breast yoke. So git out er my way, you dirt-eatin’ bullies, and watch my wheeler roll!” Then John Henry rolled out to the dump and started rolling dirt for old man Billie Bob Russell’s Yellow Dog Railroad. But before he made four rounds the walking boss called him. “Shade dem mules, you big boy,” he said. “Shade dem mules f ’m dis hot sunshine, and grab you a pick and shovel. Grab dat spade, you dirt-eater, and level down dis fillin’. Somebody told me a nigger could build a railroad track, but hyar we been for a month er Sundays and we ain’t hardly got started. One-Eyed Bill Shelly can’t run dat Cannon Ball down dis way to we git dis railroad made. So lay hit down level, you dirt-eatin’ bullies! Lay dis railroad down!”

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So all the niggers laid heavily on their picks and shovels out in the hot sunshine. But they couldn’t pass much dirt. So they sang: “Look at de sun, hyar de boss man bawl, Captain! Look at de sun, hyar de boss man bawl, Captain! Look at de sun, hyar de boss man bawl, Don’t git paid to way next fall, Dat’s what he said and dat was all, Captain!” And that was when big John Henry laid his shovel down! And when John Henry laid his shovel down, the ground shook and the walking boss trembled. There were some mighty doings when big John Henry laid his shovel down! “I’m a man and I don’t know my strenk,” said big John Henry. “I’m a fool and I don’t know my name. But I’m stout like a mule and my name is John Henry, and I laid my shovel down!” So the walking boss sidled off and picked up a rock. “You look like a man,” he said, “and you tawk like a man. But I’m runnin’ dis job and I got de say-so. So efn you don’t like yo’ shovel, well, hyar’s yo’ time. So git yo’ hat, big boy, and lace up yo’ travelin’ shoes. ’Cause yo’ home ain’t hyar!” “You might be right,” said John Henry, “and you might be wrong. But befo’ you gimme my time, you better ax Mister Billie Bob Russell!” “I’m right,” said the walking boss. “Mister Billie Bob said to shade de mules and keep de niggers turnin’. And you ain’t turnin’ wid yo’ shovel down.” “Yeah,” said John Henry, “and he told you to build a railroad a thousand miles long. But you ain’t hardly started.” “I keep de niggers turnin’, ” said the walking boss, “and I keep de mules shaded f ’m de hot sunshine. Maybe Mister Billie Bob buildin’ de railroad. I don’t know. Do de road git built or don’t she, hit’s all one and de same. I keep de niggers turnin’ and I keep de mules shaded.” “What’s the matter here?” It was old man Billie Bob Russell himself, and he was toting a forty-four gun on each hip. “How am I going to get a thousand miles of railroad built with my walking boss arguing all the time with my niggers? You’ve been here a month of Sundays, and this road ain’t started. What’s the trouble, you walking boss? Are you getting tired? Do you want your time?” “Naw, suh,” said the walking boss. “I’m keepin’ de niggers turnin’ and I’m keepin’ de mules shaded. But I ain’t gittin’ nowhars wid de railroad line.” “Hit ain’t none er mine,” said John Henry, “but I kin tell you why. You’s drivin’ niggers. Dat’s why. You kin build a railroad or you kin drive niggers. But you can’t do bofe at once.”

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“You know how to build a railroad?” old Billie Bob asked. “My name is John Henry,” he told old Billie Bob, “and I ain’t never built a railroad yit. But ain’t nobody else ever built one onless dey worked both de niggers and de mules.” “Talk on,” said Billie Bob Russell. “Let’s hear your say.” “You’s shadin’ de mules in de shade,” said John Henry, “and you’s drivin’ de niggers in de sun.” “Sun don’t hurt niggers,” said Billie Bob Russell. “And neither mules,” said John Henry. “But you got de mules in de shade, and look at ’em. Dey’s skinny like a snake ’cause dey’s offn they feed, and hit ain’t hardly none wid they shoulder well.” “That’s a fact,” said Billie Bob Russell. “But mules cost too much money to put in the sun, when the shade won’t do them any good.” “Shade,” said John Henry, “is made for white fo’ks and hosses. Sun is made for mules and niggers. But don’t drive ’em. Drivin’ make a nigger weary, and a weary nigger make a mule fall offn his feed, jes to look at ’em. So efn you wants to git dis Yaller Dog built, Mister Billie Bob Russell,” said John Henry, “you give yo’ wawkin’ boss his time and give yo’ niggers two big mules and a wheeler. And den you lay back in de shade and watch dis railroad grow!” “Go to it,” said Billie Bob Russell. “Go to it, you niggers, and build my railroad line. Because John Henry is a railroading man and his wheeler’s got ten-foot wheels!” So they built the Yellow Dog Railroad before the sun went down, but John Henry wasn’t there when the job was done. For John Henry was a man and he meant to get around!

BACK OF TOWN It was early one rainy morning when John Henry got to New Orleans. He came walking in on the hundred-foot stage of the Big Jim White, and the Big Jim White pulled in in style. Her whistle was blowing and her bell was ringing and her big side wheels were pitching water a hundred feet high. “Don’t mind me,” John Henry said, and he pranced up and down that hundredfoot stage. “Don’t pay me no mind ’cause I got laigs like a man and I wawks about.” And before the Big Jim White touched the landing John Henry stepped off the stage and on top of the freight shed, and that big man from the Black River country kept right on walking. He walked up Canal Street with his head held high. “Don’t pay me no mind,” he said, “ ’cause I’m six foot tall and I’m gittin’ around. My name is John Henry f ’m I don’t know whar.”

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“Yo’ name is John Who-ry?” a nigger named Sam asked him. John Henry looked at Sam and he looked at himself. Sam was dressed up in a box coat and peg-top pants, with bright yellow shoes and a necktie that made you blind to look at it. “My name,” he said, “is John Henry. I comes f ’m de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine. Dat’s how come I got on overhalls and jumper. And I’m gittin’ around and dat’s how come I stepped offn de Big Jim White.” So the nigger named Sam looked at John Henry and then he looked up and down the street. “Whar you gittin’ around to, John Henry?” he asked him. “You’s in town right now. So whar you gittin’ around to?” John Henry didn’t say a word. He just opened his mouth and sang a song: “I been to de east and I been to de west, And I reckon I been all around. I been on de river on de Big Jim White, So I’m huntin’ for de back er town, Lawd, Lawd, And I’m huntin’ for de back er town.” When Sam heard that he laughed. “Fast nigger, hunh?” he asked John Henry. “Nawp,” said John Henry. “Jest big and playful. I been workin’ so hard, and now I’m fixin’ to play.” So Sam didn’t say a word. He opened his mouth and sang the John Hardy song back at John Henry: “John Hardy he went to de gamblin’-house; He didn’t had no money for to spend. Long come Poor Selma wid a dollar in her hand, Say, leave John Hardy in de game, Lawd, Lawd, Say, leave John Hardy in de game.” And when he finished that song he got up and told John Henry, he said, “You follow along behind me.” Sam led John Henry down to Saratoga Street and into a gambling-house. “John Henry,” he said, “I want you to meet up wid my friend, John Hardy. John Hardy,” he said, “John Henry been workin’ so hard, and he want to play. He comed f ’m de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine.” And then he whispered into John Hardy’s ear: “He’s a country nigger come to town on de excursion. Look at dem clothes he wearin’ and you kin tell he a country nigger come to town.” “Sho, John Henry,” said John Hardy. “I been hyarin’ about you. Somebody told me you was kind er handy wid de cyards. Or was hit de dices? Maybe you’d like to play a little seven-up?”

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“Four-up,” said John Henry. “ ’Cause seven-up takes jest dat much longer.” And he sat down to the table with John Hardy, that gambling-man, and the women came and stood behind his chair and sang a song to make him feel lucky so he would bet: “I bet he a gamblin’, gamblin’-man, And he gamble all around. Ev’ytime he sees him a deck er cyards He th’ows his money down, Lawd, Lawd. And he th’ows his money down.” “I ain’t no gamblin’-man,” said John Henry, “but I’m gonter set hyar and mock a gamblin’-man!” And he laid a solid silver dollar on the table! “Fade me, John Hardy,” John Henry said. “Four-up ain’t my game, but I plays hit for a dollar. Four-up, coon-can, skin, or dices. Hit’s all one and de same to me, and I plays you even.” So John Hardy, that gambling-man, he dealt the cards and he went out on John Henry on the first hand. “Got another dollar, country boy?” he asked. “Lay another dollar on de table and den name de game you wants to play.” So John Henry laughed and laid two dollars on the table! “Hit’s all one and de same to me,” he said. “Only hit’s my deal dis time.” John Henry took the cards and dealt, and he turned a jack. “You deals right good for a country boy,” said John Hardy. “Maybe you’s a gamblin’-man dressed up like a country boy.” “Maybe,” said John Henry, “and maybe not. But I kin see a jack on de turn and I kin see high, low, and de game in my hand, and I’m out on my deal. So I don’t want no change, you gamblin’-man. Hit’s four dollars on de table, and I can’t pick up no change.” “Hit’s my deal,” said John Hardy. “Hit is,” said John Henry, and he stood up and pulled off his jumper. “Yeah, hit sho is yo’ deal,” he said, and he stood up and pulled off his undershirt. And when he did that John Hardy saw the big arms and shoulders on that big man from the Black River country where the sun don’t never shine. “I’m too stout,” said John Henry, “to set hyar argyin’ about who deal hit is. What I’m argyin’ about is, anybody which deals had better deal ‘em straight.” So when John Hardy saw the big muscles and the mean look on that big man from the Black River country, he looked at Sam. And Sam looked at John Hardy. Then they both looked out the window. And about that time the women who were watching the two gambling-men started singing: “He laid down de ace and he laid down de king, He laid de boss cyards down all around.

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He laid down de jack and he laid down de deuce, So dey laid him in de buryin’-ground, Lawd, Lawd, And dey laid him in de buryin’-ground.” Then John Henry stood up and jumped on top of the table. “John Hardy,” he said, “I didn’t seed you pa’m no cyards, and you didn’t see me pa’m no cyards. And we bofe went out on our deals. So dat makes us even.” “I didn’t know you was a gamblin’-man,” said John Hardy. “Me my name is old High-Low-Jack-and-de-Game John Hardy, and I th’ows my money away. But Sam told me you was a country nigger wid more wages den brains. So when you turned dat jack on yo’ deal, I thought hit was luck, and when you made high, low, and de game and out, I thought you lucked out. But now you’s tawkin’ like a gamblin’man, and hit ain’t no need in us gamblin’ ag’in’ each other, ’cause we plays even. And I don’t need yo’ money and you don’t want mine. So what you say, John Henry? Le’s be friends, me and you? What you say?” “I ain’t no gamblin’-man,” said John Henry, “but I kin mock de man which is.” And he reached down and picked up the four dollars that were on the table. “Money,” said John Henry, “ain’t no good to me, so I’m gonter give dis money away.” And he handed the money to Sam. “Hyar, Sam,” he said, “you kin have dis four dollars ’cause I don’t need no money. I don’t need no money ’cause when a man is dressed up he don’t need no money, and I’m fixin’ to git dressed up, so’s I kin git around dis town in style. “So take dis four dollars, Sam, and go buy me a four-dollar Stutson hat, and I don’t want no change back. And you go buy me a bright new suit er clothes wid a box coat and peg-top pants, wid pearl buttons on de pockets and braid around de collar. You buy me some bright yaller shoes, and de reddest socks you kin find. I wants a necktie which makes me blind, and a four-inch standing collar. You buy me dat stuff, Sam,” John Henry told him, “and don’t bring me back no change. Buy me a big gold watch and a diamond ring, and a horseshoe pin for my necktie. Buy me a gallon jug of sweet perfume and a solid silver toothpick. ’Cause I’m John Henry and I’m six foot tall, and I aims to git around some. So gang around, you bullies, and listen at John Henry. Y’all ladies been standin’ behind me, dig down in yo’ stockin’s. ’Cause Sam gonter need him a heap er cash to git me all dressed up. Dig down, you gamblers! Dig down deep, and spend yo’ gamblin’-money. ’Cause I’m big John Henry f ’m I don’t know whar and I’m fixin’ to git around some.” So all the women dug down in their socks and John Hardy dug down in his pockets, and the first thing anybody knew, Sam had his hat full of money. “Now come on, Sam,” said John Henry, “and we go buys de store out. ’Cause I’m gonter dress like a dead-game sport, so all y’all gals and gamblers won’t jump on a poor country boy when he is big and playful. So come on, Sam, and bring dat change, ’cause I’m big John Henry!”

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JULIE ANNE When John Henry started getting around in New Orleans he went out and got himself all dressed up. His suit was the stripedest one in the stores. His socks were the reddest ones he could find. And his shoes were muddy brown. His shirt was so blue it looked like the sky, and his hat was on the back of his head. He had a gold watch and a horseshoe pin, and his tie made people go sit on the corner with a tin cup begging because they were blind. His coat was square like a drygoods box and his pants pegged out like an umbrella. “Stand back, y’all ladies,” John Henry said, “so’s ev’ybody kin see me. Don’t come swarmin’ around too close, ’cause I needs plenty er room.” So about that time there was a girl named Ruby came up to John Henry and said, “Hello, Big Stuff ! Whar you goin’ all by yo’ lonesome?” And before John Henry could say a word to her, a girl named Delia came up and took John Henry by the arm. “Dis big bully ain’t lonesome,” she said, “so long as his Delia gal is around. Is you, Big’n’?” So John Henry looked at Ruby and he looked at Delia. Then he looked up and down the street. And when he looked up and down the street he saw a woman named Julie Anne. She looked at John Henry and then she looked at Ruby and Delia, but she didn’t say a silent word. She sang: “John Henry was so big and tall, I reckon he was a man, He comed to de city and he got dressed up, And he seed poor Julie Anne, Lawd, Lawd, Den he seed poor Julie Anne.” “How come you know I’m John Henry?” he asked her. “You’s six foot tall,” said Julie Anne, “and you’s gittin’ around, ain’t you?” “Sho I’m six foot tall,” said John Henry, “and I’m gittin’ around. But hit’s a heap er niggers six foot tall and gittin’ around. I seed a nigger named Sam which is six foot tall and gittin’ around.” “Look at me, John Henry,” said Julie Anne. “I’s six foot tall, too. And I got blue gums and gray eyes.” “I got blue gums and gray eyes, too,” said John Henry. “But dat don’t make me John Henry, do hit? Let alone, you?” “And,” said Julie Anne, “I comed f ’m de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine.” “Me too,” said John Henry, “and my name is John Henry, but dat don’t make me yo’ man.” “Well,” said Julie Anne, “I ain’t argyin’ wid you, John Henry. But don’t you forgit, you’s my man. ’Cause they’s a gris gris on me and you.”

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“I’m a man,” said John Henry, “and I’m six foot tall. But I’m my own.” “You’s my man, John Henry,” said Julie Anne. And she went in the house and shut the door. So John Henry walked on down the street where Ruby was. “She’s crazy,” he said, and he took Ruby by the right hand. “Sing me a song, Sweet Thing,” he said, “ ’cause I likes de way you sing.” Ruby laughed and backed off. “Aw, you don’t know,” she said. “You ain’t never hyared me sing.” “Well,” said John Henry, “I likes de way you opens up yo’ mouf. So come and sing at me.” “Nunh-unh,” said Ruby. “You jest funnin’ wid me.” “Aw, come on and please sing at me,” said John Henry. “Please ain’t gittin’ me nothin’, you great big old dead-game spo’t,” Ruby told him. “I might sing at you and you might squeeze de stuffin’ outn me ’cause you’d like me so good.” So John Henry he stood and begged her awhile, and Ruby she kept arguing and putting him off, and laughing and trying to draw him on. And the more she would put John Henry off the more he would beg her to sing for him. Until, finally, John Henry got tired of it. “Now, gal,” he said, “I’m fixin’ to ax you one more time. Is you gonter sing for me or ain’t you?” “How come I got to sing for you, Big’n’?” Ruby asked him. “You great big old man jest vexes a gal like me —” “You ain’t,” said John Henry. “You jest want me to beg you, and I’m tired er beggin’. So good-by, Ruby, and good-by, all. ’Cause I don’t like you no more.” And he walked off. “Wait, John Henry,” said Ruby. “I’m fixin’ to sing for you. I was jest playin’, John Henry, darlin’. I was aimin’ to sing for you all de time. I was jest funnin’.” “No mind,” said John Henry. “I don’t want to hyar you sing.” “But I got a good song, John Henry,” Ruby told him, and she tried to grab John Henry by the right hand. But he shoved her away. “Git away, gal,” he told her. “Go play wid somebody which got time and patience. Me, I’m f ’m de Black River country, and I don’t know what time is.” And he walked away from Ruby. “Ruby is a fool,” Delia told John Henry, and she took him by the right hand. “ ’Cause when a big man like you wants a gal to sing for him, well, he don’t want her to ack like she was a kitten, do he? But me, darlin’, I know how a big man like you want a gal to ack. I’m gonter sing you a song widout you axin’ me.” So she sang: “He looked at de sky and he looked at de ground, Jest to see what he could see,

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And he couldn’t see nothin’ but his Delia gal, And Delia had a stinger-ree, Lawd, Lawd, Poor Delia had a stinger-ree.” John Henry listened to her song and when she got done he shook his head. “Well,” he said, “I reckon I’ll be gittin’ around.” And he walked off. “Wait a minute, John Henry,” Delia told him. “Didn’t I sing purty for you?” “Sho you sung purty for me,” said John Henry. “But now you done sung yo’ song. So hit ain’t no need to stand hyar and argy about hit.” “You want me to sing some more?” “Nawp,” said John Henry. “Once is aplenty.” “I kin sing another song more gooder den dat’n’,” said Delia. “Sing yo’ song to some yuther man which ain’t sick and tired er singin’, ” said John Henry. “But you likes singin’, and I likes to sing,” said Delia. “You’s too anxious,” said John Henry. “Ruby she wasn’t anxious enough, and now you’s too anxious. Ruby she was plenty er trouble, but you’s a heap worse. So gimme my hat, you Delia gal, and watch old John Henry ramble.” So John Henry left Delia and walked up and down the street for a solid mile. He saw a heap of women, but they were all like Ruby or Delia. Some of them weren’t anxious enough to please him, and some of them were too anxious. So finally he came back and knocked on the door. “Come on in, John Henry,” Julie Anne told him. “I been waitin’ for you to come back.” “How’d you know I’m John Henry,” he asked her, “and how’d you know I was comin’ back?” “You’s John Henry,” said Julie Anne, “and you’s back. So no mind how I knowed. I jest knowed hit all de time, and no mind how.” “Well,” said John Henry “s’posin’ I gits up and leaves right now? You know anything like dat?” “John Henry,” said Julie Anne, “you’s a natchal man and you come and go when you please. And when and whar, hit ain’t none er mine. Only, when you gits tired er trampin’ round de streets you gonter come back to yo’ Julie Anne.” “Looky hyar, gal,” said John Henry, “you think you got a stinger-ree on me? You think I can’t quit you and stay quit? You think yo’ name is Poor Selma?” “Nawp,” said Julie Anne. “I ain’t got no stinger-ree, and you kin quit me like quittin’ work. And I ain’t no Poor Selma, and I ain’t tryin’ to hold you down. But look at dis, John Henry,” and she opened her mouth and pointed to her blue gums. “And look at dis,” and she opened her eyes and pointed to her gray eyeballs. “Hit ain’t no stinger-ree and hit ain’t no Poor Selma. Hit’s just de way hit is. Hit’s on you de same as on me. Hit’s a gris gris on you and on me. Hit’s de way things is, John Henry. I didn’t put hit dar, no more’n you. But dar hit is.

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“So when you feel like goin’, John Henry,” she told him, “jest git yo’ hat and git yo’se’f on down de road. And when you feel like comin’ back, jest wawk in and th’ow you’ shoes under de bed and stay to yo’ heel start eetchin’ to travel some more. ’Cause you’ll stay awhile and you’ll ramble awhile. But you’ll always come back to yo’ Julie Anne, ’cause I’m yo’ woman and you’s my man, and hit ain’t no he’p fer dat.” So big John Henry put his shoes under the bed and took Julie Anne by the right hand. “You sing me a song, gal,” he told her. “I’ll sing you a song,” Julie Anne said, “but you got to sing bass for me.” “All right,” said John Henry. “You sing and I’ll bass.” So she sang: “John Henry had him a purty little gal And her name was Julie Anne. He knowed she was his lovin’ wife And he was her lovin’ man, Lawd, Lawd, And dey bofe went hand-in-hand.” FOURTEEN-THIRTY-SIX The sun was shining hot the day John Henry made up his mind to quit laying around. He had been laying around back of town for a long time with his fancy clothes and he was having a heap of fun. But he got tired of it and decided to get him a job of work. “ ’Cause dis kind er way might be all o.k. for dem which likes hit,” he said, “but hit ain’t no way for a man.” “Hit ain’t no need in you goin’ to work, John Henry,” Julie Anne told him. “I got a job and hit ain’t no need in me and you bofe workin’. So long as hit’s a nickel in my sock, darlin’, you ain’t ’bliged to turn yo’ hand.” “Git me my overhalls, woman,” John Henry told her. “Git me my overhalls and my jumper. ’Cause dis layin’ around is killin’ me sho.” “You looks a heap sweeter in dem fancy clothes,” Julie Anne told him, “but efn you’s bound to work, well, don’t let me stop you. ’Cause you’s a man, John Henry, and you knows yo’ mind.” So John Henry put on his overalls and his jumper and went out where the white folks had all the niggers working on the streets. He stood around and watched the niggers dig down in the ground, and he watched the swing of their picks and shovels to the tune they were singing: “Ef-er you don’t think I’m sinkin’—wham! Lawd, looky what a hole I’m in—wham!” About that time the cap’m saw John Henry standing around. So he said, “Boy, what are you hanging around here for?”

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“I’m huntin’ me a job er work,” said John Henry. “I’m a man and I’m tired er layin’ around, so I’m huntin’ a job er work.” “You just hang around,” the cap’m told him, “and you’ll get all the work you want.” And he turned his back on John Henry and started driving the niggers. “Lay on it, you gobblers,” he told them. “Bear down on them handles and let me see a hole in the ground! Hump it up, you bullies, or there’s worse than this in the parish!” So all the niggers made a terrible fuss like they were working faster, and they sang a new song. One man said: “Poor Selma was my stinger-ree gal; She swore she’d go my bail, But de Law said, Fourteen-thirty-six, And dey laid me in de parish jail, Lawd, Lawd, And dey laid me in de parish jail.” Everybody laughed at that song, and another man sang: “Ruby she lived on Franklin Street Right whar I had me a home, But along comes a bully in a big box coat, And now I’m bustin’ stones, Lawd, Lawd, Got me breakin’ up de rocks and stones.” Then another man sang: “Poor Delia she was my happy gal, Twice as happy as she could be. But she tuck to gin and she tuck to coke, And now take a look at me, Lawd, Lawd, Jest take a look at poor me.” But when the next man sang, everybody did laugh: “You lay yo’ sorrows to a woman’s name, And yo’ burdens to a woman’s ways, But I’m gonter tell you how come I’m hyar, ’Cause de judge said, Sixty days, Lawd, Lawd, Judge Leonard said, Sixty days.” John Henry listened to the singing as long as he could stand it, and when he couldn’t stand it any longer, he stood up and sang his song:

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“Sing about yo’ woman, well, you ain’t seed mine. And her name is Julie Anne. She tell me, Darlin’, ef I got one dime You ain’t got to turn yo’ hand, Lawd, Lawd, You ain’t got to turn yo’ hand.” So when John Henry started singing the big old cap’m turned around and looked at him. “You still hanging around here, boy?” he said. “I’m huntin’ a job er work, Cap’m,” John Henry told him. “All right,” said the cap’m. “I’ll get you a job!” So he whistled in his fingers like a policeman on his beat, and up walked the Law! “This boy is hunting a job, Law,” the old cap’m said. “He’s been hanging around here all morning. He says as long as his woman has got a dime he don’t have to turn his hand.” “Come on, boy,” said the Law. “I’ll find you a job.” So the Law led John Henry to the First Precinct and locked him in a cage like a bird! “Dis ain’t no work, settin’ hyar,” said John Henry. “Sit still,” said the Law. “You’ll have company pretty soon, for I’m cleaning up Franklin Street.” And sure enough, the first thing John Henry knew, they began filling up the cage with all the people on Franklin Street. John Henry saw the big old nigger named Sam, and John Hardy, the gambler, and Ruby and Delia. And pretty soon he saw Julie Anne! “Hey, John Henry,” said Julie Anne, “you sho is fixin’ to git you a job, ain’t you?” “Dat what de Law allow,” said John Henry. “Not so long as I got a dime in my sock, darlin’, ” she said. When Ruby heard that she yi-yied at Julie Anne. “When de jedge see a big nigger like him,” she said, “de jail ain’t big enough to hold him, ’cause dey needs big niggers on de road so bad.” “And,” put in Delia, “dey do say de jedge don’t know nothin’ but ‘sixty days,’ and dat in de parish! Lawd, Lawd, how long!” So pretty soon they lined up all the niggers in front of the judge and started to work on them. John Hardy, the gambler, was the first man in line. “What you got to say, boy?” said the judge. “I been sick, Jedge,” said John Hardy. “I jest got outn de hospital.” “Well,” said the judge, “what you need is sunshine. Sixty days on the streets, and you won’t feel the same.” So the judge turned to the big nigger named Sam. “What you been doin’, boy?” he said.

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“I been workin’, ” said Sam, “only I got laid off yistiddy.” “Well, I’m going to lay you on,” said the judge. “Sixty days.” So he turned to Ruby. “What have you been doing?” he asked. “Washin’ and ironin’ for de white fo’ks,” said Ruby. “But you didn’t wash the paint and powder off your own cheeks,” said the judge. “Hit won’t wash off,” Ruby said. “Well,” said the judge, “I’ll put you away in the parish for sixty days, and let’s see if it won’t wear off.” Then he turned to Delia. “Where you been working?” he said. “I cooks for de white fo’ks,” said Delia. “Are you a good cook?” said the judge. “My madam think so,” said Delia. “I ain’t braggin’—” “They need a good cook over at the parish,” said the judge. “Sixty days.” And then he looked at John Henry! “Where you been workin’, big boy?” said the judge. “I ain’t been,” said John Henry. “I been layin’ around for a week. I won some money offn dat boy which say he been sick in de hospital. And dat nigger named Sam he’ped me pick out some fancy clothes. And den I funned around wid de ladies which say dey been washin’ and cookin’. And den I and Julie Anne, hyar, tuck up. So I spent all my money, so I put on my overhalls and jumper, and started lookin’ around.” “Country nigger, I bet,” said the judge. “I comes f ’m de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine,” said John Henry. “Let me see your hands,” said the judge. And John Henry held up his hands so the judge could see the work-corns in them. “Country nigger,” said the judge, “you better take your bundle and git. You Black River niggers are too good to stay in this town. These city niggers will take your money and let you starve. They’ll steal your woman and laugh in your face. They’ll cut your throat and take off your shoes. And they won’t even go to your funeral. So get your bundle and get out of town, because this is no place for you.” “I been fixin’ to git around some, Cap’m,” said John Henry, “ ’cause I been hyar too long, now. I worked and den I played. And now I’m fixin’ to work some more. So git out er my way, all you Franklin Street niggers. Git out er my way, you bullies, ’cause I’m movin’ along. A box coat feel like a coffin on me, and peg pants is pegs in de coffin lid. Yaller shoes might fit some er you rounders’ foots, but dey cut too sharp for me. So gimme my overhalls, you Julie Anne. Gimme my overhalls and jumper, ’cause I aims to work and play. I done worked and I done played, and now I aims to travel. So farewell, all you Franklin Street bullies. Fare you well, you ladies. ’Cause I’m big and bad and had ought to be chained, and

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I comes f ’m I don’t know whar. I’m six foot tall, and I weighs a ton, and my name is writ in my hat!”

WOMAN ON MY WEARY MIND When John Henry decided to get away from New Orleans he turned his back on the river. He came to New Orleans on the Big Jim White, but the old woman told him the Big Jim White would never bring him back to the Black River country where he was born. “Hit carried many a good man down de line,” the old woman told him, “but hit ain’t never yit brang one back. So mind out, John Henry, and don’t roam too far.” It was too far to walk from New Orleans to the Black River country, and John Henry didn’t have any wings. “Snag some old lonesome freight train and ride,” Julie Anne told him. “You know what de song say, darlin’. De song say: “When I git de blues I git de fawty-day blues And I can’t be satisfied. Lawd, I gits de blues, I gits de ramblin’ blues And I can’t be satisfied. So I’m goin’ to de depot and snag me a train and ride. “Dat’s what de ramblin’ song say, John Henry,” she told him. “But hit’s still another kind er blues which I’m gonter sing to you: “He left his purty mamma standin’ in de door. Left his purty mamma, Lawd, a-standin’ in de door. Hyar’s what she told him, darlin’, Say, you ain’t ‘bliged to go. “Dat’s another kind er blues, John Henry,” she told him. “But you ain’t learnt dat song yit, son. You had hit too easy wid de womenfo’ks. So git yo’ hat, darlin’, and git yo’se’f on down to de depot, John Henry, and you gonter leave me hyar.” So John Henry got his hat and got down to the depot. The big Red Ball freight train, a solid mile long, was just pulling out. He snagged it and climbed on top of a car. “Ramble along, freight train,” John Henry said, “ ’cause I’m got de Black River country blues and I can’t be satisfied.” When the Red Ball got to rattling along over the rails the racket it made put John Henry in mind of the song that Julie Anne had sung to him. So he sang the song the way he felt about it. The air was whipping past his face and the long sugar-cane

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fields were stretching out like a green blanket. He couldn’t smell New Orleans any more, but he could smell the country. Not the Black River country that he was lonesome for, but it was not like talcum powder in New Orleans. So he sang Julie Anne’s song his style: “Left my purty mamma standin’ in de door. Lawd, left my darlin’ mamma standin’ in de door. What you reckon I told dat sweet mamma? Say, I can’t use you no more.” But the song didn’t satisfy him. He liked the wind in his face and he liked the fresh sweet smell of the country that rolled by. He didn’t really want to sing at all, but the clickity-click of the wheels singing against the solid steel rails wouldn’t let his mind rest. So he tried another song: “Let me tell you somethin’, let hit bear down on yo’ mind. Listen to me, darlin’, let hit bear down on er yo’ mind. ’Cause I gits so tired of de same thing all de time.” But that song didn’t do him any good, either, and he hollered at the brakeman. “Hey, Mister Brakeman,” he said, “I’m ridin’ high and I ain’t paid no railroad fare. I’m bound for de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine. So kin you please, suh, tell me do dis Red Ball go by dat Black River country, or am I jest ridin’ around?” The brakeman looked at his white-oak brake stick, and then he looked at John Henry. “Big boy,” he said, “this Red Ball goes through the Black River country, but it don’t slow down. We’re due in Memphis before the sun goes down and we ain’t hardly got started yet. You see all of them clouds in the east? Well, that is smoke from the engine. You see all that rain in the cane-fields? Well, that’s sweat from the fireman’s brow. You see all them rocks flying along the cross-ties? Well, that’s because the fireman’s tongue is dragging the ground. “Because,” said the brakeman, “old man One-eyed Bill Shelly is pulling her tail, and the fireman can’t keep up steam.” “Is de fireman got plenty er coal?” John Henry asked him. “Plenty coal, and water, too,” said the brakeman. “But old man One-eyed Bill Shelly is pulling the throttle, and we’re due in Memphis before the sun goes down.” “Hit look to me like,” said John Henry, “did a good fireman had plenty er coal, and water, too, well, hit look like to me he could keep up de steam.” “This train,” said the brakeman, “is a solid mile long and old man One-eyed Bill Shelly is twisting her tail.”

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“I been layin’ around,” said John Henry, “to I got weary in my mind. So now I’m huntin’ me a job er work. Maybe efn dat fireman can’t keep up de steam, well, maybe old man One-eyed Bill Shelly would like a fireman which kin.” The brakeman looked at John Henry and he laughed. “Boy,” he said, “there’s a big nigger named Sam firing that engine. He’s the best fireman on the road. That’s why he’s always firing for old man One-eyed Bill Shelly. So when old Jay Gould told them to put this train in Memphis before the sun goes down, they picked old man Shelly and he picked Sam. And that’s how come that bad engineer ain’t pulling the throttle on the Cannon Ball today.” “Dis train ain’t goin’ fast enough to suit me,” said John Henry, “let alone old Jay Gould.” “Maybe,” said the brakeman, “old man One-eyed Bill Shelly could pull her faster if he could get the steam, and maybe that nigger named Sam could get the steam up if you would push the coal down for him, so what you say, big boy from the Black River country? What do you say to pushing down coal for that fireman named Sam, and let’s all get to Memphis before the sun goes down?” “Maybe,” said John Henry, and he went up to the tender to push the coal down. But he just pushed with his foot one time and he pushed all the coal down on that fireman named Sam. “Mind out, up yonder,” said Sam. “You want to bury me wid dis coal? I’m black wid coal, now.” “You was black before dat coal ever tetched you,” said John Henry. “Whyn’t you git up some steam so’s me and Mister One-eyed Bill Shelly kin git dis train to Memphis before de sun goes down?” “Maybe you think you kin keep up steam for Mister One-eyed Bill Shelly,” said Sam. “You niggers runnin’ around hyar wid a heap er say-so, but when hit comes to shovelin’ coal for Mister One-eyed Bill Shelly, I’m de onliest man which got any do-so, and I can’t hardly keep up enough steam to blow de whistle. And efn you don’t b’lieve dat, how come old Jay Gould picks me out when he wants to git de train to Memphis before de sun goes down?” “Well,” said John Henry, “I ain’t old Jay Gould, and I don’t keer nothin’ about gittin’ to Memphis before de sun goes down. But I do love to hyar old One-eyed Bill Shelly pull de highball outn dat whistle. I ain’t hyared dat two longs, a shawt, and a long since I don’t know when. So stand back, you mush-back fireman, and let old John Henry raise up de steam.” But the fireman looked at John Henry and laughed. “I fires wid a Number Four shovel,” he said. “You couldn’t hold de firebox door open for me to fire, let alone keep de coal pourin’ in.” “Kin you hold de door open?” asked John Henry. “Sho I kin,” said the fireman, “ ’cause my name is Sam Rucker, and I’m de best fireman on old Jay Gould’s railroad.”

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“Gimme de shovel,” said John Henry, “and you hold open de firebox door.” So Sam held open the firebox door and big John Henry took the shovel in his hand. “Don’t git in my way, Sam,” said John Henry, “ ’cause I’m liable to chunk you in de firebox, and you too greasy to make good steam.” And that big man from the Black River country poured a steady stream of coal into the roaring-hot fire and he watched the steam-gauge rise. “Pull her tail, Mister One-eyed Bill Shelly,” he said, “and mash dat whistle down, ’cause I’m big and stout and crazy and mean and I don’t aim to tetch de ground.” The faster John Henry shoveled, the faster the steam-gauge rose, and the faster the steam-gauge rose the faster old One-eyed Bill Shelly would pull her tail. Then about that time old One-eyed Bill Shelly told John Henry, he said, “Here’s the Black River country where the sun don’t never shine.” So John Henry looked out and saw the country rolling by like smoke up the chimney. So he laid on the coal, and then he told old One-eyed Bill Shelly, he said: “Pull her tail, Mister One-eyed Bill, and give her a lonesome highball, so all de niggers will lean out de windows and know John Henry went through.” Then old One-eyed Bill Shelly whistled the highball and he opened his throttle wide. And that Red Ball freight train was in Memphis before the sun went down. “John Henry,” said One-eyed Bill Shelly, “you fired for me on the Red Ball freight, and you can fire for me on the Cannon Ball. Sam is a good fireman, but he ain’t one-two with you. You go walking straight up to old Jay Gould and tell him you’re my fireman. Tell him to pay you a dollar a day and give you a Number Four shovel.” But John Henry looked at the shovel and he looked at Memphis. He saw the river and he saw the bluff and he saw the Beale Street women. Then he sat on the high bridge over the river and he sang a song: “I was bawn on de old Black River Whar de sun don’t never shine. Den I got a runaround on my heels, And a woman on my mind, Lawd, Lawd, Julie Anne on my weary mind.”

POOR SELMA Poor Selma was a woman that the men couldn’t leave alone. She was tall and rusty and ugly. She had a mean temper and an evil tongue. Her nose was flat and her mouth was big and her lips looked like liver. And when she walked the streets of Argenta the hollow of her foot made a hole in the ground. But she claimed she had a stinger-ree.

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Poor Selma had a big white house on the corner of Third and Bird streets. It was a two-story house, with a piano in the parlor and a folding-bed in every room. And the niggers from the Cotton Belt railroad made a path straight to her front door. “I ain’t foolin’ wid y’all railroad niggers,” Poor Selma told them. “Hit’ll cost you money to come to my house, and hit’s cost you trouble, too. But you can’t stay away, ’cause I’m like de old cocaine habit. I’m bad and I can’t be quit. Git you a woman you love and marry her, but bring yo’ money to me. Yo’ wife might be de four-day fevers, but I’m de wastin’ disease. Preachers preach me out on Sunday and den bring de collection box to me. De deacons say I’m a hell-bound sinner, but dey tips dey hat when dey pass me on de street. So sign de payroll, you bullies, and lay yo’ money down ’cause I’m ugly and I’m mean and don’t nobody love me. But de mens can’t leave me alone. I lives in a big white two-story house wid a foldin’-bed in ev’y room. So look out, you bullies, ’cause I aims to do you wrong.” So all the Cotton Belt niggers made up a song about Poor Selma that said: “High-yaller woman make a preacher lay his Bible down. Brown-skin lady make a deacon turn round and round. But dat low-down Selma make a mule kick his stable down.” But poor Selma didn’t mind how much they sang about her. She didn’t have but one song, and she couldn’t sing that one very well. But she would sing it in Argenta and then she’d cross the river and sing it in Little Rock, right in front of all the married women: “Oh, he may be yo’ man, But he comes to see me sometimes.” That was the way things were around the Cotton Belt shops in Argenta when big John Henry got to town. John Henry rolled in one night about eight o’clock on the Cotton Belt from Memphis. It was a hot night and there were a heap of clouds in the sky, but no rain to cool down the air, so John Henry got off the train and went up the path that led to Poor Selma’s front door at Third and Bird, and he rang Poor Selma’s bell. “Who dar?” said Poor Selma. “Don’t stand axin’ me ‘who dar?’” said John Henry. “Open dat door and let a big man in.” “Railroad nigger?” Poor Selma asked him. “No mind what kind er nigger I’m is,” said John Henry. “You hyared me ring de bell, didn’t you? Well, den, open up de door.”

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“Maybe you better not come in,” said Poor Selma. “Maybe you a country nigger and don’t know whar I live at. Maybe you better go on about yo’ business and leave Poor Selma be.” So John Henry didn’t say a word. He just opened up his mouth and sang a song at Poor Selma through the keyhole: “Well, hit’s open up de window And hit’s open up de door, ’Cause my name is John Henry And I been hyar before, Hey, hey, honey, take a whiff on me.” “Singin’ dat old cocaine song, hunh?” said Poor Selma. “Well, you know’s cocaine, but I’m worse’n cocaine, ’cause coke won’t do nothin’ but kill you. But me? Well, I ain’t Poor Selma’s sister and I ain’t Poor Selma’s mamma, ’cause I’m dat low-down devil herse’f, and I’m worse’n cocaine. You kin quit cocaine and den die, but when you tries to quit me, you can’t quit and den you can’t die. Hit’s niggers in jail wearin’ de ball and chain which tried to quit me and couldn’t. So mind you out, you John Henry, ’cause I hyars you’s a man, and dat’s what I’m after.” “Open up dat door, woman,” said John Henry, “or else I’ll git mad and bust hit down.” And when he said that he got mad, so he took his fist and knocked the door down. “My woman in New Or-leens don’t lock no door on me,” said John Henry, “and I don’t aim to let you start, ’cause I’m a man and I’m mean and I comes f ’m I don’t know whar.” “Mind out, darlin’, ” said Poor Selma. “You tawks like a man and you looks like a man, and you busted my poor door down. Maybe you ain’t never hyared er Poor Selma? Maybe you’s a country nigger and ain’t never been around?” “Maybe,” said John Henry, “and den again, maybe not. When I looks at you I don’t see nothin’ but a ugly old woman, ’cause you don’t look good to me.” Poor Selma laughed when he said that. “Well,” she said, “I don’t look good and I don’t ack good, but, Lawd, Lawd, I got a stinger-ree.” “Lady,” said John Henry, “you think you’s bad and you can’t be quit. I hyared yo’ say-so before I come in. But I’m hyar tonight to see is you got any do-so along wid yo’ say-so, ’cause I’m big John Henry and I kin quit you like I was quittin’ work.” “I quit many a man,” said Poor Selma, “but ain’t never yit been no man which kin quit me. I does de quittin’ in dis house, not you. I ain’t much to look at and I ain’t much to tawk to, but I got a gris gris on my weary soul. You wawked in my house er yo’ own free mind, but dat’s de last free step you ever gonter take, ’cause I’m a bad habit and I can’t be quit. I’m a hell-bound sinner, but I knows my name. My name is Poor Selma and de doctor can’t do me no good.”

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So big John Henry walked up and took Poor Selma by the right hand. “Selma,” he said, “I’m a man and I’m six foot tall. I comes f ’m de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine. But, lady, I’m gittin’ around. Now I’m gonter sing you a song: “I lived in de country and I lived in de town And I’m a toker-loker shaker f ’m haid on down. “Now, you don’t know dat song, does you? ’Cause hit’s a man’s song and you don’t know nothin’ about no man yit. You think you’s got a stinger-ree and you think you’s a hell-bound sinner, but you ain’t, ’cause de devil don’t want you.” “But you ain’t de devil,” said Poor Selma. “You’s a man and you’s made outn meat, and dat’s all I wants to know about you.” “Well,” said John Henry, “you got a heap er say-so for a ugly old gal like you. But what I wants to know is, is you got any do-so? ’Cause I’m big an bad and got a certain woman on my weary mind.” “Dat’s me,” said Poor Selma. “You might think hit ain’t, but you might jest as well th’ow yo’ shoes under de bed and hang yo’ hat in de hall, ’cause you might be bad and you might be fast, but Poor Selma gonter wear you down.” “I got a woman on my mind,” said John Henry, “but hit sho ain’t you. So listen to my weary song, Poor Selma, and see do hit sound familiar: “I got a gal in New Or-leens, And her name is Julie Anne. She ain’t so big and she ain’t so black, But John Henry is her man, Lawd, Lawd, And John Henry is her man. “Now, Poor Selma,” said John Henry, “I been foolin’ wid you to I sung you my song. But when I sing my song about a woman in New Or-leens, well, dat de sign you ain’t got a thing. I took you by de hand and I th’owed my shoes under yo’ bed, and I hung my hat in yo’ hall, but all de time I had a woman on my mind, and I never did like yo’ looks. You say you’s bad like de cocaine habit, and you say you can’t be quit. Well, lady, jest watch old John Henry git his shoes and hat and quit you like I’m quittin’ work.” Poor Selma looked at John Henry and then she looked at the poor door he broke down with his fist when he came in the house. “Hit’s been many a nigger begged to git in,” she told him. “And hit’s been many a nigger begged to stay. But, John Henry, hit ain’t never yit been no man quit poor me. You’s tawkin’ big, and you’s actin’ big, but you ain’t gone nowhar. So jest th’ow yo’ shoes back under de bed, and hang up yo’ wawkin’-cane, ’cause old Bad Habit Poor Selma likes you for a man, and she ain’t said you kin go.”

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So John Henry stood up and laughed in Poor Selma’s face. Then he put on his shoes and he put on his hat, and he picked up his walking-cane. “Git out er my way, you good little gal, ’cause I aims to git around.” “I ain’t said for you to go, darlin’, ” said Poor Selma. “Ain’t no man ever yit —” So John Henry didn’t say a word. He just opened up his mouth and sang a song that made the lightning cleave the air, and the stars burn out like a lamp. Because when John Henry sang his song to Poor Selma it was something no man had ever done before and no man has ever done since. But it was John Henry’s song, and he sang it so loud it shook the roof off that big white two-story house at Third and Bird, and it laid Poor Selma down: “Poor Selma had her a stinger-ree, Thought she stung John Henry dead. But he put on his hat and he put on his shoes, And he wasn’t in de foldin’-bed, Lawd, Lawd, Couldn’t find him in de foldin’-bed.” And John Henry put on his hat and his shoes and walked right out of Poor Selma’s front door like he was walking away from a job of work, because Poor Selma was bad; but John Henry was a man and he was six feet tall, and he came from he didn’t know where! STACKER LEE It was while John Henry was laying around in Argenta that he met up with old bad Stacker Lee. He was walking down Markham Street in Little Rock when he heard a poor woman named Ruby singing a song: “Stacker Lee was a bad man, Twice as bad as he could be. Tuck a shot at my poor sister, And he tuck a shot at me. Ain’t he bad, bad Stacker Lee?” So John Henry walked up to Ruby and said, “Gal, who dis bad man you singin’ about? ’Cause I ain’t named Stacker Lee and I’m de baddest man in dis town.” The woman looked up and down Markham Street and then she looked up and down Main. “You wouldn’t know efn I told you,” she said, “but hyar what de song got to say about him.” And she sang again: “He tuck him a shot er cocaine And he tuck him a shot er gin,

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Den he tuck a shot at his lovin’ wife, And dat’s how dis song begins. Oh, ain’t he bad, bad Stacker Lee?” “How big is dis bad, bad Stacker Lee?” John Henry asked her. “Big enough to wound his finger around a forty-four gun,” said the woman named Ruby. “Dat’s all de big I wants to know how big he is.” “Whar do he live at?” John Henry asked her. “Whar he’s at,” said Ruby. “On de river, over in Argenta, up on de hill, anywhar you sees dat Stacker Lee, well, dat’s whar he is, ’cause he got a home anywhar he go.” “And he packs a forty-four gun, hunh?” said John Henry. “And shoots a forty-four gun,” said Ruby, “and de po-leece don’t pay him no mind.” “Is de po-leece skeered of him?” John Henry asked her. “De po-leece,” said Ruby, “might not be skeered, but dey don’t want no trouble.” “And he tuck a shot at poor you?” John Henry asked her. “He shot my poor sister down,” said Ruby, “and den tuck a shot at me.” “Well,” said John Henry, “you go tell dat bad Stacker Lee dat big John Henry done come to town, so he kin lay his pistol down. Tell him John Henry is six foot tall and comes f ’m he don’t know whar. Tell him John Henry is big like a gi’nt and don’t know his middle name. You go tell dat bad Stacker Lee about me, Ruby, ’cause me and him is liable to git crossed up.” And John Henry turned his back on Ruby and walked across the bridge to Argenta. He went to a store and bought himself a new suit of clothes and a new pair of shoes. He bought a fancy shirt and a red necktie. Then he bought a four-dollar Stutson hat with a black hatband. “ ’Cause I’m on my way to a funeral,” he told the storekeeper, “and I wants to look big.” When he got all the fancy clothes on he went walking up the street, hunting for that bad Stacker Lee. And about the time he got up in front of Poor Selma’s big two-story house at Third and Bird, he found him. “You huntin’ for me, podner?” said Stacker Lee. “Maybe,” said John Henry. “Is yo’ name bad Stacker Lee?” “Dat’s de way de po-leece writes hit in de book,” Stacker Lee told him, and he pulled out his forty-four gun and shot the shoestrings out of John Henry’s shoes. “De word I got,” said John Henry, “say you totes a gun, so I reckon hit must be you.” “Must be,” said Stacker Lee, and he shot the buttons off of John Henry’s coat. “De word I got,” said John Henry, “say you shoots fast and straight.” “Kind of,” said Stacker Lee, and he shot the hatband off of John Henry’s Stetson hat.

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“You’s awful little and squinchy,” said John Henry. “Little,” said Stacker Lee, “but loud.” And he shot John Henry’s necktie off. “You gonter keep on wid dat shootin’, ” said John Henry, “to de fust thing you know you gonter git me ondressed. And when I gits ondressed I gits bad.” “I likes ’em bad,” said Stacker Lee, and he shot John Henry’s belt off. So about that time Poor Selma heard all the racket out in front of her house and she came out to see what it was about. She saw Stacker Lee and John Henry standing still in the street, looking at each other, with John Henry’s big arms bulging with strength and Stacker Lee’s forty-four gun smoking. Then she counted the shoestrings and buttons and hatband and necktie and belt on the ground by John Henry. “John Henry,” she said, “dat bad Stacker Lee is done shot five shots at you and he ain’t done you no harm. So whyn’t you git on down de road before he gits mad and shoots dat last shot in yo’ weary brain?” “Would you bust down and cry,” said John Henry, “efn he put dat last shot in my weary brain?” “I likes you, John Henry,” said Poor Selma. “You quit me like you was quittin’ work, but I likes you mighty good. So don’t let dat bad Stacker Lee lay yo’ body down.” John Henry looked at Stacker Lee and then he looked at Poor Selma. “Stacker Lee ain’t gonter use dat last shot at me,” he said. “He might shoot you down and he might shoot hisse’f down, but he ain’t gonter shoot big John Henry, ’cause he skeered he couldn’t lay me down.” “I kin lay you down, big John Henry,” said Stacker Lee. “You might think you kin,” said John Henry, “but you ain’t so sho, and dat’s how come you ain’t gonter try. I might be bad and I might not be bad, but dat’s what you don’t know about me. You might shoot yo’se’f wid dat last shot, but you ain’t gonter shoot big me, ’cause efn you shoots yo’se’f, you won’t do nothin’ but die. But efn you shoots me and don’t lay me down, well, what you gonter do about dat, bad Stacker Lee? Shoot yo’se’f and you won’t be nothin’ but daid. But shoot me, and den what I’m gonter do to you? Maybe nothin’ and maybe a heap, and dat’s what you don’t know about me. Efn you knowed you wouldn’t be skeered, but you don’t know nothin’ about me.” So about that time Ruby walked up and saw Stacker Lee and big John Henry. “Dat’s him, Stacker darlin’, ” said Ruby. “Mind out you don’t let him git his hands on old sweet you.” “What you come buttin’ in dis argyment for?” Poor Selma asked Ruby. “I’ll claw yo’ eyes out efn you roots ag’in’ John Henry.” “You John Henry’s woman, hunh?” said Ruby. “Well, I’m bad Stacker Lee’s woman, and I’m mighty nigh as bad as him,” and she made a dive for Poor Selma. So Poor Selma and Ruby had a big fight right in the street where John Henry and Stacker Lee were standing.

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“Hit’s one more shot in yo’ gun,” said John Henry. “Hit is,” said Stacker Lee, but he kept on watching the women fight. “Maybe,” said John Henry, “efn you laid me low you wouldn’t need to put my shoestrings back in my shoes.” “I puts ’em back,” said Stacker Lee. “I puts back de buttons and de tie and de hatband and de belt, too, ’cause I ain’t got time to play wid you now. I’m watchin’ dese ladies fight.” “Naw you ain’t, bad Stacker Lee,” said John Henry. “You’s watchin’ yo’ liver turn upside down. Now gimme dat gun, you bad man, and gimme yo’ watch and chain, ’cause you might be bad amongst de womenfo’ks, but you ain’t so bad amongst me.” And John Henry reached over and slapped bad old Stacker Lee just one time and he fell into the river. “Crawl outn de river, you shovel-bill cat,” said John Henry, “and I’ll smack you in again!” And he slapped Stacker Lee back into the river. “You’s powerful bad wid yo’ tawk and yo’ gun, but you ain’t so bad wid me.” And he slapped Stacker Lee so hard that it dried out his clothes. “Now,” said John Henry, “I’m gonter sing you a song dat you can’t hear, and you don’t know what hit means.” So he sang him that bad John Henry song: “Stacker Lee was a bad man, Twice as bad as he could be. Shot his woman wid a forty-four gun, But he wouldn’t take a shot at me, Lawd, Lawd. And he wouldn’t take a shot at me.” And then John Henry walked over and pulled the fighting women apart. “Y’all ladies quit dat rowin’ and quarrelin’, ” he said, “ ’cause yonder is Stacker Lee too skeered to fight about. And de onliest woman I lets fight about me don’t live in dis town a-tall. So y’all ladies make up friends and remember kindly John Henry. I ain’t no ladies’ man and I won’t be fit about. So stand back, you Argenta gals, and watch John Henry ramble, ’cause I’m big and bad and my home ain’t hyar, ’cause hit’s further down de road. I’m six foot tall and made outn meat, and I laid bad Stacker Lee down. So stand back, you gals and mens, and don’t call me by my name, ’cause I’m f ’m de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine, and my woman lives far away.”

THE POOR SELMA “GRIS GRIS” John Henry was a man and he was six feet tall. But he ever had a woman on his weary mind. Bad men crossed the field by another path and the police couldn’t see him at all. But no matter where he rambled and where he roamed, a woman would

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bear down on his soul. So he went back to the Black River country where he was born and he hunted up the old witch woman. “Old woman,” he said, “you tawk to me and you tawk straight.” “Tawkin’ all de time, John Henry,” said the old witch woman. “You got a weary woman on yo’ mind and de doctor can’t do you no good.” “I didn’t come all de way back hyar,” said John Henry, “so’s you c’d tell me somethin’ I already knowed. Tell me somethin’ else, old woman.” The old woman put some brush on the fire and stuck her head in the smoke. “I smells Poor Selma,” she said, “and she don’t smell good to me.” “Now you’s tawkin’, ” said John Henry. “But I quit Poor Selma like I’m quittin’ work, and she hung her haid and cried.” “Yeah,” said the old woman, “you quit her like you’s quittin’ work, John Henry, and dat’s how de trouble start, ’cause, John Henry, you’s a workin’man. You big and you bad and you been around, but you sho is a natchal workin’man.” “I kin quit work,” said John Henry, “jest like I quit her.” “You kin,” said the old witch woman, “but you can’t stay quit. You can’t quit work for long, and you can’t quit poor Selma for long, ’cause old ugly Selma pulled a stinger-ree on you and she mighty nigh laid you down.” “Stick yo’ haid in de fire again,” said John Henry, “and see what else you kin smell.” So the old woman stuck her head back in the fire and held it there for a long time. “Can’t see nothin’ but Poor Selma,” she said, “and she looks mighty ugly. Her face is black and her mouf is big and her white teef is grinnin’ at you. She say, ‘Come back, John Henry, ’cause I ain’t told you to go.’” So John Henry got up and went outside and looked at the full moon. Then he came back into the house and sat down again. “Old woman,” he said, “put some rose leaves in dat fire, and lay on some thyme and basil. Put fourteen blooms f ’m de lilac bush, and a handful er black-eyed Susies.” So the old woman put all of that stuff on the fire and it blazed up and made solid red smoke. “Git yo’ haid in de chimney jam’, ” John Henry told her, “and see kin you smell somebody.” The old woman stuck her head back into the smoke and smelled. And then she took it out and looked at John Henry. “You got de blue gums and a cleavin’ tongue and gray eyes like a conjure man,” she told him, “or else, how come you work dem yarbs on de fire so’s I kin see what I kin see?” “Tell me what you kin see in dat solid red smoke,” John Henry told the old woman. “I sees a gal,” the old woman said, “but she ain’t so tall and black. She lives down de river somewhars, and she’s lookin’ sweet in de eye at you.” “Dat’ll be Julie Anne,” John Henry said. “I left her layin’ out thirty days in de jail. I ought to go pay her sweet fine.”

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“But Poor Selma is huntin’ for you, too,” said the old woman. “She’s restless on yo’ weary soul.” “I quit Poor Selma like I was quittin’ work,” John Henry said. “But she ain’t quit you,” said the old woman. “She hit you wid dat stinger-ree, and de doctor can’t he’p you out.” “S’posin’, ” said John Henry, “I went to N’Awlins and paid my darlin’s fine?” “You’d wawk away f ’m her in four days,” said the old woman, “ ’cause you got Poor Selma on yo’ mind.” “But I don’t love Poor Selma good like I loves Julie Anne,” said John Henry. “Julie Anne might be yo’ four-day fevers,” said the old woman, “but Poor Selma is yo’ wastin’ disease. Julie Anne make you shiver and shake, but you forgits her too soon. But Poor Selma buried her stinger-ree in yo’ soul and give you de weary all-overs.” “She claim she done many a man like dat,” said John Henry, “but she claims I bowed her haid.” “You bowed her haid,” said the old woman, “but she bowed yo’ heart and soul.” So John Henry got up and went out to look at the stars. “What do de stars say, John Henry?” the old woman asked him. “Don’t say nothin’ but what you said,” John Henry told her. So the old woman put some mullen leaves on the fire and added some roots of sassafras. “John Henry,” said the old woman, “you’s a man and you’s made outn meat, and no kind er work kin harm you. But you tuck and let Poor Selma git you down and give you de ’way-down-yonders. Now make up yo’ mind, John Henry, and don’t make it up too hasty. Hit’s one way I kin he’p you out, but hit’s bound to cause you trouble. You got de sperits on yo’ side, but de sperits come f ’m de devil. So what do you say, John Henry? Do you want to be cyored er de Poor Selma habit? Well, you jest say de word. “But listen at me tawkin’ at you, John Henry. You’s a big stout man, and you kin work all de time and git fat on de workin’. But bow yo’ haid down jest one time and, John Henry, you’s a goner. Bow yo’ haid to man or god or let de job out-do you, and de fust news you gonter learn, old Cold Death gonter grab you. So what do you say, big John Henry? Kin you handle yo’se’f like a man and work or is you skeered to try hit? Hold yo’ haid up too proud to bend, and you won’t have no trouble. But bend yo’ knees to god or man, and Cold Death gonter snatch you.” John Henry got up and walked around the house seven times. Then he went down to the river and drank seven swallows of water. Then he looked both ways twice as far as he could see, and then he came back to the house. “I bows my haid to no man,” said John Henry. “I’m six foot tall and I comes f ’m de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine. So go on wid yo’ ju-ju stuff, old woman. I’m a man and I holds my haid high. So come on wid yo’ conjure.”

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The old woman got up and put some thorn sprouts on the fire, and then she poured seven buckets of river water on it. Then she shut her eyes and rocked back and forth in the chimney corner while she said: “Burn fire and squinch dis water. Crackle thawns, and crack Poor Selma. Rise free, smoke, and rise, John Henry.” Then she made John Henry pull off his shoes and stick his bare feet in the ashes. “Is you skeered, John Henry?” said the old woman. “De fire do git mighty hot sometime, and efn you ain’t a man hit might burn you.” John Henry stuck his feet in the hot ashes. “Hit might burn,” he said, “and hit might not. But I’m a man and fire won’t hurt me. I wawks th’ough de fire and flame like I wawks th’ough de wind. Hit’s all one and de same, ’cause I’m big and tall and my feet don’t tetch de ground.” When John Henry said that the old woman turned around seven times and put a spell on John Henry. “Git goin’, John Henry,” she told him, “ ’cause you’s big and stout and yo’ home ain’t hyar, ’cause hits further down.” And about that time there was a mighty moaning and groaning that cleaved the air and made the whole world rock. “Dat’ll be Poor Selma,” said the old woman, “ ’cause I put de dead spell on her. And when Poor Selma laid down and died, de last words I heard her groan was, ‘John Henry, don’t you grieve after me.’” “How come I grieve after her,” said John Henry, “ ’cause she ain’t no gal er mine.” “Well,” said the old woman, “dat’s de way I likes to hyar you tawk. Now I bet you goin’ to yo’ Julie Anne and hang yo’ hat in de hall.” “I’ll th’ow my shoes under de bed and make myse’f at home.” “Mind out, John Henry,” said the old witch woman. “Julie Anne love you good, but she gonter kill you sho. She can’t he’p lovin’ you and she can’t he’p killin’ you. You love wid her and she love wid you, but y’all ain’t gonter be happy. You gonter hurt her and she gonter kill you, and den you bofe’ll be sorry. But hit ain’t none er mine, John Henry,” said the old witch woman. “Hit’s yo’ own hawg-killin’, so hold up yo’ haid and travel.” But John Henry didn’t hear what she said. He was already on the way to his woman. He walked out in the middle of the road and he sang his song at the full moon: “I looked up high and I looked down low, Jest to see what I could see. Couldn’t see nothin’ but my Julie Anne, And she couldn’t see nothin’ but me, Lawd, Lawd, And she couldn’t see nothin’ but me.”

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MAN’S EVER BURDEN John Henry found the Black River country warm and lazy, with Poor Selma off his weary mind and no work to do. He lay around in the shade awhile and then he lay in the sunshine. The woodpeckers in the dead gum trees beat out dull music for his ears, and the bullfrogs in the brakes sang bass. The crickets in the weeds fiddled night and day, and the roosters crowed in the mornings. “I been workin’ and I been playin’, ” said John Henry, “so now I’m gonter rest my weary soul. I been hongry and I been cold, so now I’m gonter ‘suage my stomach. So bring me some victuals, old woman, and bring ‘em plenty hot. Bring me some turnip greens piled so high I can’t see de top, and ridge ‘em down wid middlin’. Range my cabbages around me like a fence, wid hog shanks for de fence posts. Make me a pone er cownbread so big I can’t see de top, and mix in a ba’l er cracklin’s, ’cause I’m a hongry man and I aims to eat some victuals.” The old woman looked at John Henry and then she looked out the window. “Dem sounds like man victuals,” she said. “Victuals for a natchal man.” “My name is John Henry,” he told her, “and I’m six foot tall. I must be a man.” So the old woman didn’t say a word. She got up and went into her garden. She cut down one stalk of sugar cane and peeled one joint for John Henry. “Dat’s for you, son,” she said. “Dat’s for a big man like you. And efn hit’s too rough for yo’ mouf inside, well, I’ll git some sugar in a rag and make you a sugar tit, ’cause sugar tits is for a man yo’ size, John Henry. You’s big and tall, but you’s a baby in yo’ mind. You gripes when de gals git sweet after you and you lays around in de sunshine. When a baby ain’t but six months old, dat’s de way he acks, so I reckon you’s a baby.” When the old woman made that talk to John Henry he got mad! “Don’t make me mad, old witchin’ woman,” John Henry told her, “or else I might bust up somethin’. Don’t let me git my Af ’ican up, or I’m liable to wreck and ruin you, ’cause I’m big and I’m bad and I been around. I worked and I played and now I’m fixin’ to rest some. So don’t make me out no baby, old woman, ’cause John Henry is my name and I’m six foot tall.” The old woman just looked at John Henry and laughed away down in her stomach. “John Henry,” she said, “hit ain’t for a man to rest. A baby, yes. But when a baby grows up de burden grows up wid him. Weary and trouble and sorrow and work you gits aplenty. But hit ain’t no rest in de sack for a man and you can’t lay yo’ burden down. You’s bawn wid a burden growin’ on yo’ back, and you totes hit to yo’ dyin’ day. You kin work and play, but you can’t rest, ’cause de burden grows on yo’ poor shoulders. De path is befo’ you, but hit’s full er sand and gravel. De wawkin’ ain’t easy, once you’s a man.” John Henry looked a long time at the old woman, and then he went out and looked at the river. It was clear and cool and filled with quiet. But it wouldn’t tell

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him the answer. So he came back and asked the old woman. “Old woman,” he said, “how come is a man bawn when hit ain’t nothin’ but work and weary? How come a man can’t be a man widout all de burden?” “Efn I told you dat,” the old woman said, “den you’d know mo’n me. Hit jest de way things come and de way things go, and hit ain’t none er my doin’s. Some say one thing and some say another, but hit all ‘mounts up to one and de same. Hyar you is, and hyar’s yo’ burden, so I can’t witch hit f ’m you. So git yo’ hat, John Henry, and git about de country. Git you a shovel or a mule or a cotton hook or a woman. Hit’s all one and de same. You got to weary yo’ life along, ’cause dat’s de way hit turns out. You work and yo’ back gits tired; you lay round hyar in de sun and shade and yo’ soul gits twice as weary. Take a job er work, and you wear cawns in yo’ hands. Th’ow yo’ shoes under some woman’s bed, and cawns come on yo’ weary soul. Quit yo’ work, and you gits de all-overs. Quit yo’ woman, and you gits de down-yonders. Hit’s all one and de same, John Henry. So git yo’ hat and keep a-movin’, son, ’cause hit ain’t no rest for de weary.” So John Henry got his hat, but he sat back down on the doorstep. “Tell me, old woman,” he said, “ain’t hit some way to git around and not bear my burden? Can’t a man be a man when he’s big like me? How come hit ain’t no rest for de weary?” The old woman looked at John Henry and then she laughed. “Son,” she said, “ev’y step you takes is jest one mo’ step. You can’t onstep hit. You kin back-step and you kin side-step, but hit’s two things gonter be wid you. No matter whar you go or whar you turn you gonter have company. Yo’ burden and yo’ shadow gonter be right along, John Henry. So git yo’ hat and git around. You th’owed yo’ shoes under Poor Selma’s bed, and den you wawked out on her. But she stayed wid you to I gris-grised her off, but you still got a burden.” “I quit Poor Selma like I quits work,” said John Henry. “Yeah,” said the old woman, “you quit her like you quit a job er work. But you bound to go back to some yuther job er work, or you’s bound to go back to some yuther woman. You quit Poor Selma, son, but she’s all you quit. You quit a job er steamboatin’, and dat’s all you quit. You quit a job er steamboatin’ and got a job er firin’. You quit a gal named Poor Selma, and you got a gal named Julie Anne.” “I’m long gone f ’m Julie Anne,” said John Henry. “In yo’ mind, yeah,” said the old woman. “But in yo’ heart, no. You got on yo’ hat, right now, and yo’ heel is eetchin’ for N’Awlins. You’s on yo’ way, son, ’cause you seed her and you tuck yo’ choice, John Henry. To you chose her out, you was a free man to work or play or lay around. But you tuck yo’ choice, and dar she is.” “Listen, old woman,” John Henry said. “You do a mighty heap er tawkin’, but you’s tawkin’ to a man. I’m big and I’m black and I treads strange ground when I travels. So how come I’m gittin dis tawk-tawk f ’m you? How come I ain’t a man er my own? You’s a fool, old woman.” “Tawk wid yo’ tongue,” said the old woman, “but you jest sayin’ words. You might git around dis land er heap, but you still gonter be John Henry. Hit might

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be one job or hit might be two. And hit might be one woman, or hit might be a hund’ed. But yo’ burden and yo’ shadow gonter stick to you as long as you stands up like a man.” “Efn I kin take my choice about work and women,” said John Henry, “how come I can’t take my choice and not take na’n?” “Did you take yo’ choice about bein’ bawn?” said the old woman. “And about bein’ bawn in de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine?” “Den efn I didn’t,” said John Henry, “well, how come I was bawn?” The old woman looked at John Henry, and then she got up and put some wood on the fire. “Ah, Lawd, John Henry,” she said, “Ah Lawd.” “Tawk to me, old woman,” John Henry said, “ ’cause I’m gittin’ mad and I’m liable to wrop you around somethin’ and break yo’ neck. I wants straight tawk. I’m sick and tired er yo’ ju-ju.” “Ah, Lawd,” said the old woman. “You might break my bones and lay me cold in death, but dat don’t answer no question. So put on yo’ hat, son, and lace up yo’ shoes and start to gittin’ around. An remember what I said about standin’ up like a man, ’cause do you bow yo’ haid you won’t be no man no more. Hold up yo’ haid and be a man, and bow yo’ haid and die. Be a man, John Henry, and work and play. But you can’t lay around. Sing you a song whilst you work, and sing one whilst you play, ’cause you’s big and bad and yo’ skin is black and you got to tote yo’ burden. Hit might be work on yo’ poor shoulders, or hit might be a woman on yo’ poor soul. But hit’s gonter follow you down de line. Hit might be quick and hit might be long befo’ you lays hit down. But hit’ll be wid you to you lays out cold, ’cause hit ain’t no rest for de weary.” John Henry stood up and looked toward the east. Then he looked at the old woman sitting in the jamb of the chimney. “Old woman,” he said, “you tawks crooked like a snake, but I reckon you knows John Henry. I ain’t skeered er work and I ain’t skeered er women. I kin handle myse’f on any job, and I kin handle de women. I got a gal down in N’Awlins, and I knows about a job in Natchez. Now you watch me. Is bad old John Henry gonter go to his woman or is he gonter go to dat job er work? Now what you gonter say?” And he strutted up and down in front of the house like he was fixing to say his say-so. “I’m gonter git my woman and take her wid me and git dat job,” he said. “Dat’s de way wid John Henry. A job might weary a poor man down, and a woman might run him crazy, but I kin handle a job and a gal and not know nothin’ tetched me! So stand back, all you bullies, and watch big old John Henry! Stand back and let me git my gal, and den let me git to workin’, ’cause I’m big and bad and black and mean and my feet don’t tetch de ground!” And John Henry walked away from the old witch woman in the Black River country and struck out for Julie Anne down in New Orleans. But before he got down the path the old woman put a thorn bush in the fire and she stuck her head in the smoke. “John Henry is a man,” she said, “but he do ack brash. Efn de thawns kin stick in his back and de smoke git in his eye, well, he kin

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handle de job and de woman.” So she stuck a thorn in her arm and the smoke got in her eye. It hurt but she didn’t say a word. She sang: “John Henry was about six foot tall And I reckon he was a man. He didn’t fear no job er work, But he loved his Julie Anne, Lawd, Lawd, And dey bofe went hand-in-hand.”

HAND IN HAND The first time John Henry went away from the Black River country he thought he was a man. But he wasn’t. He was big and stout and had an itching heel for travel. But he hadn’t done any getting around. Life was where he was, and work was what he was doing. That was all he knew about it. But the women and the work began to bear down on him and the old woman told him he’d have to bear his burden. The second time John Henry went away from the Black River country he had a burden on his shoulder and a woman on his mind. The burden was endless jobs of work and the woman on his mind was a girl named Julie Anne that he walked away from, down in New Orleans. There was something else bearing down on John Henry when he left the Black River country, too. It was a mark put in his soul by the old woman when she used the gris gris to free him from Poor Selma. “Ev’y time you gris gris somethin’ off,” the old woman told him, “well, you turn right around and gris gris somethin’ else on. So hold up yo’ haid, son,” she told him, “and be a man. Or else, bend yo’ neck and die.” So John Henry got along out of the Black River country and he went to New Orleans to see his Julie Anne. He walked up to the door and knocked. But the door was locked! “Dat ain’t right,” he said. “Dis door ain’t jue to be locked ag’in’ me.” But over across the street there was a girl named Ruby, and when she saw John Henry knocking on Julie Anne’s door she sang him a song: “Well, hit’s been some changes made since you been gone. Lawd, hit’s been some changes made since you been gone. Got home dis mawnin’ at four o’clock, Knocked on de door and de door was locked. H’ist up de window, poke in-a yo’ haid. They’s a great big stranger in de foldin’-bed, ’Cause they’s been some changes made since you been gone!” “What kind er song dat you singin’ at me?” John Henry asked her.

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“Hello, John Henry!” said Ruby. “Is dat you?” “Must be,” said John Henry. “I’m standin’ hyar tawkin’.” “And I bet you huntin’ for dat low-down Julie Anne, ain’t you?” Ruby asked him. “Must be,” said John Henry. “I’m knockin’ on her door.” “She’s long gone,” said Ruby. “Whyn’t you come on over to my house, John Henry, and lemme tell you all about dat gal?” So John Henry went over to Ruby’s house and sat down. “Hang up yo’ hat in de hall, darlin’, ” said Ruby, “and th’ow yo’ shoes under de bed. Make yo’se’f easy around de house, ’cause dis is whar big old you gonter live at.” “My hat’s restin’ easy on my haid,” said John Henry, “and my shoes don’t pinch my feets. So come on, old ugly gal, and tell me whar Julie Anne gone at.” “I reckon she must be yo’ Julie Anne,” said Ruby. “She’s ev’ybody else’s Julie Anne and I don’t see how come she ain’t you’n, too. But I reckon she off right now wid a nigger named Sam.” John Henry looked at Ruby and then he loked out the window. Ruby was black and bony and ugly, and the street outside was knee-high with weeds. “You tryin’ to put my woman in de dozens?” John Henry asked her. “Not me,” said Ruby. “She was in de dozens long befo’ I ever hyared her name. Dat gal is too low down —” “She’ll come back quick as she hyars I’m in town,” John Henry said. “Maybe,” said Ruby. “But can’t nobody never tell about dat gal. Sometime she do and sometime she don’t. But me, I never would come back, ’cause I wouldn’t run off. So come on, Big Stuff, and hang yo’ hat in de hall and th’ow yo’ shoes under my foldin’-bed, cause Julie Anne is long gone and I’m yo’ woman now.” Ruby talked fast and she said a heap and John Henry didn’t say a word. He just listened at Ruby’s talk. But the first thing he knew his head got hot and his shoes started pinching his feet. “Look like you puttin’ de word on me, baby,” he told her, “but you ain’t de gal for me.” “I’m wid you, ain’t I?” Ruby asked him. “Den I’m yo’ woman, ’cause de woman which is present is de onliest woman to know. So come on and pick yo’ woman, John Henry, and pick one close around. Sometime a big purty ricebird fly in f ’m de swamps and sets on de wires by de house. She mighty purty to look at, preenin’ and twistin’ and carryin’ on. But de fust thing you know, she done flew away. Den she ain’t purty no more.” “I’d fly off wid her,” said John Henry, and he stood up and sang a song: “Good-by, good-by, my Ruby gal, And I hopes you’s feelin’ fine, ’Cause I’m f ’m de Black River country Whar de sun don’t never shine, Lawd, Lawd, Whar de sun don’t never shine.”

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And he got up and walked out of the house. “So long, Ruby,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.” When he got out in the street he looked up and he saw Julie Anne walking straight toward him. “Hy-dy, darlin’!” said John Henry. “I been huntin’ for you.” “I don’t live in Ruby’s house,” said Julie Anne. “Ruby say you went off wid a nigger name Sam,” John Henry told her. “Ruby say a heap,” said Julie Anne. “Did you?” said John Henry. “Do you see me wid a nigger named Sam?” Julie Anne asked him. “I didn’t see you in yo’ own house,” said John Henry. Julie Anne didn’t say a word. She just walked along and sang: “I wisht I was a little bird. I’d fly over de mountain-top so high. Den I’d weep like a willow and moan like a dove, Den I’d lay my burden down and die, Lawd, Lawd, And lay my weary burden down and die.” “Yeah,” said John Henry, “but you got to hold up yo’ haid.” “Efn I was a man,” said Julie Anne, “I’d hold up my haid. But I ain’t no man, so I kin hang my haid and cry.” They walked on down the street for a long ways. John Henry knew what he was thinking about in his mind, but he couldn’t find the words to tell her, and Julie Anne knew what she was thinking, but she was tongue-tied, too. So finally when they got to the house, John Henry took the key and unlocked the door. He walked inside and hung his hat in the hall. Then he took his shoes off and pitched them under the bed. Then he took Julie Anne by the right hand and sang to her: “I’m big and black and six foot tall And my feet don’t tetch de ground. So I takes my gal by her right hand, ’Cause I aims to git around, Lawd, Lawd, Yes, I’m fixin’ to git around.” “Sho is,” said Julie Anne, “but you jest set down in de cheer and wait to I gits back, darlin’.” And she got up and left the house. Pretty soon there was a knock on the door, but John Henry didn’t say a word. So there was another knock and a man said: “Open up de door, darlin’. Dis is Sam.” John Henry didn’t say a word. “Go on and open up de door,” said Sam. “Dat nigger named John Henry ain’t studdin’ you. He done come back and tuck up wid a gal name’ Ruby. You know old

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slew-foot Ruby, live acrost de street? Well, dat’s who yo’ big man is tuck up wid. So come on, baby, and open up de door. Be sweet to me and forgit dat old country boy.” So when John Henry heard that talk he got mad. But he bit his tongue and squeezed his throat until his voice sounded like a woman’s. So he said, “Hold on a minute, darlin’, to I finds de key.” So John Henry got up and unlocked the door. And Sam walked in like a coon in a steel trap! “Don’t make me mad, Sam,” John Henry told him, “ ’cause I’m big and bad and I’m hard to handle.” And he grabbed that nigger named Sam by the throat and choked him until his tongue flopped liked a bell-clapper. “Don’t never lie on me to my woman, Sam,” he said, “ ’cause I can’t stand bein’ lied on.” And he doubled up his fist and hit Sam on the jaw. “Don’t try to creep on me when I’m ramblin’ around,” he said, “ ’cause I’m fixin’ to live hyar wid my woman and I won’t want to tear de house down.” So he grabbed Sam by the heels and he knocked down the rafters with Sam’s head. “And don’t hang around me, Sam,” he said, “ ’cause you don’t b’long in dis shanty.” And he threw Sam out the window. After a long time Julie Anne came back. “Don’t tear de house down, darlin’, ” she told him, “ ’cause us is fixin’ to live hyar.” John Henry reached out and took Julie Anne by the hand again. But he dropped it right quick. “What’s all dat hay and grapes doin’ in yo’ hand, baby?” he said. “I don’t know,” said Julie Anne. “I been over tawkin’ to Ruby about you, some, and dat might not be hay and grapes. Dat might be hair and eyeballs.” “Well,” said John Henry, “you can’t pick Sam up wid a shovel, and dis house ain’t fitten for kindlin’-wood, so us might as well be gittin’ around some. I’m fixin’ to find me a job er work. So come on, you good-lookin’ woman, and follow John Henry around.” And then he sang to her: “Grab yo’ bundle and grab yo’ hat, And grab yo’ dress er red. Grab yo’ man by his-a right hand, And follow whar’s you’s led, Lawd, Lawd, ’Cause you hyared what I said.” She took him by the right hand and sang back at him: “Grab my hat and grab my bundle And grab my dress er blue. Grab my man by his right hand. I’m gonter follow you, Lawd, Lawd, I’m gonter follow you.”

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SHOULDER YOUR LOAD AND WALK When John Henry left Saratoga Street with his Julie Anne by his side he was a happy man. “Us is goin’ whar hit’s a job er work, baby,” he said. “I hyared old man Billie Bob Russell was layin’ down de steel on de Yaller Dog railroad up by Natchez, and old Billie Bob pays a dollar a day.” “Anywhar you says, John Henry,” Julie Anne told him. “You go and den turn around and you see me standin’ at yo’ side. All de time like dat, John Henry. F’m now on, hunh? ’Cause I loves you so good.” They went down to the river landing and John Henry went up to the mate of the Big Jim White. “Hy-dy, Cap’m,” he said. “I’m John Henry and I wants a job, I comes f ’m de Black River country whar all de good rousterbouts comes f ’m, and I’m gittin’ up to Natchez for a job er work. I needs to roust my way up de river.” “Roust, John Henry,” the big mate told him. “You roust at the landings and I’ll pay you six bits and board.” So John Henry got in line, ready to roust freight on the Big Jim White. But when he got in line he saw that nobody but men were rousting, and he knew Julie Anne couldn’t roust. So he went back to the mate. “I got a woman, too, Cap’m,” he said. “A woman can’t roust,” said the mate. “She kin maid on de boat,” said John Henry. “Too many maids now,” said the mate. “Every nigger on the main deck wants to haul his woman round as a maid. Can’t haul your woman, John Henry. I can haul you, but if your woman rides she’s got to pay her fare.” “Us ain’t got no money to pay de fare,” said John Henry. “Then,” said the mate, “leave her at home.” “Ain’t got no home,” John Henry said. “Dat’s how come us goin’ up to Natchez, ’cause my home got tored down.” “Leave your woman here, then,” said the mate, “and find you a new one up at Natchez. A big buck like you ought to find a woman anywhere he goes.” John Henry went back and got in line. He saw Julie Anne sitting on a sack of sweet sugar by the gangplank. She was waiting for him to tell her to go on board. He looked at her and then he looked at the other women standing around, waiting for their men to tell them to get on board. So he sang himself a little song: “I ain’t never gonter stay married. And I ain’t gonter settle down. ’Cause I can find me a sweet woman In mighty nigh any town, Lawd, Lawd, So I’ll ramble round and round.” Then John Henry went to work rousting freight down the stage. And while he rousted freight Julie Anne sat on the sweet-sugar sack and waited. Every time he

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went up the plank he passed her and every time he went down he passed her. But he just passed her by. “ ’Cause a woman,” he said, “is too much trouble for a good man to haul around, and I got to git around de country.” But about that time there was a big nigger named Sam rousting in the line and Sam went up to Julie Anne. “Hello, baby,” Sam told her. “Big lump er black sugar, settin’ on a big sack er white sugar.” “No mind what is settin’ on which,” Julie Anne told him. “And no mind is I’m sugar or is I’m black. You jest tote yo’ load, son, and leave me be.” Sam laughed and put his finger on Julie Anne’s cheek and then put it in his mouth. “Sho is sweet, baby,” he said. Then he put his finger in the sugar sack, and put it in his mouth. “You so sweet, darlin’, ” he said, “you makes dis sugar taste bitter as gall.” John Henry saw that, but he was aiming to leave poor Julie Anne behind, so he didn’t say anything. But it worried him to hear Sam going on like that. “I wish dat gal didn’t bear down on me no harden den dis freight I’m totin’, ” he said. “But dat good-lookin’ heifer bear down so hard on my weary mind.” But he didn’t do anything about it; he just kept right on toting his freight. But the next time around he heard Sam talking low to Julie Anne. “When de boat pull out,” Sam told her, “well, I’m stayin’ behind, jest like you is. And me and you gonter take dese wages I’m makin’ and us is gonter spend ‘em all over town. Me and you, hunh, baby?” Julie Anne looked at Sam and then she looked at big John Henry. She didn’t say a word. She just hung her head and sang a song: “Ef I travel wid my lovin’ man, How kin I travel wid you? But efn John Henry leave me settin’ hyar, What kin a poor gal do, Lawd, Lawd, And I might good-time wid you.” When John Henry heard that song he got mad. “Don’t make me mad, woman,” he said. “Who gonter leave you behind? What you singin’ songs at dat Sam for? Ain’t you fixin’ to git around wid me? I said I was gittin’ around wid you, and dat’s what I means.” “I said I was gittin around wid you, too, darlin’, ” said Julie Anne. “But you’s big and bad and kin find a woman anywhar you go. And how kin I roust my way up the river wid you? And efn I can’t roust, who gonter pay my steamboat fare?” “Don’t ax me how, gal,” John Henry told her. “Don’t ax me why. But I’m John Henry and I’m six foot tall and my feets don’t touch de ground. And efn I say’s I’m takin’ you wid me, sweet thing, well, just watch old John Henry.” Then John Henry went up to the mate and told him; he said, “Cap’m, is I’m a good rouster?”

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“You are, John Henry,” said the mate. “You’re from the Black River country, and you’re the best rouster in the line. But a rouster can’t make but six bits a day and board.” “S’posin’, ” said John Henry, “I take dem six bitses and pays my woman’s steamboat fare up to Natchez?” “A rouster’s wages,” said the mate, “won’t pay a woman’s fare but halfway to Natchez. She’ll have to walk halfway. You’d have to be two men to haul your woman around.” “I’m two times as good a rouster as dat nigger named Sam, ain’t I?” said John Henry. “You may be,” said the mate, “but Sam stays in line, and he totes a sack of sugar on every time you do.” So John Henry made one more go-round. The big sack of sugar he toted weighed two hundred pounds. But it didn’t bear down on him like poor little Julie Anne did. “Do I tote two sacks er sugar,” said John Henry, “whilst dat nigger named Sam is totin’ only jest one, den do I gits two-times on my wages?” “If you’re man enough to do it,” said the mate. So John Henry looked at Julie Anne and then he looked at the driver. “Load me down, you sugar-lifters,” he said, “ ’cause I’m two men rolled up in one and I’m drawin’ down two men’s wages. I got a sack er sugar on my back and a sack er sugar on my weary mind. So put two sacks on my back and stand out er my way, you bullies. Stand back, you Sam, and leave me pass. Double work and double wages, ’cause my sweet Julie Anne got to ride de boat. Load me down, you h’isters. Put a two hund’ed pound sack on my right shoulder, and put a two hund’ed pound sack on my left shoulder, ’cause I’m big John Henry and I’m tree-top tall, and I hauls my woman around.” “Tawks like a Black River rouster,” said the driver, “and he built like a man and he kin haul his woman round. But you, John Henry, listen to a old river nigger f ’m de Black River land whar de sun don’t never shine.” “Say on, driver, say on,” said John Henry, “ ’cause I kin stand hyar loaded down like a four-mule wagon and listen at yo’ tawk.” “Well,” said the driver, “befo’ yo’ time and befo’ my time hit was a big rousterbout named Sam. Sam was big and bad and six foot tall, and he hauled his woman round. But Sam is long daid, now, and his woman got a brand new man, ’cause Sam worked double to pay her fare, but he didn’t made no wages. And how you gonter buy a woman a dress and what she gonter eat durin’ de lay-off ? You’s big and stout like two men, and what you gonter do for wages? You works double and pays her fare, but a gal got to buy some dresses. Two men kin haul a woman around, but hit’s always some yuther man makin’ de wages which gonter git dat woman. You spent yo’ time payin’ her steamboat fare, and what you gonter do for

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a cook stove? Some nigger wid a dollar in his hand come right along behind you, and de first thing you know yo’ gal is gone and you can’t do nothin’ about hit.” John Henry stood and listened to the river man’s talk until finally he got the idea. It took two men to haul a woman and a third man to keep her happy! “Dat’s me,” said John Henry. “I might look like one big man, and I might look like two men. But pitch another sack er sugar somewhar on me, and watch me make dese wages. I’m haulin’ my gal up de river and I aims to haul her right. Efn hit takes one man to haul a woman, well, dat’ll be a man named me. Efn hit takes two men to haul a gal, well, dey call dat man John Henry. And efn hit takes three men to make her happy, well, dem men will be my mama’s son. So pile dat sugar high on my haid whilst I makes three men’s wages. Pile hit up tree-top high, and stiddy me down de gangplank. Tell de cook to feed me three times, ’cause I’m three men all in one. And tell de Cap’m to pay me my wages like my name was three names long. “So git on de boat, you Julie Anne, and git out er my way you bullies. I’m a roustin’ fool f ’m I don’t know whar, and my feets don’t tetch de ground. Pile up de sugar on my weary back, and ease my heartfelt burden. Sing me a song whilst I coonjines down, and grab me when I gits dar, ’cause I’m a ramblin’ rouster and I can’t be stopped.” And he coonjined down the plank, singing: “Pile my tote-load tree-top high, ’Cause I’m roustin’ all de time. D’ruther have a burden on my poor back, Den a woman on my weary mind, Lawd, Lawd, Den a woman on my weary mind.” And that big John Henry from the Black River country danced down the gangplank carrying six hundred pounds of sugar on his head and shoulders, making three men’s wages, all for his Julie Anne! JOHN HENRY’S PATHWAY When the Big Jim White pulled out from New Orleans that hot summer day she was loaded smokestack high with sugar. And on top of the highest sack stood big John Henry, bowing to the people on the bank and tipping his hat to the ladies. “ ’Cause I’m a man and I’m gittin’ around,” he said. “I’m big and work don’t hurt me. I’m two men and I’m haulin’ my woman wid me, ’cause I’m big and stout and I rousts like I don’t know what. Sugar in a sack and sugar in a dress, hit’s all one and de same. So stand back, you river rats, and lay low, you dirt-eaters, ’cause I’m haulin’ my Julie Anne wharever I goes and my feet don’t tetch de ground.”

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But while John Henry was making his say-so on top of the sugar, the big old driver of the Big Jim White was listening and looking. “You better lay down, son,” he said. “You brash now and you’s loaded sugar. But hit’s a woman gonter take ev’ything you got and beg for more. So lay down, you rouster, and rest yo’ weary bones.” “How come I better lay down?” John Henry asked him. “I ain’t sick and I ain’t tired and I ain’t built for restin’. All dat sugar I been roustin’ jest make my muscles soople. Efn dis boat two times as big as hit is, I wouldn’t mo’n git up a sweat, ’cause my bones is made outn solid steel and my muscles is made outn rubber. Hit takes three sacks er sugar to git a spring in my knees and make a song in my shoulder.” Then John Henry pranced and talked all over the top of that big pile of sugar, making his say-so to the people. “He might be Samson and he might be Goliar,” the people said, “but he tawks like big John Henry.” Now John Henry was big and he was a man, but the Big Jim White was a steamboat on the river. John Henry was riding the Big Jim White but the White was riding the river. And all the while John Henry was standing so high on that sugar, making his man-talk to the people the Big Jim White was riding on the river, dipping her big sidewheels in the bosom of the old witch and stirring up plat-eyes. So the first thing anybody knew, the river whispered a song to the steamboat and the steamboat rocked like a cradle, and the steamboat rocked John Henry. Until the first thing John Henry knew he heard a big brass band playing a sweet song behind the stars, and he thought it was his poor old mamma singing: “When John Henry was a little bitty boy And a-settin’ on his mamma’s knee, Said he’d git around like a natchal man, But he’d have to shet his eyes to see, Lawd, Lawd, And he’d have to sleep and dream to see.” So John Henry sat down and closed his eyes while the old river rocked a sweet dream into John Henry’s big stout body. The dream came up and sat down by John Henry and took him by the right hand. “John Henry,” said the dream, “don’t mind me, ’cause I ain’t nothin’ but a dream. But shet yo’ eyes, son, and look at what I’m fixin’ to show you. You ain’t one man, son, but you’s three. You’s one man to pay yo’ fare, and you’s one man to pay yo’ woman’s fare, and you’s one man to make yo’ wages. Dat makes three men, ’cause a man got to make wages or else he ain’t no man.” “I knows all about dat,” said John Henry. “I’m makin’ my wages.” “You’s bound for up-de-river, John Henry,” the dream told him, “and you’s takin’ yo’ woman along. Well, dat’s de way for a man to do. Anybody kin git around by hisse’f, but hit takes a man to handle a woman and a job at de same time.”

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“Say on,” said John Henry. “Look twarge de nawth, John Henry,” said the dream. “Look and see all dat big wages! Look at you in dat big Stutson hat, a-ridin’ in dat coach-and-four, wid all de people bowin’ and givin’ you hy-dy when you go by! Do dat suit yo’ taste, son?” “I’m ridin’ by myse’f in dat coach-and-four,” said John Henry. “Ain’t hit no woman kin ride wid me? ’Cause hit ain’t no fun to ride by myse’f.” So the dream turned John Henry around and pointed to the south. “Looky yonder, John Henry,” said the dream. “See all er dem women swarmin’ around you? All dressed up in store-bought dresses wid high-heel shoes and stockin’s, and makin’ a fuss over big old you and carryin’ on so scandalous? Look at Ruby in dat big white hat wid a bird fixin’ to fly offn hit! And yonder Delia and Poor Selma, too, standin’ around and gigglin’! And a heap more gals you ain’t never seen, makin jokes and laughin’!” But John Henry shook his head. “Dat don’t suit my taste,” he said, “and I don’t like all de chatter-chatter. Women chatter like a old guinea hen and dey don’t say nothin’ I likes to listen at.” So the dream pointed toward the east. “Look at all dem gamblin’-men wid dey big box coats and dey neckties. Th’owin’ dem dice and shufflin’ dem cyards, and bein’ big stuff round de cornders! How you like all er dat stuff, John Henry?” “I gambles,” said John Henry, “and I wins and I loses. But I don’t like dem gamblers. Hit’s all too much er de same old thing and de same old thing gits tiresome.” “Den,” said the dream, “look twarge de west and see what you see and tell me does you like hit. Look at big old you in dat big box coat wid de horseshoe pin and de necktie. Wid you Stutson hat on de back er yo’ haid, a-struttin’ amongst de ladies. One gal or a dozen on yo’ tracks and you can’t hardly fight ‘em offn you. ’Cause you’s big and handsome and you’s got a way, and de ladies can’t give you de go-by.” “Dem clothes looks good, and de gals looks nice, but look at dem big yaller shoes! Yaller shoes pinches my feets and a standin’ collar chokes me.” So the dream led John Henry away to the edge of the boat and pointed straight to heaven. “Look at dem wings and dat golden harp and dat big diamond bass hawn. Look at dem silver pots and pans, and look at all de sweet victuals. Hyar de singin’ er songs er Zion, and hyar de gospel preachin’.” But John Henry shook his head. “Nawp,” he said, “de saints is kneelin’ and I’m a man and I don’t kneel to nothin’. And I got to have my victuals plain all cooked down in a iron kittle, wid a heap er side meat to season hit down, and cawnbread to get de potlicker.” Then the dream pointed straight down to hell, and asked John Henry what about it. “Look at dat cocaine and happy dust, and look at de drinkin’ licker! Look at de gamblers all makin’ dey jokes, and look at de spo’tin’ ladies! And look at de smoke comin’ f ’m de pit, and look at de fire in de middle. Look at old Satan all

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r’ared back, a-stirrin’ de sinners wid a pitchfawk! And look at old you, punchin’ dem chunks to keep de fire er burnin’! Well, John Henry, hit looks like you got work and play in hell, efn you jest go after hit. And hit’s a broomstone fire to cook yo’ victuals and hell is full er middlins.” “Look kind er good, and hit look kind er bad,” John Henry told the dream. “Maybe I’d like hit and maybe I won’t, but let me look up de river. Now, looky yonder at my Julie Anne ab’ilin’ down my victuals. Look at dat sweet gal in dat tent whilst I’m workin’ on de railroad. Look at old me wid a hammer in my hand and makin’ dem spikes go down! Hyar dat hammer ring out a song and see hit shine like silver! “Ain’t no hammer kin ring like mine, You kin hyar hit all around. Shine like silver and she ring like gold, And she weighs nine solid pound, Lawd, Lawd, And she weighs nine solid pounds. “Dat,” said John Henry, “is what I’m doin’ so I opens up my eyes and I won’t see no more.” Then John Henry woke up. It was night and the moon was yellow like gold. He turned around to find Julie Anne, but she wasn’t by his side. Then he got up and walked about, and he found her sitting down in a dark place, talking to a big nigger named Sam. “I thought you wa’n’t never gonter wake up,” she told him. “And I been tawkin’ to a friend er mine named Sam.” “How long you been tawkin’ to Sam?” John Henry asked her. “Not for long,” Julie Anne said. “Sam he went to sleep quick as he got on de boat and den he got his sleep out and so he woke up and started tawkin’ to me. But you, you was braggin’ about how big and stout you was, and den you didn’t git yo’ sleep out for so long I got lonesome.” That made John Henry mad. “Look out, woman,” he said; “don’t make me mad. I been workin’ like three men to haul you on dis boat, and dat de way you do me. I works for me and I works for you and I works to make de wages. But dat ain’t enough for you, hunh, gal? You skeered you gonter git lonesome! What kind er thing is you, gal? What do hit take to please you? You come on hyar or I’ll wring yo’ neck and chunk you in de river!” And John Henry grabbed his woman and dragged her away from Sam. Then he sat down beside her and watched the moon get high in the night and turn everything to silver. The Big Jim White dipped up a sweet song and sent it up to them. But the wise old driver shook his head, for he knew all about John Henry. And he knew all about Julie Anne, too, because Julie Anne was a woman. “He’s a man,”

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said the driver, “and dat ain’t no lie. But Julie Anne’s a woman. So set close and watch de moon rise high, ’cause hit gits hot at daylight. You’s restin’ now, but you’s loaded down, and yo’ burden sho is heavy. Hit ain’t on yo’ back, but hit’s on yo’ soul, so John Henry, God bless you.”

RING, STEEL, RING When old man Billie Bob Russell got ready to lay the steel down on his Yellow Dog railroad he sent for all the niggers for a hundred miles around. “I’m laying down steel on the Yaller Dog line,” he said. “From Yazoo City through the Delta. So what are you niggers going to do about that? I’m paying a dollar a day in camp and I want to hear that steel ring out. So get going, you bullies, and lay me down some steel. Old One-eyed Bill Shelly is going to pull the tail on the first train down the line, so I’m using ninety-pound steel on white-oak cross-ties and nine-inch spikes to hold it down. So line out, you bullies, and lay me down some steel. Grab your hammers and let that steel ring out like a bell.” So the niggers got their shovels and buried the cross-ties. Then they got their hooks and they placed the steel end to end for a solid thousand miles. And then they got their hammers! “Hold dem spikes, you holders,” said the hammer men, “whilst I sinks dis spike in dat hard oak cross-tie.” And they swung their hammers. But the wood was hard and the spikes were long and they couldn’t hide them in the ties. So the drivers made up a song and sang it to the holders and the holders listened and sang it back to them, line for line: “Dis old hammer—wham! Dis old hammer—wham! Jest a little too heavy—wham! Jest a little too heavy—wham! For my size—wham! Baby for my size—wham!” “Drive ’em down, you bullies,” said old man Billie Bob Russell. “Break the handle off, but bury them spikes in that white-oak tie.” So the drivers swung their hammers harder and they made up another song: “Hammer on, bullies—wham! Hammer on, bullies—wham! And make yo’ time—wham! And make yo’ time—wham! ’Cause I’m burnt out—wham!

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’Cause I’m burnt out—wham! And I can’t make mine—wham! Lawdy, and I can’t make mine—wham!” But there was a big nigger named Sam who wouldn’t work with the others and he wouldn’t sing with the others. He had his holder at the other end of the rail and he swung his hammer from his hip so hard that in just two licks he’d bury a nineinch spike in white oak cross-ties. “Sing, you niggers,” Sam told them, “and bear down on dem spikes. But don’t git in de way of a hammer-swingin’ man like me, ’cause I’m burnin’ out my holder jest holdin’ de spikes for me to hit. Now watch me whilst I sings y’all a song and sinks more spikes den my holder kin hold.” So he and his holder sang: “Ain’t no hammer—wham! In dis Delta—wham! Ring like mine—wham! Lawdy, ring like mine—wham! ’Cause dis old hammer—wham! Shine like silver—wham! And she ring like gold—wham! Lawdy, ring like gold—wham!” “Well, all right, Sam,” said old man Billie Bob Russell. “You are a hammerswinging man and you make it ring. So lay down on that handle and sink them nine-inch spikes. If you run out of spikes I’ll haul you some more.” “I reckon hit ain’t nobody kin handle a hammer like me,” said Sam. “I comes f ’m Georgia whar de hammer is a man’s middle name. I was riz up wid a hammer handle to play wid over in Cobb County whar de marble comes f ’m, and I reckon swingin’ a hammer comes natchel for me. O’ course I ain’t de best hammer man in de world, but de best’n is daid now, so dat leave only me.” “Who say de best hammer man is daid?” It was Big John Henry that had come to camp, and he was six feet tall the day he got there. “I ain’t daid, and I ain’t f ’m Georgia,” said John Henry, “and I wan’t bawn wid no hammer in my hand. But I comes f ’m de Black River country whar hit’s night all de time, and my feets don’t tetch de ground. So I rousts and I roams and I rambles around, and I hauls my woman wid me. Whilst I’m workin’ on dis Yaller Dog line, she gonter cook my victuals. But efn hit’s a man which kin drive more steel den me, well go and claim my victuals, ’cause my Julie Anne done told me, she say, ‘John Henry, you’s a man and I loves you good. But do I find a better man den you, well, git yo’ hat and wawkin’ cane and git on down de road.’ So hyar I stand, full six foot tall and my feets don’t tetch de ground. Yonder in de tent is my Julie Anne, cookin’ turnip greens and

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cawn-bread. So line up to de rail, you fat-mouf Sam, and le’s see you swing yo’ hammer. Efn you kin outswing me, den I don’t want no supper.” “You’s big and stout,” said this nigger named Sam, “but you can’t swing no hammer. You ain’t big enough to hold de spikes whilst I sinks ’em in de cross-ties. But I ain’t et no turnip greens and good old hard hoecake in so long dat I don’t know when, and so I’m gonter race you. “We’ll jest drive spikes for a solid mile, and de man which wins gits de supper.” “Gimme a hammer,” said John Henry, “and gimme two spike holders. I wants my hammer to weigh nine pounds and a handle er second-growth hickory. Slim and limber so she’ll spring when I lays my strenk behind hit. And gimme some holders which sets and gits, so’s I won’t mash they hands off. So scatter down de track, you holders, and set spikes on dem cross-ties, ’cause I’m comin’ down like I don’t know what and old hell can’t stop me.” All the holders lined up down the track, holding spikes on the cross-ties, and then Sam and John Henry got their hammers and lined up at the mark. “I’ll drop my hat,” said old man Billie Bob Russell, “and when it hits the ground I want to hear them hammers ring and I want to see the spikes sink. We’re laying a thousand miles of railroad line and we ain’t hardly started. So line up, you hammer-swinging bullies, and set them spikes, you holders, because I’m fixing to drop my hat and start this thing a-going.” And then old man Billie Bob Russell’s hat hit the ground. And when his hat hit the ground, the hammers rang like a bell! Every time Sam sank a spike, John Henry sank one, too, and every time John Henry sank a spike, old Sam swung his hammer. Down the track they went, sinking spikes at every lick and yelling for more room to work in. Sam worked faster, but John Henry worked harder. Sam sang him a song that was as fast as his swinging: “Dis old hammer—wham! Killed John Henry—wham! But hit can’t kill me—wham! Lawd, hit can’t kill me—wham!” But John Henry swung his hammer from his hip like a song he knew and the words rolled out with the swinging: “You hyar my nine-pound hammer ring, Oh, she ring jest like a bell. Don’t let my hammer fall on you, ’Cause hit’ll drive you plum to hell, Lawd, Lawd, And I tell you fare thee well.”

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John Henry and Sam stayed side by side for a long time. John Henry sang and swung from his hip, but finally Sam’s eyes got a far-away look and he changed his song to a new one: “Blow yo’ whistle—wham! Mamma, you kin toot yo’ hawn—wham! But when de Cap’m call me—wham! He’ll find his driver gone—wham!” And then old Sam burned out on the job! He staggered to the shade and yelled for the water-boy. “Take off my shoes,” he said, “and open up my shirt at de neck, ’cause I seed de devil’s pitch-fawk.” So they took off his shoes and opened up his shirt, but John Henry kept on swinging. “Go on, John Henry,” said old man Billie Bob Russell. “You’re a hammer-swinging man from I don’t know where, and I like to hear that steel ring.” “Jes gittin’ soople,” John Henry said, “and jest gittin’ started to sweatin’. So string out some more spike-holders down de line and bring me a brand-new hammer, ’cause I see de sun gittin’ low in de west and I got to git done before sundown.” So they brought him a new hammer and they set his spikes, and all the holders sang a song for him to work by: “John Henry was a hammer-swingin’ man, Burned out dat nigger name’ Sam. And ef dat ain’t swingin’ like a natchal man, Well, den, I’ll be damn, Lawd, Lawd, Well, den, I’ll be damn.” John Henry swung his hammer until the sun went down, and when the sun went down he drove his last spike in that railroad line. So he said: “Well, I’m a man and I works like a man, so now I’m fixin’ to eat. So go tell my woman to take de kittle offn de stove and go spread out my victuals. Pile my turnip greens tree-top tall and bury ’em down wid middlin’. Pour my pot-licker in a ba’l and bring my bread in a basket.” So John Henry went on back to camp and he walked up to his tent. “What my supper, baby?” he said. “Come on and feed John Henry.” But there wasn’t a sound came from the tent, and John Henry looked about him. So about that time the old woman came up and said, “Hit ain’t no supper, John Henry. Yo’ gal fed hit all to a nigger name’ Sam, and den she got her bundle. And de last I seed er yo’ Julie Anne she was cuttin’ down de levee, swingin’ on to old Sam’s arm and gigglin’ like she loved him.”

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So John Henry sat down on the ground and he looked at the old woman. “Ain’t I a man?” he said. “And ain’t I makin’ her wages? Didn’t I burn dat Sam out and didn’t I swing my hammer? How come dat woman quit a man like me and take up wid dat fat-mouf ?” The old woman looked at John Henry and then she looked at the moon. John Henry was big and dark, but the moon was new and yellow. “Ah, Lawd, John Henry,” the old woman said. “Ah, Lawd, John Henry. Efn I told you how come Julie Anne left you, den you’d know mo’n I know, ’cause Julie Anne is a woman and you’s a man. But, son, dat ain’t de answer. You works hard when Sam lays around, so Julie Anne up and quit you. But dat ain’t de reason, too, John Henry, ’cause hit’s jest de way things like dat goes, and hit ain’t no reason for hit. Sometime a woman stick to a man, and sometime she up and quit him. She do or she don’t, ’cordin’ to how things is, but dat ain’t de reason. So, ah, Lawd, son,” the old woman said. “Ah, Lawd, John Henry. You’s big and fine and six foot tall. Ah, Lawd, John Henry.”

DOWN THE ROAD A man is a man and John Henry was six feet tall, but Julie Anne quit him for a nigger named Sam who wasn’t half the man John Henry was. So the big man from the Black River country stood up by the side of his cook stove and he looked into the kettles. He had brought Julie Anne to the Yellow Dog camp to cook his victuals while he worked out on the railroad swinging a nine-pound hammer. But the stove was cold and the kettles were empty and Julie Anne was long gone. “A woman,” said John Henry, “is a heap er fun, but she kin be a heap er bother, too. So I’m a man which don’t grieve after no woman when she’s gone ’cause hit’s more whar she comed f ’m.” And then he sang himself a song: “I was bawn in de Black River country Twice as big as I kin be. But hit ain’t never yit been no woman Kin make a fat-mouf outn me, Lawd, Lawd, Kin make a fat-mouf outn me.” No sooner had John Henry sung that song until a girl named Ruby walked up. Ruby lived in a tent at the end of the line, but she had had her eye on big John Henry ever since he came into camp. So she said, “Listen at dat big old hammerswingin’ man sing dat fool song! Hit ain’t no man on dis Delta kin swing a hammer like you and hit ain’t no man nowhars kin sing a song like you. I told my sister, quick as I saw you, I says, ‘Look at dat big old gi’nt,’ I say, ‘I bet dat big scound’el could change my mind all over de place, did he ha’fway try.’ ”

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“Say which?” said John Henry. “Say I told my sister, I say, ‘Look at dat puny little old gal he brang along to take up wid’. I told her, I say, ‘Dat Julie Anne ain’t no kind er gal for a big hammerswingin’ man like John Henry.’ ” “You was right,” John Henry told Ruby. “Julie Anne wa’n’t woman enough for a man like me, and neither is no yuther woman, ’cause I’m a man er my own and I does my work and I eats my victuals in de grub-shack, ’cause me and de gals don’t git along and hit’s too much trouble to bother. Gimme a nine-pound hammer wid a limber handle, or gimme a big cotton hook, or maybe a Number Four shovel, and I kin git along. But a woman wearies my mind and I don’t like to bother. So git along, you Ruby gal, and make yo’ tawk to some man which loves you, ’cause I’m done wid de ladies f ’m now on, and I don’t need no company.” So John Henry went to work on the line all day long, swinging his hammer and driving down spikes. He burned out all the other hammer-swinging men and then he started burning out the holders. “ ’Cause I’m big and stout and my mind is free, and I eats my grub in de cook-tent. Ain’t no weary woman on my mind and my soul don’t bear no burden. So bring me a brand-new nine-pound sludge wid a four-foot hickory handle, and stand back, you bullies, ’cause I’m big and I’m named John Henry.” John Henry worked and sweated and ate, but he didn’t have much fun and the cook-shack grub didn’t suit his taste. So he went up to the old woman and asked her, he said: “How come I ain’t happy? I burned out all de mens on de job and about burned out de holders. I eats like a hog and I sleeps like a dog, but I don’t feel so happy. So come on, old woman, and spread de news and tell me what de trouble.” The old woman took John Henry by the right hand and led him down the line. “You’s man,” she said, “and you works like a man, and you think dat makes you happy. But, John Henry, you made yo’ path, so you might jest as well put yo’ foot in hit and wawk. Give you a cotton hook or a nine-pound sludge and ain’t nobody kin fool you. Let de sun shine hot so’s you kin sweat and you kin burn out de devil. But work ain’t all a man got to do, ’cause a man got to have him a woman.” John Henry left the old woman and walked up and down the line all night long. The moon went down and the stars came out and the varmints in the bottoms sang and fought the whole night through while John Henry walked with his worry. But when the sun came up John Henry went to Ruby’s tent and called out to her: “Ruby,” he told her, “ain’t I a man, and can’t I swing a hammer?” “You is and you kin, you big old gi’nt,” Ruby told him. “But a man got to eat,” John Henry said. “Ain’t hit de trufe,” Ruby said, “but how do you know? ’Cause ain’t nobody ever fed a man like you like you ought to be eatin’. A man like you needs turnip greens so high you can’t tetch bottom, wid middlin’ meat b’iled down so soft hit slips down widout chewin’. And a heap er cabbages, too, wid a great big slugs er side

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meat. And den I dreens de potlicker off in a ba’l and feeds you dat wid a dipper. And I cooks cawn-bread in a four-foot pan and pour cracklin’s in wid a shovel, ’cause a man like you got to eat like a man, and dat’s how I’m gonter feed you. So step inside and take my right hand whilst I gits you up some breakfast, and whilst you’s burnin’ de hammer men down I’m gonter come out and watch you.” So John Henry took Ruby by the right hand and went into her tent for breakfast. Then he got a brand-new hammer and went to work out on the railroad. “Hold my spikes,” he told the holders. “Set ’em and git, ’cause I’m comin’. I sinks a spike wid every lick, and I makes my hammer rattle. Set dem spikes on both sides er de rail, and don’t let me see my shadow, ’cause I comes f ’m de place whar de sun don’t shine and I got to sweat down my breakfast.” So John Henry worked for forty days, and Ruby didn’t let him get hungry. The harder he worked the more he ate and the more he ate the harder he worked, but always there was something missing. He talked and he bragged and he drove his spikes, but inside he was restless. Ruby fed him like a baby, and when she wasn’t cooking for him in the tent, she came out to the railroad and watched while John Henry burned out the men, and then she would give them the yi-yi. “Whyn’t you be a man like my John Henry?” she yi-yied as the men hit the shade. “Look at dat big old gi’nt swing dat sludge and watch dem spikes sink down. ’Cause he’s a man and he works like a man and you ought to see him ruin my victuals.” “Dat’s de kind er woman for a man to have,” the drivers told the holders. “No wonder John Henry kin lay us in de shade when he got a gal like Ruby. She feeds him so good dat he’s fat and slick, and den she roots whilst he’s workin’. I wisht I had me a gal like her, and den maybe I c’d do better.” John Henry worked and ate like a fool, but he kept on feeling restless. “I wonder whar at is dat Julie Anne,” he said, “and what she doin’. She ain’t nothin’ but a woman to me and I hope she livin’ happy, but I wisht I knowed whar she gone off to and I wonder how come she quit me.” But he made the question one rainy night and nobody but the wet clouds heard it. Ruby was asleep and she didn’t hear, and if she had she couldn’t have answered. But John Henry wanted to know and he kept on seeking the answer. He couldn’t find the answer in his work, and he couldn’t find it in Ruby. So one day he told her to get him his hat and get him his walking-shoes. “ ’Cause maybe I got a eetch on my heel,” he said, “or else I’m woman weary. Whatever hit is, I’m gittin’ around and I’m travelin’ by my lonesome. So fare you well, my Ruby gal, and keep yo’ kittle b’ilin’, ’cause hit’s many a man like de way you cooks and you don’t has to git lonesome.” “Fare you well,” she told him, “and I wish you mighty well. But befo’ you leave me you might tell me how come you’s leavin’. And you might tell yo’ Ruby, too, which way yo’ toes is p’intin’, ’cause I loves you sweet, you great big man, and I works so hard to please you.”

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So John Henry took Ruby by the right hand for the last time and he led her out of the tent. “Look at dat moon,” he told her, “and look at dat ring around hit.” “What do dat mean?” she asked him. “Hit mean de same thing which is why I’m leavin’ you behind, gal,” he said, “and hit got de answer whar I’m goin’.” “Don’t ju-ju tawk me, darlin’, ” Ruby said. “Ain’t I cooked for you since you been hyar? And ain’t I fed you plenty? Ain’t I mended yo’ overhalls and ain’t I treated you handsome? So don’t ju-ju tawk at me; jest tell me what de moon say.” “Dat’s de p’int,” said John Henry. “You good to me and I loves you good, but now I’m fixin’ to quit you. De answer is yonder up in de moon, and I wished I knowed de answer. De moon got a ring around his tail, and I’m all set for travelin’. Sometime de moon don’t got a ring and sometime hit’s all rung up. Sometime I ain’t got no eetchin’ heel, and sometime I got de run-arounds all over. Hit all one and de same, baby, so fare you well, my Ruby. Keep yo’ cabbages b’iled down low, and keep yo’ skillet greasy, ’cause hit’s many a man love a gal like you, but as for me, I’m travelin’.” And John Henry took his hat and his walking-cane and he walked away from his sweet Ruby at the Yellow Dog railroad camp. He didn’t know where he was bound for and he didn’t know why he was leaving. But he had an itching heel and a runaround soul, because Julie Anne kept calling. THE WAY WITH WOMEN John Henry walked away from the Yellow Dog railroad camp with his hat in his hand and his head held high. He was looking at the tree-tops and at the sun in the sky. In his heart he was singing a farewell song to the Yellow Dog and the Delta. “ ’Cause I’m a man and I works, and den I gits around,” he said. “I done worked and now hit’s time to git around. And dat’s how come I’m travelin’.” So he opened up his mouth so the song in his heart could sing out to the tree-tops as he got on down the road: “I works and I rambles and I rambles and works, And dat’s de way I gits all around. I’m a natchal man and I’m six foot tall, And my feets don’t tetch de ground, Lawd, Lawd, And my feets don’t tetch de ground.” He didn’t know where he was going and he didn’t know what he was going for after he got there, but the strange gravel on the new road scratched his itching heel, and that was all he wanted to know. But the first thing he knew he came up to a landing on the river, and about that time he looked up and saw the Big Jim White with her wheels churning water

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and her nose pointed toward the bank. The captain was standing on the hurricane deck, cursing and yelling, and the mate was on the boiler deck, relaying it down. And the driver was on the main deck, filling in the gaps left by the captain and mate. The whistle was blowing and the bell was ringing and the winch was screeching as the stage came down. “I bet dat boat is fixin’ to land hyar,” said John Henry. “And I bet dey needs a rouster to load on all dis cotton, ’cause how dey gonter git dis cotton down he plank efn dey ain’t got plenty er rousters? And hit ain’t no man kin roust like me, and ev’ybody knows hit.” Then John Henry put his hands up to his mouth and roared like a frog in the canebrake: “Hey, you nigger wid de landin’-line! Chunk me dat rope you got in yo’ hand. I’m gonter tie down de Big Jim White so’s us kin load dis cotton.” Then John Henry grabbed the headlines and dragged the Big Jim White in and tied her to a cypress tree. And before the stage hit the ground that big man from the Black River country had a bale of cotton rolling. “Gimme dat cotton, you niggers,” the driver yelled. “And efn y’all can’t roust hit, well, gangway for a man which can, for yonder stands John Henry!” “Efn you can’t see a man my size,” John Henry told the driver, “jest watch de way dis cotton rolls, and tell me what my name is.” The rousters stood back while John Henry rolled the cotton; and while John Henry rolled cotton the rousters sang: “John Henry was a cotton-rollin’ man. He had his hook in his hand all de time. And befo’ he’d let de driver burn him down, I bet he’d die wid his hook in his hand, Lawd, Lawd, And he rousts like a natchal man.” When the boat was loaded and the gangplank raised John Henry went on deck and sat down on top of the cotton. All the other rousters lay around and talked about the good times down the river and what they were going to do when they got to New Orleans. But John Henry just listened. Finally a big rouster named Sam turned to John Henry and asked him, he said, “What you aimin’ to do when you gits down de river?” “Who, me?” said John Henry. “Do yo’ foot fit a limb?” said Sam. “Wait to I gits down de river,” John Henry said, “and den I’ll make up my mind. But I hyars hit’s a heap er grub and a heap er ladies over back er town.” When the rousters heard that they laughed. “Maybe you didn’t make up yo’ mind,” they said, “when you was totin’ three sacks er sugar on de up-trip hunh? Maybe you didn’t make up yo’ mind when you was sweetin’ dat Julie Anne gal

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around de boat, hunh? Maybe you jest worked like a dog so’s she could ride because you was waitin’ to git up de river to make up yo’ mind?” That made John Henry mad! He stood up on a bale of cotton and roared so loud that the boat stood still. He roared again and it started backing up. And he roared one more time and the river shook between the levees. “Don’t make me mad,” John Henry said, and he grabbed the rouster named Sam and flung him in the river. “Don’t make me mad,” he said again, and he picked up a bale of cotton and threw it at the other rousters, “ ’Cause dat Julie Anne ain’t none er mine and I long since give her de go-by.” The rousters kept quiet after that, but John Henry was not happy. He sat and simmered inside his soul until finally he couldn’t stand it. “Julie Anne wa’n’t no woman er mine,” he told the other rousters. “I had a gal in de Yaller Dog camp which tuck and cooked my victuals. A big, long-legged gal, slick and black, which I called Ruby. Now Ruby was de gal for me, and, Lawd, how dat gal cooked victuals!” He shut his eyes and saw his tent in the Delta country, with Ruby cooking at the stove and calling for her darling. “Turnip greens stacked up tree-top high and cabbages cooked wit middlin’! And cawnpone cooked in a four-foot pan all loaded down wid cracklin’s!” But while he had his eyes shut, watching Ruby cook all the grub, he saw a big stranger walk in her tent and stick his feet under the table! “Un-uhn!” said John Henry. “Hit must er been some changes made since I left de Delta.” Then he opened his eyes and looked at the river, and then he looked at the willows on the levee. “I don’t love dat Ruby gal,” he said. “I jest loved her cookin’.” The boat rocked on down the river and John Henry kept on thinking. He’d close his eye and try to see what lay before him, but the best he could see was a misty fog and the sound of many voices. So finally the old driver came up and told him, he said: “John Henry, you looks wearied. De last time I seed you, you was haulin’ a gal, and now you’s travelin’ lonesome. Whar at is dat Julie Anne which you hauled up de river?” “God knows,” John Henry said, “ ’cause one day when I was workin’ she tuck up wid a nigger name’ Sam, and dat’s de last I seed er dat gal.” “John Henry,” the driver said, “when hit comes to roustin’ you can’t be beat, and I hyars you swings a hammer, but you ain’t much around de gals, so why don’t you give ’em de go-by?” “Who ain’t much around de gals?” John Henry asked. “Man, I kin git more women den I kin handle, and dat’s sayin’ a heap. I had Ruby and Delia and Julie Anne, and I up and quit Poor Selma. I gits me a woman and den I quits, and den I gits me another.” “You might er quit Poor Selma,” said the driver, “but Julie Anne quit you, ’cause I kin see you grievin’ in yo’ heart, and you know dat’s de natchal.”

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“Julie Anne quit me,” John Henry said, “but I was mighty good to her.” “Sho,” said the driver. “Dat’s de way dey’ll do you ev’y time. You do for a woman and she do you bad. But you treat ‘em hard and make ‘em work, and dey love you good.” “Dat might be right,” said John Henry, “ ’cause I didn’t do for Ruby, and she done for me, rain or shine, and she hung her haid when I quit her.” “Well,” said the driver, “hit ain’t no need in argyin’, ’cause a woman is a woman, no matter whar, and dat de way you got to treat ‘em. You kin handle a cotton hook, and I hyars you kin swing a hammer. But you got to handle a woman hard, or else you got some trouble.” John Henry closed his eyes once more and looked down the river. The Big Jim White was churning away, eating up the distance. So he stood up and roared like a lion, and all the rousters listened. “Swarm around me, you river rats, and listen,” John Henry told them. “When I gits down de river I’m gonter git my woman. She’s settin’ in de parlor, cryin’ for me and wishin’ I was wid her. So I’ll take my wages and buy her some clothes and git her dressed up purty. And den I’ll strut by her warm side so’s all er y’all kin see me. I knows how to handle cotton and I knows how to swing a hammer, but de best thing I knows is how to treat de ladies and how to make ‘em love me. I does for her and she do me bad, but dat don’t bile no cabbage, ’cause a gal ain’t stiddy in her haid and she liable to git foolish. So git out er my way, you rousters, and watch old John Henry, ’cause I’m big and bad and I’m six foot tall and I makes my woman love me.” Then John Henry stood up and did a dance on top of the cotton that shook the boat. Then he opened up his mouth and sang a song: “My Julie Anne, she went away f ’m me, But I knowed whar she was at. So I got out my shoes and my wawkin’-cane, And I put on my Stutson hat, Lawd, Lawd, And I put on my Stutson hat.”

DOING FOR HIS WOMAN When John Henry got to New Orleans he went straight to Saratoga Street, where he knew he would find his Julie Anne. She was sitting on the doorstep, crying, and the nigger named Sam was standing on the banquette, abusing her. “I’m sick and tired er yo’ blubberin’ and gwine on,” Sam told her. “You ain’t done nothin’ but tell me how stout dat John Henry is and den set down and cry ev’y since I been keepin’ company wid you. Now you hysh up dat blubberin’. You hyar?”

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“I can’t stop,” Julie Anne said, “ ’cause I miss my John Henry so bad.” “Well den, I’m gonter give you somethin’ to blubber about,” Sam said. “I’m gonter haul off and smack you down. Dat’s what I’m gonter do to you.” And he raised his hand like he was fixing to hit Julie Anne. But he never hit her. John Henry hit Sam first and knocked him clear across the street. “Now mind out, Sam,” John Henry told him. “Don’t make me mad or I’ll come over and hit you. You jest drag on down de street and leave dis woman be. You hyar me?” So Sam went off, and John Henry stepped up and took Julie Anne by the right hand and said, “I’m glad to see you, darlin’.” Julie Anne quit crying and she held John Henry’s big hand in both of hers. “Me, too,” she said. “I knowed you’d hunt me up and come and git me. I never did love no man but you, but I got so lonesome in dat Yaller Dog camp, darlin’, I’d a run off wid a mule efn he had pants on.” “Dat’s all right,” John Henry said. “I ain’t got no hard feelin’s. I’m too glad to git back to you to stand hyar and argy.” “Well, efn dat’s de way you feels,” said Julie Anne, “go hang yo’ hat on de hatrack.” John Henry went inside and hung up his hat. Then he sat down and took off his shoes and threw them under the bed. Then Julie Anne came in, happy and smiling. “I sho am glad you come back home,” she said to John Henry. “Me, too,” John Henry said, and his heart was bursting with joy. But before he knew what he was doing he stood up and slapped Julie Anne down on the floor. And when he did that a big ache came over his soul and a tear drained from his eye. “I didn’t aim to do dat, sweet,” he told her. “I didn’t know I was gonter hit you and I don’t know how come I did. I jest th’owed out my hand and hit smacked you down. I’m too sorry, darlin’.” Then he stooped down and picked Julie Anne up and stood her on her feet. “I’m too sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t want to hit you.” Julie Anne smiled and brushed his face with her hands, “Dat’s all right, darlin’, ” she told him. “I ain’t got no hard feelin’s about dat. And hit didn’t hurt so awful.” Then John Henry slapped her down again, and again tears drained from his eyes when he saw his poor little Julie Anne in a heap on the floor. She was crying low down in her throat and looking at John Henry. “No mind me, darlin’, ” she said. “Dat slappin’ didn’t hurt so much, and I guess I had hit comin’.” But John Henry couldn’t say a word. His heart was dripping sorrow for having slapped his woman. He had never done anything like that before and he didn’t know why he did that. “Julie Anne, darlin’, ” he said, “I didn’t aim to slap you. I don’t know how come I did, but hit sho hurt my feelin’s. Maybe I got too much troubles on my mind,

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and maybe I better git goin’, ’cause I’d druther lose my big right arm den to hurt you jest a little.” And John Henry got his hat and walked up and down the street. There were a heap of houses along the street and a heap of people walking on the sidewalks. But they all whirled around before John Henry and he couldn’t tell which was where, so he kept right on walking. Finally he came up to that nigger named Sam, and he grabbed him by the collar. “Looky hyar, Sam,” he said, “hit’s good dat you didn’t hurt my woman.” Then he knocked Sam down again, and kept right on walking. After a while he came up with old Blind Lemon, sitting on the corner playing his guitar and singing his one-line song: “I love you, woman, but I don’t like yo’ low-down ways.” John Henry stopped and listened awhile and Blind Lemon kept right on singing that same old one-line song. So finally John Henry asked him, he said: “Lemon, whyn’t you go on and finish dat song. Hit sound good while hit’s goin’, but hit ain’t got nowhars. Come on and sing me de rest er dat song.” Blind Lemon stopped singing and looked at John Henry. “Ain’t dat enough?” he asked him. “Son, listen at old Blind Lemon, ’cause I’m gonter tell you somethin’ you don’t know, ’cause don’t nobody know onless he’s been dar, and efn he been dar, hit ain’t no good in me tellin’. Efn you love a woman but you don’t like her low-down ways, den you got trouble to last you all er yo’ days.” John Henry took Blind Lemon by the right hand. “You might be blind and can’t see,” he told him, “but you sho kin see inside er my poor heart, ’cause I loves a gal, but she sho treat me low down. I do for her and she do me bad.” Blind Lemon took John Henry by the right hand and told him, he said: “Son, dat’s trouble you got. Pyore trouble. And de doctor can’t do you no good. You got a trouble which gonter plague you so long as you’s in yo’ right mind. Some fo’ks tries to smother hit down wid cocaine, and some tries to drown hit in gin. But de trouble is on you, son, long as you loves dat gal.” Then Blind Lemon sang John Henry one more song: “Take a shot er cocaine, And take a shot er gin. You kin tell hit’ll kill yo’ troubles, But you can’t tell when. “And,” said Blind Lemon, “don’t nobody keer when efn he got a triflin’ woman on his mind, ’cause hit ain’t but one thing gonter ease dat trouble, son, and dat’s when you fold up and die.” John Henry knew Blind Lemon was telling him the natural truth, so he walked down the street with a heavy heart and a soul like solid lead. But he held his head up and sang a weary, lonesome song:

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“I loves me a friv’lin woman, And her name is Julie Anne. She treat me like a dirdy dog, But I do’s de best I kin, Lawd, Lawd, And I do’s de best any man kin.” About that time John Henry came up with Old Aunt Dinah. She was sitting on her doorstep, looking up and down the street. “Hey, John Henry,” she said, “I hyar you singin’ a song, but hit sound like a sadheart song. Hit’s a mighty nice day to be singin’ such a droopy song.” “Dat wa’n’t me singin’, Old Aunt Dinah,” John Henry told her. “Dat was a burden on my heart which you hyared singin’, ’cause I got troubles. Efn I didn’t had no troubles I’d be singin’ me a glad song. But, naw, I got de down-yonders so bad in my heart dat hit thump like a chunk er lead in my bosom.” Old Aunt Dinah didn’t say a word. She took John Henry by the right hand and sang him a song: “I’m gonter make my troubles easy, On my knees. I’m gonter make my troubles easy, On my knees. I’m gonter git down on my knees And say, Jesus, he’p me, please. I’m gonter make my troubles easy, On my knees.” “Well,” said John Henry, “my troubles bearin’ down mighty hard, but hit ain’t got me down on my knees yit. I kin tote a five-hund’ed pound bale er cotton on my back, and I kin swing a nine-pound hammer to she ring like a bell. And I sho ain’t gonter let no runty little old gal like Julie Anne put me on my knees.” “You tawks might’ brash,” Old Aunt Dinah told him. “Dat might sound like man tawk to you, but hit sound like fool tawk to me.” “Hit might sound like man tawk,” John Henry said, “and hit might sound like fool tawk. But hit sho was a man which said hit, ’cause I’m six foot tall and I works like a dog, and hit ain’t no man kin shade me. I’m big and bad and I rambles and roams, and my feets don’t tetch de ground, ’cause I comes f ’m de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine. So fare you well, Aunt Dinah.” Then John Henry went back to the house and found Julie Anne on the doorstep with a tear in her eye, but she smiled sweet when she saw him. “I’m sho glad you comed back home,” she said, “ ’cause I was lonesome.” “Did you miss me whilst I was gone?” John Henry asked her. “I sho did, darlin’, ” she said.

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But John Henry went through the house and he saw a man’s tracks leading from his back door step to the alley! “Looky hyar, gal,” he said, “who made dem tracks?” “Which tracks?” she asked him. “You kin see dem tracks, same as me,” he said. “Who been creepin’?” Julie Anne looked at the tracks and then she looked up and down the street. Then she cried and told John Henry. “Hit’s a friend of mine name’ Sam,” she said, “comed hyar whilst you was ramblin’. But I won’t never let him come no more efn you say you don’t want him.” “I don’t keer how much he comes,” said John Henry, “ ’cause I’m leavin’ you hyar and now, and you kin have dat nigger.” Julie Anne cried and begged John Henry to stay. “ ’Cause,” she said, “no matter what I done you knows I’m yo’ woman. I can’t change dat and neither kin you, nor neither kin Sam or de doctor. You know I’m yo’s and you know you’s mine. So set down and stay, John Henry.” John Henry looked at Sam’s tracks and then he looked at Julie Anne. “Well,” he said, “don’t let him come no more, and keep de back door bolted, ’cause you do’s me bad but I love you good. Now go and git yo’ bonnet, ’cause I’m gonter dress you up purty. I’ll buy you a dress and a great big hat and high-heel shoes and stockin’s. So come on, darlin’, whilst I buys you some clothes, ’cause dat’s how good I loves you.”

THE HOW LONG SONG John Henry spent all his money on fine clothes for his woman and then he got his overalls and struck out for the river. He found the driver of the Big Jim White and asked for a job of rousting. “I’m f ’m de Black River country,” John Henry said, “and hit ain’t no man a-livin’ which kin outroust me. I totes my cotton hook in my hand, or I kin roust off sugar. I needs to work to make some wages, ’cause I done dressed up my woman. “I buyed her a solid red silk dress and socks and high-heel slippers. I buyed her some green-and-gold year bobs and a great big four-bit diamond. And den I buyed her a coal-black hat as big as all-git-out wid a snow-white dove settin’ on one side to hold dat fool thing on her. And, man, when dat woman wawks down de street you ought to see her struttin’. Wid big old me wawkin’ by her warm side in my box coat and my John B. Stutson!” “You doin’ for dat gal again?” the driver asked John Henry. “And she still treatin’ you like a dog, or else I don’t know women.” “Dat gal told me she love me true,” John Henry told the driver. “And how kin she he’p hit when I puts de true love on her soul and spends my money on her, ’cause ain’t I a man? I’m big and stout and dey don’t come no better.”

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“Git in line,” the driver said. “De more you works de better you’s off. So grab a bale er cotton.” John Henry took his big cotton hook in his right hand and started rolling cotton. The day was hot and he sweated big and his muscles worked like rubber. His heart was light because he felt so good and he knew his woman loved him. “Git out er my way, you bullies,” he said, “and don’t git in de way er dis cotton, ’cause I’m a roustin’ fool f ’m I don’t know whar, and old hell can’t stop me. My woman is waitin’ in a red silk dress, and moanin’ for me to come home wid my pocket full er wages.” Then he opened his mouth and sang himself a cotton-rolling song while he kept the bales rolling down the plank: “I’m big and black and I’m six foot tall, And my feets don’t tetch de ground. I’ll roll dis cotton round and round And I’ll roll dis cotton down, Lawd, Lawd, And I’ll burn you rousters down.” When John Henry sang that song there was a nigger named Sam raised up and listened. Then Sam stuck his cotton hook in the ground and sang back at John Henry: “Well, I ain’t hardly six foot tall And my feet sticks in de ground. Cotton so heavy and de sun so hot, To I b’lieve I’m burnin’ down, Lawd, Lawd, So I lays my cotton hook down.” “Well,” said John Henry, “dat’s jest one man I burned out, mighty nigh as quick as I started. And hit’s a long time to sundown. So look out you bullies, or else I’ll lay you all in de shade befo’ de sun goes down, ’cause I’m f ’m de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine and I don’t git soople to de sun gits hot and my muscles don’t work to somebody burns out, ’cause I’m so stout I don’t know my strenk, and dis cotton can’t show me.” John Henry rolled cotton until the sun went down, and he was just getting warmed up. “I wisht dat sun would come up again,” he told the rousters, “so’s I could git up a sho-nuff sweat whilst I’m rollin’ cotton.” “I thought dat sun done hung in de sky,” a rouster told John Henry. “I swear to my soul I was burnin’ down, and I’m sho glad I’m quittin’.” “Dat’s ’cause you ain’t stout like me,” John Henry told the rouster. “Or maybe yo’ woman ain’t doin’ you right and make you have woman-troubles, ’cause onless yo’ heart is restin’ easy, same as yo’ muscles, you can’t git no good licks at dis cotton.”

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“My woman doin’ me all O.K.,” the rouster said. “I keeps her too busy washin’ clothes to git in any devilment. She ain’t got no fancy dress and clothes to go out friv’lin’. Naw, hit ain’t my woman which tires me out. Hit’s cause I gits tired er workin’.” That made John Henry feel so good he got up and made his say-so. “Woman and work is all a man need, do he know how to handle ’em. Hit’s some which can’t handle work and hit’s some which can’t handle women. But dey hang around and drink dey gin and sniff up all de cocaine. But me, I kin work like I never been bawn, and when it comes to women, I got my Julie Anne all dressed up and waitin’ for me to come home. She ain’t so purty, but she love me so good, so I done made up a song I’m gonter sing y’all niggers: “Her eyes shine like diamonds, And her teef shine about de same. Got a lip like a big slice er liver, And hair like a hoss’s mane, Lawd, Lawd, And she love me jest de same. “And dat,” said John Henry, “is de natchal trufe.” “Man,” said one of the rousters, “you must got you a woman. Efn I had a woman like dat, I’d be skeered to leave her alone ’cause I’m skeered some yuther nigger would change her mind and come creepin’ whilst I’m gone.” John Henry laughed. “You might,” he said, “ ’cause you ain’t big enough to make no woman love you like my gal love me. I kin go away and stay gone so long, and den I comes back home and th’ows my shoes under de bed jest like I ain’t never been outn de house, ’cause all dat gal do is grieve after me when I’m gone.” Then John Henry put his wages in his pocket and went home. When he got to the house the front door was locked! “How come my front door locked?” he said. “Whar my woman, and why ain’t she settin’ on de doorsteps waitin’ for me to come home?” And before anybody could answer that, a girl named Ruby, who lived right across the street, sang a song at John Henry: “Been some changes made since you been gone. Yeah, hit’s been some changes made since you been gone. Come home dis evenin’ ’bout six o’clock, You knock on de door and de door is locked. So jest raise up de window and stick in yo’ haid, You’ll find a great big stranger in yo’ foldin’-bed. I say, hit’s been some changes made since you been gone.”

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“Who you singin’ at?” John Henry asked her. “Do yo’ foot fit a limb?” Ruby asked him. “Efn hit do, well, maybe you’s a owl and kin holler ‘who’ all you want to.” But about that time Julie Anne unlocked the front door and let John Henry in. “I been sleepin’, ” she told him, “and dat Ruby gal make so much racket I shet de door to keep out de noise. Come on in, darlin’, and hang up yo’ hat in de hall. Hit ain’t no supper cooked yit, but gimme yo’ wages and I go over to de store and buy you some.” “How come hit ain’t no supper cooked?” John Henry asked her. “ ’Cause you know I been workin’ hard and you know how hongry I gits when I’m workin’.” “I buys you a heap er supper, darlin’.” she told him. “Sardine fish and potted ham and a great big box er crackers.” So John Henry hung his hat up, but he looked, and saw the back door open! “How come de front door all locked up, and how come de back door open?” “Was de back door open?” Julie Anne asked him. John Henry walked to the back door and looked on the ground. Then he looked at Julie Anne. “Hit’s some tracks leadin’ out er de door, too,” he said. “How come dat, woman?” Julie Anne hung her head like a weeping willow. “John Henry,” she said, “I ain’t gonter lie, ’cause I loves you too good to fool you. Hit’s a friend er mine name’ Sam been hyar, and, darlin’, I too sorry.” John Henry’s heart turned into a solid rock. His shoulders drooped and his jaw dropped down, and he felt like all the cotton he had rolled all his life was piled upon his shoulders. He hung his head and looked at the ground, and then he looked at his woman. His voice was sad like a frog in the brake, and his words sounded like an old woman’s: “I buyed you a dress and I buyed you a hat and I buyed you some high-heeled slippers. Den I rolled cotton to de sun went down and come home and give you my wages. And whilst I’m doin’ all er dat you ain’t got time to cook supper ’cause you too busy lockin’ up de front door and friv’lin’ wid dat creeper.” He looked at the tracks in his back yard and then he looked at his woman. “I slapped you yistiddy,” he said, “when hit hurt my soul. But now I ought to choke you.” Julie Anne looked at the tracks in the yard and then she looked at John Henry. Then she unbuttoned her dress at the neck and held her chin up. “Yeah,” she said, “you ought to. So take my neck in yo’ big hands and wring hit like a chicken’s, ’cause I ain’t no good and I done you wrong whilst you was out a-workin’. I know you don’t love me no more, and so hit ain’t no fun in livin’. So come on, darlin’, and wring my neck, ’cause dat’s all hit’s good for.” But John Henry didn’t touch her. Instead he stood and looked at his woman while the tears drained from his eyes. “Baby,” he said, “maybe you’s wrong, but hit don’t make no diffunce. I loves you like I don’t know what, and I ain’t got de heart to tetch you. You’s burned up my heart and you’s pizened my soul, but somehow hit don’t hurt me.”

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Then Julie Anne took him by his right hand and led him back to the room. “Take off yo’ shoes,” she said, “and rest yo’ feet whilst I cooks you some supper.” While John Henry took off his shoes and sat down to wait, Julie Anne cooked up turnip greens with middlin’, and made cornbread in a four-foot pan and crammed it full of cracklin’s. She boiled her cabbage with a side of meat and cooked his peas with hog jowl. But when she finished cooking, John Henry got up and got his hat, and left her in the kitchen. “Come on, darlin’, ” Julie Anne said. “I got de kind er supper a big man like you likes so good after he been workin’.” But John Henry shook his head. “Nawp,” he said, “I ain’t hongry. I b’lieve I’ll git out and git some air. My head feel kind er heavy.” And John Henry walked out of the house. Then Julie Anne went and locked the back door and sat on her front steps, crying and waiting.

NO REST FOR THE WEARY BURDEN John Henry went out into the street and walked up and down. He was weary and tired and his soul bore down like lead. He was hungry and he didn’t want to eat. He was thirsty and he didn’t want to drink. He was lonesome and he didn’t want to talk to anybody. So he walked along with his head held high, but he was talking to himself. “I’m big and bad and six foot tall,” he said, “but I got de all-overs all over me. I comes f ’m de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine and I takes de shade for no man. I burned dat nigger name’ Sam out and he crept right in my back door. I bought my Julie Anne some good-lookin’ clothes and she treat me like a dog. I kin lift five hund’ed pounds er cotton at one lick and I kin sink a nineinch spike in a white-oak tie. I kin fire for One-Eyed Bill Shelly and I kin roust a hog like he was a sack er meal. But I can’t life dat Julie Anne gal offn my poor soul. Ruby hung her head and cried when I quit her, and when I left Poor Selma she ain’t never been de same. But Julie Anne bear down on my soul so bad.” About that time he came up on old Blind Lemon, sitting on the corner playing his guitar and singing his one-line song: “I love you, woman, but I don’t like yo’ low-down ways.” “Dat de onliest song you sings, hunh?” said John Henry. “Hit speaks a natchal, but hit don’t tell me nothin’ to ease my weary mind.” “Hit’s another song,” said Blind Lemon, “but hit ain’t my song.” “Le’s hyar hit,” said John Henry. So Blind Lemon sang:

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“Take a shot of cocaine, Take a shot er gin. Know hit’ll kill my troubles, But I don’t know when.” “Will dat stuff kill yo’ troubles?” John Henry asked him. “Hit ain’t never kilt mine,” said Blind Lemon. “De song say so, and I ain’t de kind to argy wid no man’s song. But hit ain’t never eased mine.” So John Henry walked on down the street to Mink Eye’s place and he went inside. There were a heap of people in there, drinking and jollying, and there were a heap of people sitting in the corners crying like their hearts were on the ground and their woman was stepping on them at every step. One old man got up and said, “I’m gonter sing y’all a song,” and he did: “I’m old and rough And skinny and tough And I ain’t never yit Got drunk enough, So baby don’t you grieve after me.” Everybody laughed at that and he sat down. So about that time there was a girl named Ruby walked up to John Henry and took him by the hand. “Hello, Big Stuff !” she told him. “How about a little drink er gin wid me, hunh?” “I works by myse’f,” John Henry said, “and I drinks by myse’f when I drinks. And I ain’t so sho I’m drinkin’.” “Livin’ true to yo’ darlin’ gal?” Ruby asked him. “Maybe so,” said John Henry. “And den maybe I ain’t got no darlin’ gal.” “Maybe,” said Ruby, “and den maybe you is.” “Maybe I is,” said John Henry. “And maybe I ain’t drinkin’ wid you, ’cause you don’t suit my style.” Ruby laughed. “You must not suit dat darlin’ gal’s style, or else you wouldn’t be mopin’ around like a chicken wid de mopes.” “Maybe,” said John Henry. “And,” said Ruby, “maybe she got a footpath leadin’ up to her back door, whilst you’s mopin’ around.” “Maybe,” said John Henry, and he took Ruby by the right hand. “Le’s go and git some gin,” he said, “ ’cause I got a grievin’ in my heart.” So they went up and had a drink of gin. “Dis stuff,” said John Henry, “might be bad, but hit don’t tetch me. Hit’ll take mo’n dis dish-water to drown my weary pains.” “Maybe a little happy dust might he’p hit along,” said Ruby. “Maybe,” said John Henry.

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So Ruby whispered in Mink Eye’s ear and he gave them a paper with powders in it. “Hold dat to yo’ nose and whiff,” Ruby told John Henry. And he did as she told him. “Hit ain’t tetched me yit,” John Henry said. “Hit take time,” Ruby told him. “You come and set down by me and let hit work.” “I wisht I’d ‘a’ been settin’ down by a woman like you for so long,” John Henry told her, “and den I wouldn’t a had de down-yonders like I got.” “What you need,” Ruby told him, “is a gal like me to make a fuss over you. Look at a big man like you, mopin’ around ’cause some gal done you bad! What do dey call you, Big’n’?” John Henry stood up and raised up his right arm. “John Henry is my name,” he said, “and I’m six foot tall. I travels around like a ramblin’ fool and hit ain’t nobody kin shade me. I was bawn in de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine, and I kin handle my woman.” “You ain’t John Henry sho ’nuff, is you, darlin’?” Ruby asked him. “Not de John Henry from de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine?” “I ain’t my brother,” he said. “Well, my name is Ruby,” she told him, “and I kin love a man like you. You big old scound’el, I bet you look good all dressed up like I’m gonter dress you up in a box coat and a John B. Stutson hat.” “I looks good in anything,” John Henry told her, “ ’cause I’m big and bad and tree-top tall and my feet don’t tetch de surface.” “Well, all right, den,” said Ruby. “And I’m gonter dress you up like I don’t know what, cause you’s about my style.” “I likes you, Ruby,” John Henry said, “and I likes de way you tawks. But hit’s one thing I got on my mind, an dat’s dat yuther woman.” “Humph!” said Ruby. “Forgit dat gal, ’cause she ain’t doin’ you right. I don’t know what kind er gal she is onless she’s jest pyore crazy.—Hyar, Mink Eye, bring us another whiff er dust, ’cause us is mighty friendly.” So John Henry took his cocaine in his left hand and he took Ruby’s hand in his right hand, and he whiffed. “Yeah,” he said, “dat gal sho do me bad, but Lawd, Lawd, I love her.” “Don’t tawk like dat,” Ruby said. “Forgit dat gal which wrongs you. Think about me settin’ hyar bustin’ open wid lovin’.” “She my Julie Anne,” John Henry said, “and I’m sorry I slapped her. Maybe she was wrong and maybe she was right, but hit don’t make no diffunce, ’cause she’s my woman and I can’t he’p dat, and I wonder what she’s doin’.” He closed his eyes to look around and he saw the Black River country with the old woman making her charms with herbs in a copper kettle. “Open up his eyes,” the old woman said, “so’s he kin see about him. He’s a man in size and a man in strenk, but all he knows is workin’.”

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While he was watching the old woman make her charms he saw all the women he had ever known flying like bats around her. There was Ruby and Delia, and some he’d forgot, and there was Poor Selma, flapping their black rubbery wings and making screaming sounds at him. Then suddenly into the group of girls came his little Julie Anne, all dressed up in white with wings like a dove, saying sweet words to him: “John Henry, darlin’, you know how good I loves you. I waits for you when you rambles around and I’m always glad to see you. So put dat grievin’ outn’ yo’ heart and come on home to me.” But while she was telling John Henry that, he saw a big nigger named Sam come up and take her by the hand. She gave John Henry just one more smile and then went off with the creeper! That made John Henry mad, and he jumped up and down on the table. “Don’t make me mad,” he said, “or else I’ll bust dis place up!” He grabbed up a chair and swung it around and knocked out all the lights. He threw the table at the men and threw chairs at the women. He tore off the roof and he tore up the floor, and then he tore down the walls. Then he walked out the door. “I don’t like dis kind er stuff,” John Henry told Mink Eye. “Hit might be good for dem which does, but hit don’t make me happy.” So he grabbed Mink Eye and threw him across the street. “And now,” he said, “I’m huntin’ for Ruby. She sweettawked me when I was sad, and I sho aims to whup her.” But Ruby was long gone. Then John Henry got on back home, feeling worse than ever. Julie Anne was on the doorstep, crying softly for him. “I knowed you’d come back,” she said, “so I been waitin’ up for you.” John Henry sat down and took her by the hand. “Baby,” he said, “I been worried. I had a burden on my soul ’cause de way you been doin’. I don’t know how come I grieve for you, ’cause I know you done quit friv’lin’. But I went to drown my burden wid happy dust and licker. But I seed all de women I ever knowed all rigged out like bullbats. All ’cept you, baby, and you looked like a snow-white dove and you was weepin’ like a willow. But hit was a nigger name’ Sam come tuck you away whilst you was sweet-tawkin’ me.” “Dat was jest a bad dream,” she told John Henry, “about dat Sam, ’cause I done quit him, jest like I told you.” John Henry was glad down in his heart. “But,” he said, “I’m hungry. I didn’t eat no supper tonight and I’m feelin’ kind er empty. So go dish me up some turnip greens and cawn-bread wid cracklin’s.” Julie Anne looked at the ground and then she looked up and down the street. “Nawp,” she said, “hit’s too late for dat.” “How come?” said John Henry. “Hit ain’t never too late for a man to eat when he gits hongry.”

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Julie Anne hung her head and cried, “Darlin’, ” she said to him, “I wouldn’t tell you no lie, ’cause you knows I love you. But when you left dat nigger name’ Sam come back, and so I fed him.”

LORD, MY BURDEN John Henry sat on the doorstep and he looked up and down the street. It was hot weather, but he wasn’t working. His muscles felt stout and his back felt strong, but his weary heart ached like a pain and he wouldn’t drive himself to his job. Inside the house Julie Anne was ironing clothes to make a dollar a day. But John Henry knew that there was a path leading out of the alley straight up to his back door. “I don’t know how come she weary me so bad,” he said. “She ain’t nothin’ but a little nubbin of a woman, and she don’t weigh hardly a hund’ed pounds. And me I kin put a five-hund’ed pound bale of cotton on my back and dog-trot down de gangplank.” Then Julie Anne sang a song over her ironing-board that showed John Henry where her mind was: “Blow yo’ whistle; papa you kin toot yo’ hawn. Blow yo’ whistle; papa you kin toot yo’ hawn. Gonter wake up some mawnin’ and find yo’ mamma gone.” Julie Anne sang the song good and it sounded sweet in John Henry’s ears, but it stuck in his soul like a cotton hook. “Poor Selma was bigger den her,” John Henry said, “and Ruby was twice as purty, but I swear to my soul dat woman wears me down.” So he shut his eyes and looked back to the Black River country where the sun don’t never shine. He saw the old woman fussing around with her herbs and charms and laughing deep down in her stomach. But she wouldn’t look at him. So he stood up and sang a song at the whole world: “Work don’t hurt no natchal man, And I kin work, rain or shine. But de way my Julie Anne do me bad Eats out dis heart er mine, Lawd, Lawd, Burns up dis soul er mine.” Then the old woman looked at John Henry and said: “Hold up yo’ haid and be a man, or bow yo’ haid and die.” John Henry was a man and he held up his head. The way his woman treated him burned out his heart and ate up his soul, but nothing could get his rubber-like

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muscles and he knew that. So he held up his head and looked at the sky. Then he stretched out his arms and split his shirt sleeves with his muscles. But about that time he heard old Blind Lemon on the corner, picking his guitar and singing his one-line song: “I love you, woman, but I don’t like yo’ low-down ways.” “He blind in de eyes,” John Henry said, “but he sho kin see inside my soul.” So he put on his hat and started walking around. He walked up and down the street, and then he walked over and stood in front of the Old Ship of Zion Church, where Old Aunt Dinah was leading out her song: “I’m gonter tawk right straight to Jesus, On my knees. I’m gonter tawk right straight to Jesus, On my knees. Mary, Mark and Luke and John, All dem prophets dead and gone. I’m gonter tawk right straight to Jesus, On my knees.” And while John Henry was listening to Old Aunt Dinah sing her song, he heard old Hell-buster Henry lay down the word from the pulpit: “And de Lawd told Peter, he say, ‘Peter, verily I say unto you, believe in me and lay yo’ burden down.’” “Wonder what was de matter wid Peter?” John Henry said. But before anybody could tell him, Old Aunt Dinah led out another song: “Seek And ye shall find, Knock And de door hit shall be open’, Ask And hit shall be given, When de love come a-twinklin’ down.” When John Henry heard that news he held his head up high and walked into the church. “Stand back,” he said, “and let me ask old Hell-buster. Hysh up dat singin’ and snivelin’ around whilst I unrids dis riddle.” Then he turned to the preacher and made his say-so: “Hell-buster,” he said, “I’m six foot tall and de fo’ks name me John Henry. I kin outwork any man bawn to die, and ain’t nobody kin stop me. I rousts like a fool and I labors like a dog, and I swings me a nine-pound hammer. I comed f ’m de

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Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine, and my feets don’t tetch de ground. I quit Poor Selma like I was quittin’ work, ’cause I knows how to handle my women —” “Wait a minute,” Hell-buster said. “Don’t stand up hyar, braggin’. I knows yo’ trouble f ’m end to end, and hit ain’t no need in tawkin’. You ain’t happy or you wouldn’t be hyar, makin’ such a mannish say-so. Yo’ heart is sore and yo’ soul is sad. Ain’t dat so, John Henry?” “I’m big and stout,” John Henry said, “and men don’t git no stouter. I hold my haid up like a natchal man, and I kin tote my burden.” “Tote de burden on yo’ back,” Hell-buster told John Henry, “and hit ain’t a man in dis old town kin shade you wid a burden. But git a burden on yo’ heart and watch out whar you wanders.” Then Hell-buster put his eye straight on John Henry’s heart, and he asked him, he said, “Is yo’ heart big and stout like yo’ shoulders?” “I’m big all over,” John Henry said. “My heart weighs a hund’ed pounds.” “Well, den,” said Hell-buster, “how come hit ain’t big enough and stout enough to tote de name er Jesus? You’s a man, you say, and you won’t burn down, but looky yonder at Dinah. So old her teef done growed four times, and all bowed down wid phthisic. She ain’t no man and she’s old and weak, but she kin tote poor Jesus.” While John Henry was looking at Old Aunt Dinah, all bent over on her crutches, he saw her eyeballs shine like fire, and he heard her sing a new song: “Oh, ain’t I glad? Yas, ain’t I—ain’t I glad? Lawd, ain’t I glad, glad, I got Jesus in my heart.” “I ain’t argyin’ about all er dat,” John Henry told the preacher. “What I wants to know is dis, How kin I shed my burden?” “Not wid braggin’, ” Hell-buster said, “and not wid heavy labor. But come up to dis moaners’ bench and ask God please to bless you, ’cause God don’t keer is you six foot tall, and He don’t keer what yo’ name is. All God wants is a chance at yo’ heart, so’s He kin hit you wid de Sperit. “So come on, all er you sinful men, and come on, you low-down women. You creepers and gamblers and midnight ramblers, come and git to moanin’! Or else God’ll set fire to yo’ tail and burn you to a cracklin’. Oh, you backsliders and you unbaptized, and you big-tawkin’ braggers, git humble in yo’ heart and moan and groan yo’ sins to Jesus. Oh, sinner, sinner, when de moon drip blood and de sun goes out like a candle—oh, sinner, sinner, when God stops time and Gabriel toots his trumpet—hit’s gonter be Glory for all er God’s own, but hit’ll be hell for de sinners. So git down on yo’ knees and moan and ask God to put His hand on you, ’cause hit’ll be a Gittin’-up-mawnin’ one er dese days, so fare you well, you sinners.

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Fare you well, you unbaptized, and fare you well, John Henry, ’cause I can’t see you when de trumpet sound, and God won’t even bother. So git on yo’ knees, you liars and moan yo’ sins, you creepers. Pray yo’ prayer, you gamblin’-man, and give yo’ heart to Jesus!” The gamblers and the liars and the creepers and thieves came up and started moaning. But big John Henry stood six feet tall and looked straight at Hell-buster. “Maybe so,” John Henry said, “but dat’s all for de future. What I comed hyar to find out is how to shed my burden.” About that time Old Aunt Dinah crutched up to John Henry and took him by the right hand. “Git down right hyar, son, on yo’ knees, and listen to my say-so. I’ll tell you how to ease yo’ heart and git yo’ peace wid Jesus.” So John Henry got down on his knees and put his head in Old Aunt Dinah’s lap, and listened to her say-so. “John Henry,” Old Aunt Dinah said, “I know dat you got trouble. I know yo’ path been hard and rough, and I know yo’ soul is heavy. But hit’s jest one thing which do you like dat, and listen whilst I tell you. You’s big and stout and six foot tall, but, son, yo’ milk is clabber. Hit’s a heap er men ain’t stout like you, but dat ain’t none er yo’n. Cause God made you stout and He made dem weak, and hit ain’t none er yo’n. God made you and He done a good job, but you don’t hyar God braggin’. Naw, He leave de braggin’ to de fools like you, and goes on and minds His business. So bow yo’ haid and moan wid me, so God kin git a lick in. And efn He hit you wid de light, He’ll sho burn up yo’ burden.” So John Henry groveled and moaned until he choked down. Then he stood up and sang: “Hyar poor me, on my bended knees, And I don’t know what to say. But I’m axin’ you, won’t you please, dear Lawd, Won’t you bear my burden away, Lawd, Lawd, Won’t you bear my burden away.” When John Henry sang that song, God hit him with the Spirit and knocked him dead. He moaned and groaned and frothed at the mouth, but he couldn’t raise his hand. Hell-buster preached him into the Kingdom, and the women gathered around and sang Zion songs, and for forty days and forty nights John Henry was struck dead on the floor. When he got to his feet he put on his hat. “I been a sinner, but now I’m saved,” he told the women. “I comed hyar wid a burden and I laid hit down. So now I’ll be a-goin’. So fare you well, my kind friends, and fare you well, Hell-buster, ’cause I got my hat and I’m gittin’ around and hit’s de last time I will see you.” “Fare you well, my Christian friend,” Hell-buster told John Henry. “Hit might turn out jest like you say, but I hopes to git to see you.”

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So John Henry turned his back on the preacher and walked out of the Old Ship of Zion Church, and he never saw Hell-buster after that. But Hell-buster saw John Henry. JOHN HENRY LAYS HIS BURDEN DOWN When John Henry got hit with the Spirit he went back home to Julie Anne. He hung his hat up in the hall and he took her by the right hand. “Darlin’, ” he said, “maybe you been right and maybe you been wrong, and hit ain’t for me to say. I loves you good, but you don’t love me, so gimme my workin’-clothes, ’cause I’m a man my size and I works like a man, so I better git to workin’.” “What de matter, darlin’?” Julie Anne said. “You ain’t fixin’ to quit me?” “Nawp,” said John Henry, “I ain’t fixin’ to quit you. I done quit, so now I’ll git to travelin’. Hit’s a heap er cotton on de river, and my hook is gittin’ rusty. I know hit’s a path to yo’ back door and I know somebody been creepin’. But hit don’t weary my mind no more, so I hope you well and happy.” Then Julie Anne sat down and cried. “Don’t go leave poor me,” she said. “Don’t go off, John Henry, ’cause you’s my man and I loves you good and can’t nobody change dat. I’m a fool, maybe, and I done you bad, but God knows how I love you. You done for me and I done you bad, but dat’s jest ’cause I love you. You know how hit is, darlin’, and you know I can’t tell you. But don’t leave me alone all by myse’f, and maybe I kin show you.” “No mind,” John Henry said, “ ’cause I ain’t gonter tetch you. I slapped you once, but I didn’t aim to, and hit didn’t git me nothin’. So hand me my hat and my overhalls and let me git to workin’, ’cause work is de onliest thing I kin do. So fare you well, my darlin’.” Julie Anne got John Henry’s clothes, and she got her hat and bundle. “ ’Cause I’m goin’ wharever you go,” she told her big John Henry. “Hand in hand, jest like you said when we went up de river.” “Nawp,” John Henry told her. “I’m a man for work, but I ain’t de man which kin make you happy. So take off yo’ hat and take off yo’ coat, and don’t ever grieve after me.” John Henry walked out of the house and down the street to the river, where cotton was piled for a solid mile and the boats were hauling in more from up the river. But Julie Anne wouldn’t take off her hat and she wouldn’t take off her coat. She got her hat and bundle and she lit out right behind John Henry. “ ’Cause efn I can wawk wid you hand in hand, I knows I sho kin follow. And ev’y time you turns around you gonter see yo’ darlin’ standin’ wid de tears dreenin’ f ’m her eyes, ’cause dat’s de way I loves you.” But John Henry had put Julie Anne out of his heart and he couldn’t hear her talking. So he hunted around for the Big Jim White and he asked the driver for a job of work that a man could do, and he pointed to the cotton.

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“I ain’t braggin’, ” John Henry said, “but ask dem which knows me who de best cotton-roustin’ man, and see if dey don’t name me.” The driver looked up and down the river and then he looked at John Henry. “Better go ax de mate,” he said, “ ’cause I ain’t hirin’ rousters. I knows you, John Henry, for a roustin’ fool, and I sho wisht I had you. But you better go ax de mate for a job, and maybe he will hire you.” John Henry didn’t know what to make of that, so he looked straight at the driver. “Unrid dis riddle for me,” he said, “and tell me what de matter. How come de driver can’t hire me, or else ain’t I a rouster? I’m big and black and six foot tall, and I was bawn up on Black River. I loaded cotton for you befo’, and I burned out yo’ best rollers.” The driver looked at John Henry’s hands and then he looked at his feet. “Sho you’s big and stout,” he said, “and sho you kin roll cotton. Roll or tote, hit’s all de same, ’cause you kin shade de best’n’. But you got to tawk to de big old mate, ’cause my heart too sore to tell you.” So John Henry walked up to the mate and said, “Cap’m, I’m John Henry and I comes f ’m de Black River country whar de sun don’t never shine, and I hyars you needs a rouster. Look at dat old cotton hook, wored clean down wid de hookin’. And look at de cawns in my right hand whar I been rollin’ for you.” The mate looked at John Henry, and then he looked at the ground. “Sure I know you, John Henry,” the mate said, “and I’ll say you are a rouster. You’re the best man ever on the Big Jim White, and that is saying plenty. But there ain’t no job for you today, and maybe not tomorrow, because there’ve been some changes made down here, and we don’t need no rollers.” Then the mate pointed to a donkey engine on the wharf and he pointed to some cable. “Look at that steam winch,” he said. “That thing does our rolling. We hook a cable to a bale and one man pulls a lever. That’s the way we roll our cotton now, so I guess I can’t hire you. That winch rolls cotton like ten good men, and it only takes one nigger.” When John Henry heard that he stood up and laughed and laughed. “ ’Scuse me for laughin’, Cap’m,” he said, “but dat tawk do sound funny. Dat winch might work like ten good men, but how bout John Henry? I burned out all de men you got, and I kin burn dat steam winch out, too. “So th’ow down another stage for me, so I kin git some action. I’ll roll more cotton on de Big Jim White den you kin wid dat steam winch, ’cause I’m John Henry and I’m six foot tall and my strenk can’t hit de bottom. Maybe de women fool me bad, and maybe, too, de gamblers. Maybe de happy dust cross me up and de preacher put me in de dozens. But rollin’ cotton ain’t nothin’ but work, and can’t nobody fool me. So stand back, you bullies, and gimme some room, and watch me roll dat cotton. I’ll clean dat boat befo’ de sun goes down or my name ain’t John Henry.”

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So everybody stood back and watched while they put down another stage for John Henry, and they talked and bet their money on whether he would burn the winch out. “Show ‘em you’s a man,” Julie Anne said, “and I puts my money on you. I’m standin’ hyar watchin’ you work so hard, and bustin’ my throat wid rootin’.” And then Julie Anne reached down in her stocking-top and took out forty dollars. “I bets dis fawty on my darlin’ man,” she said, but there were no takers. But the man at the levers was a nigger named Sam, and he said, “Efn I had de money, I’d fade dat bet, baby, ’cause I’m de man which pull de tail er dis little old steam winch. And I’ll burn him out befo’ de sun goes down or else I don’t want no wages.” So John Henry took his cotton hook in his right hand and Sam caught hold of the lever. “Hook two bales on de end er my line,” Sam called to the driver, “ ’cause dis old winch jest gittin’ hot and she creakin’ loud for action.” “Stand out er my way,” John Henry said, “and gimme gangway clearance, ’cause I rolls two bales wid dis old hook jest to git my muscles soople.” The sun got high and the day got hot and John Henry started sweating. He kept up with the steam winch, bale for bale. And then the sun got lower. John Henry quit sweating, but he kept right on rolling. The people hoped John Henry would win, so they made up a song to cheer him: “John Henry was a cotton-rollin’ man, Had his hook in his hand all de time. And befo’ he’d let dat steam winch burn him down, He’d die wid de hook in his hand, Lawd, Lawd, ’Cause he’s rollin’ like a natchal man.” When John Henry heard that song he raised up his head and he sang right back: “I looked at de cotton on de Big Jim White, Twice as far as I kin see. Can’t see nothin’ but my hook in my hand, And cotton rollin’ after me, Lawd, Lawd, And de cotton rollin’ after me.” Then John Henry shut his eyes and worked faster than he had ever worked in his life. But his skin wouldn’t sweat and his muscles wouldn’t slide like rubber. And when he shut his eyes he saw the old woman away up on Black River where the sun don’t never shine. She was making charms over a hickory fire and stirring herbs in a kettle.

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“Hmmm!” she said, as she chunked the fire. “Ah, Lawd!” Then John Henry shut his eyes again, and he heard the women singing: “By and by, Oh, by and by, Gonter lay down my heavy load.” Then the lightning cleaved the air and the sky turned black like night. The Mississippi River ran uphill and the earth shook like a feather. The sun blazed out like a ball of fire, and started to set across the river. And when John Henry saw the sun was about to go down, he reached out with his long cotton hook and stuck it nine inches deep into a bale of cotton. But when John Henry pulled, the sun went down. And so did big John Henry! The thunder clapped and the screach-owl screached, and John Henry started talking. “Hit’s nice and quiet and easy to rest,” he said, “hyar by de river. Jest lay around in de shade and rest and make tawk wid de old woman. One er dese days I’ll git my hat and git on down de river, ’cause I got me a woman name’ Julie Anne, and I’ll drop ’round to see her.” But he never did. The sun had gone down, and he had gone down with his hook in his hand, and he died rolling cotton.

JOHN HENRY’S LAST GO ROUND Hell-Buster Henry had on a long black coat the day he preached John Henry’s funeral. The Old Ship of Zion Church was full to the doors and all the women were crying. Six tall men brought John Henry in and put him down by the altar. Six more men came marching down, toting his nine-pound hammer. And six more came walking down the aisle, but they couldn’t find his cotton hook. Then six young women, all wearing veils, came in and stood beside him. “How come y’all ladies moanin’ so?” Hell-buster asked the women. So the women stepped out, one by one, and each one spoke her lines: “I comed hyar all dressed in red ’Cause I hyared John Henry’s dead.” “I comed hyar all dressed in green ’Cause he’s de best man I ever seen.” “I comed hyar all dressed in blue ’Cause I loved John Henry true.” “I comed hyar all dressed in gray ’Cause Cold Death tuck my man away.”

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“I comed hyar all dressed in yaller ’Cause John Henry quit Poor Selma.” Then the last woman didn’t say a word. She stepped out and took off her veil, and she was Poor Selma! She looked at the preacher and then she looked at John Henry. “Lay down, darlin’, ” she said, “and git yo’ rest. You quit me when I wanted you bad and tuck up wid another woman. Now yo’s stretched out cold in death, but yo’ yuther gal ain’t hyar moanin’. So rest yo’ time out, my lovin’ man, and when you gits to Glory you gonter find me standin’ by yo’ side, and den maybe you will love me.” Then Hell-buster got up and said, “Efn hit’s any er dis poor man’s kind friends would like to say a word, all right, let’s hyar you.” And when Hell-buster said that, a thousand niggers from the Yellow Dog railroad came up and stood beside the coffin. Then old man Billie Bob Russell came up and stood at the head of the coffin. “Now when I drop my hat,” he said, “you niggers open up and say just what you want to.” Then old man Billie Bob Russell dropped his hat and a thousand niggers opened up their mouths and sang: “John Henry was a hammer-swingin’ man. Burned out dat nigger named Sam. And efn dat ain’t swingin’ like a natchal man, Well den, I’ll be damn, Lawd, Lawd, Well den, I’ll be damn.” When the Yellow Dog railroad niggers sang that they sat down and moaned for John Henry. Then up walked a thousand roustabouts from the Big Jim White, with the driver at their head. “Y’all niggers line out and lock hands,” the driver said, “and let me hyar some racket. Rattle dem words like a loadin’-line and moan jest like dat whistle. So come on, you bullies, and sing dis song, ’cause you all knowed John Henry.” The roustabouts opened their mouths wide and sang: “John Henry was a cotton-rollin’ man, Had his hook in his hand all de time. And befo’ he’d let dat steam winch burn him down, He died wid his hook in his hand, Lawd, Lawd, And he died wid his hook in his hand.” When the rousters sat down and started moaning, Old Aunt Dinah crutched up to the casket, and sang:

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“John Henry made his troubles easy, On his knees. John Henry made his troubles easy, On his knees. John Henry got down on his knees, And said, Jesus, he’p me, please. John Henry made his troubles easy, On his knees.” When Old Aunt Dinah sat down and started moaning, Hell-buster Henry got up and took a drink of water. He looked at the ceiling and then he looked at John Henry. “John Henry,” he said, “dar you lay all cold in death, and hyar stand me a-tawkin’. I ‘members when you come hyar de yuther day and I hit you wid de Sperit. All er dese ladies moans after you, and all de men say you’s a good’n’, ’cause dey stands and sings about how you works and how you died a-rollin’. And so I reads de Word to you and give yo’ soul some comfort. ‘Well done, my faithful servant; rest from yo’ weary labor.’ From what I hyars you was a man built outn bone and muscle. You had yo’ troubles hyar below, and now you’s up to Glory. “Yes, John Henry, you was a man, but God done knocked you over. And you ain’t nothin’ but a dab er clay away back on Black River. Hit’s dark up dar cause de sun don’t shine, and I hopes you’s feelin’ pleasant. Dey weeps and moans and sings yo’ praise, but all er dat stuff don’t count, ’cause when you died all er dat died, and hit ain’t no more John Henry. “But, John Henry, you didn’t die; you jest laid down yo’ burden. You was a man, but women and steam was jest a little bit too many. But don’t you worry and don’t you fret, ’cause when de Sperit hit you hit knocked de work and hit knocked de gals like a skyrocket at Christmas.” Then the old woman from the Black River country stepped up and stood before Hell-buster. She looked at him, then she looked at the floor, and then she looked out the window. “John Henry,” she said, “you was a man, but didn’t tote yo’ burden. Work, yas, you done all er dat, but you couldn’t handle women. You had a good woman named Julie Anne, but you let her eat yo’ heart out. Yo’ burden put you on yo’ knees, and now old Cold Death got you. So fare you well, my little son. I’ll meet you on Black River.” “You’s sayin’ a lie,” Poor Selma said, “ ’cause dat gal didn’t love him. He done for her and she done him bad, and dat’s what stretched him out.” “Don’t go lyin’ in dis church,” Hell-buster Henry told her. “Efn dat gal loved John Henry so, why ain’t she hyar moanin’?” “Don’t lie on de dead,” Old Aunt Dinah said. “Don’t you know de Ten Commandments? ‘So you reads on down to a Number Ten, and you lie on de dead and you’s doin’ a sin.’ So may God strike you over.”

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But the old woman from the Black River country stood up and said. “John Henry loved his Julie Anne and she loved John Henry. Bofe had they faults, but dat didn’t hurt, only dey couldn’t git together. John Henry liked to work and brag, and Julie Anne liked to trifle. But hit didn’t keep ‘em f ’m lovin’ each other, and I’m de one which knows hit. Julie Anne plagued John Henry bad, but John Henry plagued her, too.” “Sayin’ don’t make hit so,” Poor Selma told her. “Why ain’t Julie Anne at de church, a-moanin’ for her lover?” The old woman looked at Poor Selma and then she looked at John Henry. “I’ll show you,” she said, and she held up her right hand and said, “Come on, Sam, like I told you.” Then the nigger named Sam came walking down, toting a heavy bundle. He laid it down by John Henry’s side, and raised up the blanket. “Dat’s Julie Anne, all cold in death,” the old woman told them. “We found her wid John Henry’s hook in her hand, layin’ by a bale er cotton. She seed John Henry go down, last night, and so she followed after.” When the old woman said that, all the niggers from the Yellow Dog railroad and all the rousters from the Big Jim White, and all the moaning women stood up and sang a song: “John Henry had him a pretty little wife, And her name was Julie Anne. She picked up de hook John Henry laid down, She rolled cotton like a natchal man, Lawd, Lawd, And she died wid his hook in her hand.” Then Hell-buster raised his right hand and said the words over John Henry and Julie Anne. “Ashes unto ashes, Lawd, and dust unto dust. John Henry was a man, and Julie Anne was a woman. So fare you well, fare you well. “I kin see you now, wawkin’ side by side in Glory. John Henry died like a natchal man and Julie Anne died like a woman. So lock yo’ hands and flap yo’ wings, ’cause I’m preachin’ you in de Kingdom. “Saint Peter, give John Henry a crown as tall as a John B. Stutson, and fix Julie Anne up wid some wings and a harp and a pair er golden slippers. Now march on down to de Throne er Grace and set at de Welcome Table! “Oh, John Henry, why don’t you eat? Hit’s pyore milk and honey. And efn you don’t like dat kind er grub, Saint Peter, bring him some cabbage. Bring him some turnip greens tree-top high and a big pan full er cawnbread. Oh, Julie Anne, what do you want? Yo’s wid yo’ John Henry. I kin see you smile and take his right hand and put yo’ haid on his right shoulder. I kin see de Lawd smile down on you and give bofe his blessin’: ‘Well done, well done, my faithful friends. Rest from yo’ weary labor.’

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“Oh, you sinners, can’t you see dat pair all r’ared back in Glory? How you gonter git dar wid yo’ sinnin’ ways and set at de Welcome Table? You better quit yo’ gamblin’ and quit yo’ ramblin’ and git right like John Henry. Oh, you low-down women, you triflin’ women, can’t you see Julie Anne up yonder? How you gonter git dar wid yo’ friv’lin’ ways, when you know old Satan’s got you. You bears false witness on yo’ friends and unlocks yo’ back door to de creepers. Oh, you’ll never git to heaven like Julie Anne onless you quits yo’ low-down livin’. “So come on, you liars, and come on, you gamblers, and come on, you lowdown women; git down on yo’ knees, and git yo’ heart right, and give yo’ soul to Jesus, ’cause dat’s how John Henry and Julie Anne done when de burden got too heavy.”

THE END

PART II

JOHN HENRY: A PLAY

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SAM BYRD presents PAUL ROBESON in JOHN HENRY by ROARK BRADFORD and JACQUES WOLFE Directed by ANTHONY BROWN CAST (in order of appearance) Blind Lemon Julie Anne’s mamma Julie Anne’s papa Man named Sam Hell buster Mate Old Aunt Dinah Ruby Julie Anne John Henry’s papa John Henry’s mamma John Henry Rucker Rucker’s wife Poor Selma

Pimps’ Quartette

Fancy ladies’ octette

Joshua White Henrietta Lovelace George Jones, Jr. Joe Attles Bob Harvey Alexander Gray Minto Cato Musa Williams Ruby Elzy James Lightfoot Maude Simmons Paul Robeson George Dickson Sadie McGill Myra Johnson Merritt Smith Wyer Owens Handy Louis Gilbert William Woolfolk Eva Vaughan Alyce Carter Mattie Washington Benveneta Washington Alice White Ruth Gibbs Marie Fraser Mildred Lassiter

Bad Stacker Lee Billie Bob Russell Walking boss Carrie Lead heaver Reader First caller Second caller Mink Eye Georgia boy Roustabout Workers, their wives, etc.

Joe Attles Alexander Gray Leonard de Paur Benveneta Washington Ray Yeates Merritt Smith Louis Gilbert William Woolfolk J. De Witt Spencer Jonathan Brice C. W. Scott James Armstrong, Leona Avery, Ernest Baskette, Oscar Brooks, Maudina Brown, Jonathan Brice, Alyce Carter, Ella Belle Davis, George Dickson, John Diggs, Nora Evans, Marie Fraser, Samuel A. Floyd, Ruth Gibbs, Louis Gilbert, Samuel Gary, James B. Gordon, Edgar Hall, Claudia Hall, Kate Hall, Wyer Owens Handy, Lloyd Howlett, George A. Kennedy, Mildred Lassiter, James Lightfoot, Sadie McGill, Massie Patterson, Bayard Rustin, C. W. Scott, Ernest Shaw, Anne Simmons, Maude Simmons, Randall Steplight, Eva Vaughan, Charles Welch, Benveneta Washington, Mattie Washington, Alice White, Frederick Wilkerson, William Woolfolk, Ray Yeates

AC T I

SCENE ONE A steamboat landing in the Black River country, North Louisiana, in the early fall. Cottonwoods are turning, but other vegetation still is green. The scene is the ramp of a low levee, leading to the river in the background. The superstructure of the steamboat rises, up stage, and back of the levee. A gangplank leads from the levee top down to the steamboat’s main deck, which is presumed to be below the actual stage level. Down, right, piled irregularly are several bales of cotton. Down, left, the corner of a negro cabin is seen. The cabin should have a window, and a door through which entrances and exits may be made. At curtain, Blind Lemon with guitar, is singing lead lines for the Roustabouts, who are haphazardly rolling cotton on the boat. He is down, and somewhat toward center stage. To left are several Women of the chorus, of varying ages and attire. Among them, but not conspicuous, is Old Aunt Dinah. The work is being watched by the Mate (who also is Billie Bob Russell). The work is being done in rhythm to Blind Lemon’s lines, but ineffectively so. Each line of his song marks the “get ready” position of the workers, and their responses accompany the effort to move the bales. Blind Lemon Now, you better bend down— Chorus Yeah, yeah. Blind Lemon Bend on down— Chorus Hmmmm. [One Woman says, And I mean, low down.] Blind Lemon Said, you better bend down. Chorus [Extemporize: Speak hit, Blind Lemon, make me know hit. Old Lemon speakin’ hit, I mean, etc.]

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Blind Lemon And roll hit on away. Chorus [A bale is worked into position at the head of the plank, at this point, and two rousters roll it down the plank, while work of placing another bale in position is begun. The Chorus extemporizes approval for both Blind Lemon and the Rousters.] Blind Lemon I mean, you better bend down— Chorus Yeah, yeah. Blind Lemon I mean, way down— Chorus Now you got hit, roll. Look out, she hung up! Roll hit. Blind Lemon And roll hit on away f ’m hyar. [The bale gets stuck, and as the Chorus chants, a great effort is made to dislodge it, but to no avail.] Chorus Roll dat cotton away— Roll dat cotton away— Now, you got to bend way down And roll dat cotton away. Mate Where’s that nigger named Sam? Hey, Sam? Nigger Named Sam [Trotting up gangplank.] Comin’, Cap’m. Mate Grab that bale, yonder, and show them what a man can do. [Sam throws his hook into the bale and gets set for a mighty effort.] Now when I drop my hat— Blind Lemon When his hat drap down— Chorus Drap hit way down— Blind Lemon Ev’ybody roll.

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[At the word “roll” the bale is dragged with one swift movement to the gangplank head, and Sam and a Rouster roll it on the boat, as the Chorus sings.] Chorus Well, he rollin’ dat cotton away— Yes, he rollin’ dat cotton away. Said, I’m singin’ ’bout de Nigger named Sam And he rollin’ dat cotton away. A Rouster I’m a cotton rollin’ fool on de Big Jim White But when de cotton git in a jam De big mate cuss and he call my name, Den he holler for de Nigger named Sam, Lawd, Lawd, And he holler for de Nigger named Sam. Chorus [Extemporize.] He singin’ ’bout dat Nigger named Sam. Sam sho’ kin roust cotton. [A woman says, “Hit’s a heap er things Sam kin do,” etc.] Blind Lemon Well, I been to de East and I been to de West Twice as far as I kin see And all I kin see wid my poor blind eyes, Cotton rollin’ be de death er me, Lawd, Lawd Cotton rollin’ be de death er me. [Lemon’s song changes the mood to one of awe and wonder.] Chorus [The Chorus extemporizes.] You hyar dat. Lemon say cotton rollin’ gonter kill somebody off. What you reckon he mean. Lemon a fool. A blind fool. Yeah, he blind, and he a fool, but he kin see wid his mind, etc. Blind Lemon I’m singin’ ’bout a man, and he six foot tall, And his feet don’t tetch de ground, He a cotton rollin’ fool, and he ain’t bawn yit, But he sho’ gonter git around, Lawd, Lawd. I mean he gonter git around. Chorus [Extemporize.] You hyar dat fool? He ain’t been bawn, but he a cotton roller! Hit sound crazy. He done quit singin’ and gone to

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lyin’. Hit sound like ju-ju tawk to me. He might be blind in his eyes, but he tawk like a four-eyed man. Old Aunt Dinah [As she emerges from the group of women and moves toward the cabin door, the lights dim, very slowly.] You hyared Lemon sing about a cotton rollin’ man, And you hyar me singin’ ’bout de same. He six foot tall, and he ain’t yit bawn, But he got him a cotton rollin’ name, Lawd, Lawd. John Henry is de poor child’s name. Chorus [Extemporize.] John Henry? Hit sound like a cotton rollin’ name, don’t hit? Hit sound mighty big. A name like dat, he ought to roll somethin’. Aw, shut up, Ruby, you tawk bad. [The lights black out suddenly. An irregular streak of “forked lightning.” Claps of thunder, lightning and more rumbling thunder. Then complete blackness for a brief spell, and suddenly the lights go up full, to discover everybody on stage, looking at Old Aunt Dinah, who is now standing in the cabin door.] Old Aunt Dinah Dat baby is bawn; he weighs forty-fo’ pound He’s six foot tall, and don’t tetch de ground. His skin so black and his gums so blue And his back so stout and his heart so true Twell Old Aunt Dinah don’t know what to do. Cause he’s a man. God knows he’s a natchal man. John Henry’s Papa [He appears in the door, looking over Aunt Dinah’s shoulder.] Got a cotton rollin’ hook in his right hand, So I names him John Henry, cause you know he’s a man. John Henry’s Mamma [She appears at the cabin window, in spite of her recent travail.] Voice so deep to he roar like a frog. And he swear he so hongry, he kin eat like a hog. Now ef dat ain’t preacher tawk, well, I’m a dog. [Suddenly, inside the cabin, there are boisterous sounds, indicating tumultuous confusion. And presently, John Henry emerges. He is dressed in swaddling clothes with compromises, and under his long baby dress, he wears the apparel of a roustabout. He

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comes down, center. His movements indicate good-natured bewilderment. Suddenly, he appears to have an idea.] John Henry Ain’t hit about supper time? Mamma Sho’, hit’s about supper time. Papa And after. Old Aunt Dinah And long after. John Henry Did de dogs had they supper? Mamma Sho’, de dogs had they supper. Papa All de dogs. John Henry Ain’t I as good as a dog? Ain’t I’m a man? I’m big and black and six foot tall, and my feet don’t tetch de ground. Chorus ’At’s him. Old John Henry, hisse’f. He sho’ tawk like he named John Henry. John Henry Don’t treat me like a dog on de day I’m bawn. Cause when you treats me like a dog, I gits mad, and when I gits mad I gits hongry. Old Aunt Dinah Hit’s John Henry, for true. What you feel like eatin’ on de day you’s bawn, son? John Henry Gang around, you ladies, and listen at me, you cotton rollers. Cause you’s fixin’ to listen to a man eat grub like you ain’t never seen. Bring me four hambones And a great big pot er cabbage. I wants my turnip greens tree-top tall Seasoned down wid a side er middlin’. Bring me a pone er cold corn bread And a kittle full er hot potlicker.

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Two hog jowls and some whipporwill peas And a jugful er steamboat molasses. Cause I’m big like a man and I tawks like a man, And I aims to eat a man’s rations. Papa Ef he eat like he tawk, I’d sho’ hate to feed him. Old Aunt Dinah Dat’s tall tawk, son, and tall eatin’. John Henry I tawks tall, and den I eats tall. Old Aunt Dinah Kin you work tall enough to go wid all er dat eatin’? John Henry Kin I which? Old Aunt Dinah Kin you roll cotton? John Henry Hit’s a man’s work, ain’t hit? I claims to be a man. Nigger Named Sam Hit takes a good man, wid a good stout back, and a steamboatin’ song in yo’ shoulders. Hit take a weave in de knee and a spring in de hip, and I don’t b’lieve you got hit. John Henry How come I’m bawn wid a hook in my hand Ef I ain’t no natchal cotton rollin’ man? I got a hump on my back and a swing in my knee And a song in my heart like a bird in a tree. [Sings.] So I look up and down de river Twice as far as I kin see, Cryin’ pick ’em up boys, and lay ’em down again. Cotton rollin’ be de death er me, Lawd, Lawd. Cotton rollin’ be de death er me. [He advances to a bale and swings his hook into it, but as nothing happens, he is surprised. During the following song, he examines minutely his hook, and its effect on the cotton bale.] Old Aunt Dinah [Sings.] When John Henry was a baby I stood him in de pa’am er my hand.

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Cryin’, baby, baby, take old Dinah’s advice, And don’t never be a cotton rollin’ man, Lawd, Lawd, Or you’ll die wid yo’ hook in yo’ hand. A Roustabout [Sings from the steamboat deck.] Oh, de big mate yelled to de rousters, Gimme dat cotton piled so high. Cryin’, pick ’em up boys and roll ’em on down, One cool drink er water ’fore I die, Lawd, Lawd, One cool drink er water ’fore I die. Nigger Named Sam Hit take a man to roust cotton, son. John Henry I claims to be a man, or else I claims to mock me a man. Nigger Named Sam Hit don’t take no man to tawk. Any fool kin tawk, but a bale er cotton weighs five hund’ed pounds. John Henry Is you a man? Nigger Named Sam Maybe not de best in de world. But I’m de best ever been around hyar. John Henry Well, le’s see kin you put dat cotton whar yo’ mouf is. Grab de bale and tote hit on away f ’m hyar. Nigger Named Sam Fool, hit take two mens to roust a bale er cotton. Dat stuff weighs five hund’ed pounds, and de man ain’t bawn which kin roust hit. John Henry [He throws his hook into a second bale and yanks it along side the one by which their discussion has been carried on.] Den I must be two mens. Cause I’m fixin’ to roust dis bale, myse’f.—And you? Nigger Named Sam Fool, you can’t lift dat bale. John Henry [He stands the bale on end.] Hit ain’t so heavy.

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Nigger Named Sam [He reluctantly stands his bale on end.] Aw, I kin tote a bale er cotton, all right. But dat plank will th’ow any man which try to wawk hit wid cotton. Man, hit’s spring in dat plank. John Henry [He backs up to his bale, reaches over his shoulder and hooks it.] Did de plank ever spring you off ? Nigger Named Sam Not me, cause I ain’t fool enough to wawk hit wid a bale er cotton on my back. [John Henry makes a preliminary lift at the bale, clears it and sets it down again.] Old Aunt Dinah He strain like a man. Chorus [Extemporize.] Look at him lift hit. He fixin’ to wawk off wid hit, too. I don’t b’lieve he got hit in him. He tawk like he got hit. Nigger Named Sam Plenty er say-so, but I ain’t seen no do-so. [John Henry lifts the bale again, with more force, and sets it down.] Old Aunt Dinah He got hit on his back, dat time. Five hund’ed pounds. Square on his back. Nigger Named Sam Stout back make a weak mind suffer. I kin lift a bale er cotton, too. [He demonstrates, but with effort.] H’istin’ a bale er cotton ain’t no good. Us got to git dis cotton on de Big Jim White, so us kin git away f ’m hyar. [John Henry lifts his bale and takes a few unsteady steps.] Old Aunt Dinah Well, before God! He done hit! He lifted dat bale and wawked wid hit. Nigger Named Sam [He lifts his bale but is unable to take a step, so he sets it down.] Staggerin’ ’round de levee ain’t doin’ no good. On de steamboat is what de Cap’m wants dat cotton. John Henry [He has reached the head of the gangplank, with some difficulty, and is forced to set his cotton down again.] Dat plank sprung me off. Mate [From the hurricane deck.]

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It takes two men to handle cotton. You Sam! [Sam lazily walks over to assist John Henry.] Grab that bale and make it roll, Down that gangplank, damn your soul. [John Henry picks up the cotton once more and begins staggering about, as Sam jeers.] Nigger Named Sam Got a mighty stout back, and a mighty weak mind When you totin’ dat cotton around. But you pick up a burden and you step on de plank, And de plank gonter th’ow you down, Lawd, Lawd, And de plank gonter th’ow you down. [John Henry’s steps become steadier to the rhythm of Sam’s taunt, and gradually works into the “coonjine” step.] Old Aunt Dinah Swing hit; fling hit. And den you kin sing hit. Mate Jine that tread, you coons. Grab a bale and jine that tread. Chorus [Sings.] Gimme little coonjine, coonjine, coonjine. Gimme little coonjine, please ma’am. Gimme little coonjine, coonjine, coonjine. Ain’t had none in a long time. [The Chorus continues to sing until the curtain. John Henry takes the cotton down the plank and disappears from sight.] Old Aunt Dinah On wid yo’ burden, son. A Roustabout Bring hit on board—bring hit on board. Nigger Named Sam [To Aunt Dinah.] He done hit, for true. Old Aunt Dinah His name is John Henry, and he’s a man, plum to de ground. [Curtain]

AC T I

SCENE TWO Same as Scene One, an hour later. The boat has gone, and the time is late dusk. Lighting and shadow is to give effect of the witchery of early evening in the Black River country. Center, and up, is a large iron kettle under which a slow, smouldering fire is burning. During the entire scene, workers wander, as in an unorganized exodus, across from upper left to right, and down, right to left. The movement of the workers with their women should never take on the aspect of a group movement; instead it should indicate that the individual workers are moving toward a new job, and there should never be more than three or four together, nor should there be any effort at rhythmic timing of their movements. At rise of curtain, Old Aunt Dinah is stirring her kettle and humming. John Henry is sprawled lazily against the roots of a tree. Old Aunt Dinah [She sings.] Jaybird settin’ on a china-ball limb I picked up a rock and I chunked at him. Take a little hog jowl, take a little lye, And make a little soap before de jaybird die. [A pair of workers wander on stage. No attention is paid to them.] John Henry [Singing catchline of song.] Soap and water, sho’ will keep it clean. Old Aunt Dinah Po’ little baby, playin’ in de sand, Hauled off and hollered like a natchal man, But Old Aunt Dinah know he ain’t grown, yit So she gonter feed de baby on a sugar tit. John Henry and Old Aunt Dinah Soap and water, sho’ will keep it clean.

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Old Aunt Dinah Roll a little cotton, and he tawk like a man. And he eat more rations den most men can. But Old Aunt Dinah know de baby so good— Can’t fool nobody in de neighborhood. John Henry [He suddenly realizes the song is being sung about himself.] Looky hyar, Old Aunt Dinah, you ain’t singin’ me out, is you? Old Aunt Dinah I’m singin’ ’bout a baby which figgers he’s a man. John Henry Hit sound mighty like you’s p’intin’ dem words at me. Old Aunt Dinah Yo’ foot’s mighty big, John Henry. Any time you kin find a shoe which fits hit, well, I reckon hit’s yo’n. [To a worker, who is passing.] Hy-dy, Rucker, look like you’s gittin’ about, son? Rucker Can’t miss dat dollar and a dime a day, you know. John Henry [He ignores the interruption.] Aw, naw, but you ain’t singin’ ’bout me, Old Aunt Dinah. You been singin’ a baby song. I’m a man, and I knows hit. I wawked off wid a natchal bale er cotton on de Big Jim White, and hit wan’t no man c’d shade me. I’m six foot tall and I’m stout like a bull, and I come f ’m de Black River country. I faze old Sam, and I skeered de mate, and I rocked de boat in de river. [Aside to a Woman who follows close behind Rucker.] Hey, gal, is you runnin’ after dat man? A Woman Naw, I’m runnin’ after dat dollar and a dime a day he gonter make, buildin’ de yaller dog railroad. John Henry Well, go git hit, and come and give hit to me. A Woman I might do jest dat, you big old scound’el. John Henry Dat lady know I’m a man.

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Old Aunt Dinah You speaks tall words, John Henry. John Henry And tall doin’s, Old Woman. I’m big and stout like I don’t know what, and my big arms drip wid muscle. When I strains my strenk, I skeers myse’f, and I hyars my backbone creakin’. When I th’ows dis hook in a cotton bale and lays hit ’cross my shoulder, I grunts and strains, and up she swings, and all hell can’t stop me. Old Aunt Dinah You got de strenk to roust a bale and you got plenty er muscle. But you ain’t got no job er work, and you ain’t got no money. Jest layin’ back hyar, in de shade, makin’ bigmouf chatter. John Henry A dollar and a dime? Humph! I’d chunk hit away. I knows I’m a man; I ain’t got to work to prove hit. I done worked. I outworked de nigger named Sam, and he de best man on de river. Old Aunt Dinah Solid steel back and iron-muscled arms don’t make a man outn’ nobody. What you got inside yo’ haid, and what you got in yo’ bosom? John Henry [He begins “talking” the song, worked into the melody, naturally.] I got a head like a rock and a heart like a marble stone I’m made outn’ skin and flesh and blood and bone. I was bawn one mawnin’ at de break er day So I grabbed my burden and I wawked away, Six foot tall and weighed forty-fo’ pound, Got a eetchin’ heel; I aims to git around. I got a head like a rock and a heart like a marble stone. Old Aunt Dinah Mighty big tawk, son. John Henry I got a weave in my hip and a song in my poor right arm. I’m big and bad, but I don’t mean no harm I’m made outn’ meat but I’m stout like steel, Got a run-around soul and a eetchin’ heel— Old Aunt Dinah So you’ll work and ramble f ’m town to town To yo’ burden bows yo’ shoulders down—

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John Henry and Old Aunt Dinah Got a head like a rock and a heart like a marble stone. [Lights go down so that only the glow from the kettle fire shines on Old Aunt Dinah. Vapor from the kettle envelops her, giving a weird witch-like effect. She wails discordantly as the orchestra builds up into a crescendo, which drops suddenly as Old Aunt Dinah begins the following song in a low, wailing voice, and raises it gradually to full tones.] Old Aunt Dinah Poor John Henry Tote yo’ burden Hit’s the way things is, son, Hit’s the way things is. Ain’t no cotton hook On dis river Shine like yo’n, son. Shine like yo’n. You claims you’s a man bawn to travel, And you aims to git around. But you was bawn to trouble, So bear your burden down. A woman’s been bawn for you, And her name is Julie Anne She’s yo’ burden on yo’ bosom, Son, tote hit ef you can. In yo’ ramblin’s, tote yo’ burden Like a man, son, like a man. But if you ever bow yo’ head down, You will die, son, you will die. Old hard work won’t never hurt you Ramblin’ down dat river road. But woman trouble gonter vex you Wid some awful heavy load. Don’t you whine about yo’ burden, Don’t you never bow yo’ head Hit’s yo’ load, and you’s bound to tote hit, Twell you’s laid out, cold and dead.

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Poor John Henry Tote yo’ burden Like a man, son, Like a man. Hit’s mighty heavy, But tote hit easy, Ef you can, son, Ef you can. [John Henry, who has been trying to understand the song, is mystified, and he exits, shaking his head in confusion.] [Old Aunt Dinah watches John Henry out of sight. Then she hurriedly adds herbs and mysterious potions to the kettle, and “reads” the rest of her song from the kettle’s steam.] You’s happy now, but you won’t be happy long. Git a homp on yo’ back and sing yo’ weary song. Some woman gonter come like woman kind And cross you up, and grieve yo’ mind. You aims to work and you aims to play But dis old world wan’t built dat way. You’s happy now, but you won’t be happy long. John Henry [He re-enters, down, right.] Yo’ song so sad, make tears dreen outn’ my eyes. But yo’ words ain’t straight, and dey sound like ju-ju lies. Cause I loves to work and I don’t mind play And I gits around de country some, ev’y day. So I leaves you, Aunt Dinah, and fare-you-well Take yo’ ju-ju tawk on back to hell! Got a head like a rock and a heart like a marble stone. [Curtain]

AC T I

SCENE THREE The corner of Third and Bird Streets, Argenta, where Poor Selma’s two-story house is located. The scene is to represent the progress of Bird Street, diagonally across stage from down right to upper left, with Third Street running from upper right center, to down right. The two-story house, which must have a workable door, is located upper center to upper left center. Right and down are cottages of the “crib” type. The set is to represent the shoddy section of a negro red-light district. It is afternoon. Blind Lemon is seated on a stoop, playing his guitar, down, right. Julie Anne is sitting glumly, but unobtrusively on a stoop, down, left. The Chorus, as whores and pimps, is idling about the street, most of them listening to the music. Blind Lemon Come along, boy, Listen to my tale, She was a good woman But they th’owed her in jail. Chorus [Not too well organized.] Oh, her name was Poor Selma As bad as she could be. And de mens couldn’t quit her. She had a sting-a-ree. Blind Lemon So ashes, to ashes And sand to sand. Ev’y time I see her She got a brand new man. [The Chorus repeats, more orderly, now, and during their song, Poor Selma emerges from her two-story house. She is ungainly and unattractive looking, but her manner is that of one who is in complete control of the situation.]

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Poor Selma Oh hit ain’t but one way To keep me down, Put me on a island, And keep me water bound. Chorus [Instead of singing, they extemporize their admiration for Poor Selma.] Yaah! You hyared her! Old Selma herse’f. So bad she got to sing her own song. Keep her water bound. Lawd, Lawd, Selma, you’s a case! Poor Selma I ain’t braggin’, chillun, but I’m more badder den cocaine. A man kin quit cocaine, but he can’t quit me. Blind Lemon [Singing.] Went down town Went in a run Got shot in de leg Wid a cocaine gun. Hey, hey, honey, take a whiff on me. Poor Selma Shut up, Lemon. Blind Lemon Bawn in de country Raised in de town. I’m a cocaine whiffer F’m my head on down. Hey, hey, honey, take a whiff on me. Poor Selma You don’t git no more coke to you quits dat damn noise. Blind Lemon Went down town Went in a lope. Sign in de window say `No more coke’. Hey, hey, honey, take a whiff on me. Poor Selma [She pitches Blind Lemon a package of cocaine, and he eagerly whiffs it.] Poor Lemon he was a man in his day and time, Long befo’ he met up wid me. He had him a wife and a railroadin’ job.

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But I hit him wid my sting-a-ree. [As Poor Selma finishes her song, which has been delivered with sad, fatalistic feeling, she does an awkward, lewd step, which excites the Chorus, which extemporizes: Step hit, Selma. You got hit, now whup hit.] Oh, de elders and de deacons all follow me ’round And de preachers can’t never quit me. I’m de four day fevers for de mens in de town Cause I hit’s ’em wid my sting-a-ree, Yes, I hit’s ’em wid my sting-a-ree. Blind Lemon She got her habits on, She got her habits on, Old Poor Selma got her habits on. Poor Selma [She suddenly becomes lively.] Well, don’t stand around hyar, lookin’ at me and goin’ on. Git somethin’ started. Whar my man at? Whar any kind er man at? Bad Stacker Lee [He sings off stage. When he comes on, he is easily identified as the Nigger Named Sam who has dressed in the traditional pimp’s outfit.] Oh, de po-leece told de High Sheriff, Git yo’ gun and come wid me. Cause I aims to ’rest dat bad man Dat de ladies call Stacker Lee Cause you know I’m bad, bad Stacker Lee. [Stacker Lee enters on the last line of his song. The Chorus extemporizes their admiration, etc. Dat’s him. Old Bad Stacker Lee hisse’f. Stacker Lee is so bad, he jest won’t do. One bright-faced whore deliberately mugs the audience and says, When I knowed him, he was de Nigger Named Sam, but he ain’t no good. Another woman says, I bet he bringin’ in some yuther poor devil for Selma to ruin. I’ll say he ain’t no good. Dat’s how come he so bad, ’cause he ain’t no good.] So de Sheriff tuck out his pistol And he laid hit on de shelf. Cryin’ ef you wants to ’rest old Stacker Lee You better go ’rest him yo’self. Cause he’s too bad, bad Stacker Lee. Poor Selma Efn you so bad you got to sing about yo’se’f, what you been doin’? [Bad Stacker Lee goes over to converse quietly with Poor Selma, while a Pimp takes up the song.]

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A Pimp Early one rainy mawnin’, I hyared a bulldog bark Stacker Lee and Billie Lyons Was quar’lin’ in de park And he was bad, bad Stacker Lee So Stacker shot Billie in de bosom, And he shot him in de head. And he rolled him over and he shot him again, Jest to make sho’ he was dead. Well, you know dat’s bad, bad Stacker Lee. Ruby Stacker claim he a bad man, About as bad as he kin be. He kilt my poor sister, Dora, And he tuck a shot at me. Now, ain’t dat bad, bad Stacker Lee. Poor Selma So he claim he a big man, do he? Is he got any money? Bad Stacker Lee His name is John Henry, and he’s six foot tall. Chorus [Extemporize.] John Henry? Dat big old cotton rollin’ thing? I knowed him, down in de Black River country. Efn you don’t want him, Miss Poor Selma, gi’ ’em to me; I kin git along wid him. Bad Stacker Lee He been a cotton roller, but he claim he was fixin’ to do some railroadin’, when I picked him up. Poor Selma Dirt rollin’? Bad Stacker Lee He claim he fixin’ to build de Yaller Dog for Old Jay Gould, hisse’f. Poor Selma Gonter build de Yaller Dog, hunh? He must be a man efn he gonter build dat railroad. But I’ll wear him down, I’ll make a old man outn’ him before de sun go down. Bad Stacker Lee [He flashes a double-barreled derringer pistol.] Efn you can’t wear him down, baby, jest call on me.

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John Henry [His singing is preceded by a crash of thunder and a roar of wind.] Captain, Captain, I ain’t no fool, Dis mawnin’. Chorus Man, man, listen at him! Dat must be John Henry, dey’s speakin’ ’bout. Singin’ ’bout hisse’f, right out in a stawm. Shuh, he is a stawm. John Henry Captain, Captain, I ain’t no fool, Say, I got more money den Old Jay Gould. Dis mawnin’. [John Henry enters, down right, and everybody gangs around admiring his size and his muscles. He still is dressed in his working clothes. Sam withdraws, tactfully, Poor Selma bold. Julie Anne remains on the step, never looking toward John Henry one time.] Poor Selma Come on, Big Stuff, make yo’se’f friendly. John Henry I’m a friendly po’ fool, huntin’ me some fun. Poor Selma You come to de right place, John Henry. John Henry You know my name? Poor Selma I hyared hit spoke. John Henry Den you must be Poor Selma? Poor Selma Dat’s what dey calls me. John Henry Den I must be whar I’m comin’ to, cause I hyars you got a sting-a-ree. Poor Selma I ain’t braggin’, but I’m a woman which can’t be quit. John Henry So I hyars— [He sings, the song growing out of spoken dialogue, naturally.] But listen at me Selma whilst I sings my song. And don’t git mad, cause I don’t mean no harm. I was bawn in de country, and I was raised in de town,

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And I’m a toker-loker shaker f ’m my head on down. [The Chorus repeats the last line, while John Henry executes a simple dance step.] Poor Selma All right, John Henry, but hyar my word. I got a hundred room house, hyar on Third and Bird. Gal in every room—you hyar what I said, And every gal is got herse’f a foldin’ bed. [Poor Selma does an imitation of John Henry’s step.] John Henry Well, I’ll take off my hat and wawk in yo’ door. And I’ll pull off my shoes and drap ’em on de floor. And I grabs Poor Selma by her right hand, Cause she may be bad, but she’s found her man. [John Henry starts toward Poor Selma’s door. He sees Julie Anne and his boisterous playfulness leaves. They gaze intently at each other. Presently Poor Selma comes up and takes John Henry by the hand.] Poor Selma Come on, darlin’, I want to show you somethin’. [John Henry, puzzled, stares at her, and back to Julie Anne.] I got a big electric fan. [John Henry shakes his head, negatively.] You’s skeered to come in my house? A big thing like you, skeered er po’ little me? John Henry I ain’t skeered er nothin’. Poor Selma You’s skeered er me, cause you knows efn you pitches yo’ shoes under my bed one time, dat you can’t never quit me, from den on. John Henry I kin quit you like I was quittin’ work. Poor Selma Big man got plenty er say-so. But no do-so. John Henry [He pushes Poor Selma away roughly, slams his hat against the floor, and starts taking off his shoes, yells boisterously.] Stand back, Selma, and stand back, all. They’s gonter be a stranger in Selma’s stall. Cause I works mighty hard, and I plays mighty rough

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And I knows how to quit when I gits enough. So stand back, bullies, and lemme have my head Cause I’m gonter th’ow my shoes under Selma’s bed. [John Henry grabs Poor Selma, and rushes into the house with her. The Chorus who has been watching the seduction as though they are accustomed to such things, indicate they are not surprised at Selma’s success.] Julie Anne [Sings.] I wish I was a little bird— I’d fly over the mountain top so high. Then I’d weep like a willow, and mourn like a dove, And then I’d hang my head and cry. Chorus You see what careless love will do? You see what careless love will do? You see what careless love will do? Make you break your heart and your lover’s too. Julie Anne Love, oh, love, oh careless love. Love, oh, love, oh, love divine. Love, oh, love, oh, careless love. You’ve gone with her, but you know you’re mine. John Henry [He roars with derisive laughter inside the house, and immediately there follows a mighty ruckus, at the conclusion of which he pitches Poor Selma out the door, and follows her, carrying his hat and shoes in his hand.] I told you I’d quit you, and I’ll quit you again. Ef I a knowed you yistiddy, I’d ’a quit you, then. Poor Selma [She staggers to her feet and appeals to Bad Stacker Lee.] He done me dirt, darlin’. Ain’t no man kin do me like dat. You ’tend to him. [Bad Stacker Lee pulls his pistol and shoots at John Henry, whose hat falls off with the shot.] John Henry You shot my hat off, son. Bad Stacker Lee De next shot gonter shoot yo’ head off. John Henry You jest got one more bullet in dat two-barrel gun?

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Bad Stacker Lee One more bullet is enough to lay you out, cold and dead. John Henry But sposin’ you shoots dat last bullet and hit don’t lay me out, cold and dead? Bad Stacker Lee Hit’ll lay you out, all right. John Henry Maybe. And den maybe you might git nervous in yo’ hands and miss me wid dat last bullet. You knows I’d mess you up, efn dat last bullet missed me. Bad Stacker Lee Efn I take a notion to shoot you, I wouldn’t miss. John Henry But you ain’t gonter take no notion. Cause you too skeered. Yo’ hand is shakin’ like a leaf in de tree. Cause you’s bad around de ladies, but you ain’t bad around me. Now, hand me dat gun, and set my hat back on my head. [Bad Stacker Lee replaces the hat, and John Henry slaps him and sends him rolling off stage.] [John Henry brags.] Cause I’m big and bad and six foot tall And my feets don’t tetch de ground Cause I works like a man, and I plays like a fool And I rambles f ’m town to town, Lawd, Lawd, And I roams de wide world ’round. I rolled de cotton on de Big Jim White Twice as fast as de Cap’m could see. Den I quit Poor Selma like I’m quittin’ work Poor Selma and her sting-a-ree, Lawd, Lawd. And I whupped Bad Stacker Lee. Julie Anne [Sings.] I’ve trompled all over dis wide, wide world And de wide world trompled over me Cryin’ Lawd, I’m a woman huntin’ for a man, About as big as a man kin be, Lawd, Lawd. How big can John Henry be? But I’m done quit my tromplin’ around, Cause I’m got two eyes to see So my name is Julie Anne, poor child,

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And my man got to come and git me, Lawd, Lawd, John Henry come a tromplin’ after me. My man come tromplin’ up to Poor Selma’s door And he tuck her by her right hand. Tromped in her house and drapped his shoes on her floor Den he trompled back to Julie Anne, Lawd, Lawd, Oh, he trompled like a natchal man. John Henry [Speaks.] I likes de way you sings yo’ song. Hit sound sweet like a bird in a tree I worked so hard, and now I aims to play, So come along and play wid me, Lawd, Lawd, And we’ll sing like a bird in a tree. Julie Anne [Speaks.] Oh hit ain’t for me and you to say, But I takes you by yo’ right hand. Cause you know, John Henry, I’m yo’ woman true, And I know you’s my lovin’ man, poor boy, Yes, I know you’s my lovin’ man. John Henry and Julie Anne [Sing.] Oh we go to de east and we go to de west, And we’ll ramble all over dis land. Cause a woman is a woman and a man is a man, And we’ll bofe go hand in hand, Lawd, Lawd, And we’ll bofe go hand in hand. Chorus [Repeats the last verse of the song, while John Henry and Julie Anne exit.] [Curtain]

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SCENE ONE A railroad construction camp, in the afternoon. The stage represents a flat wooded area in the Mississippi bottoms, with tents for workers scattered irregularly about. Upstage is a fill of dirt, higher than the rest of the stage level, upon which a railroad is being built. Workers are busy on the fill with pick, shovels, carrying cross-ties, etc. One man carries a bucket of water from which the workers drink. Stage left, and down are a few bales of hay, sacks of grain, scattered bits of harness, etc., indicating the proximity of a corral. Blind Lemon with his guitar is on a bale of hay, singing. Billie Bob Russell (the Steamboat Mate of Scene One, Act I) struts importantly about, and with him is his Walking Boss who struts in humble imitation of the white man. The Nigger Named Sam is up stage, center, and quite apparently the best man on the job. Old Aunt Dinah and Ruby with the other women, are down stage and toward right, preparing to cook supper for their men. Work on the fill is carried on in a slow rhythm, which is sung by Blind Lemon as the curtain rises. Blind Lemon Caught old Blue and I caught old Bell, Captain! Caught old Blue and I caught old Bell, Captain! Caught old Blue and I caught old Bell, Couldn’t find no mule wid his shoulder well, And I wish old Billie Bob was in hell, Captain! Nigger Named Sam Took my pick when de wawkin’ boss squall, Captain! Took my pick when de wawkin’ boss squall, Captain! Took my pick when de wawkin’ boss squall, Say I won’t git done pickin’ to way next fall, Dat’s what he said, and dat was all,

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Captain! Billie Bob Russell [As he starts singing, the tempo of the work is quickened to the rhythm of his song.] I hired about a thousand niggers, Working by the day Bought a thousand jack-striped mules To roll this dirt away. I bought me a thousand wheelers To haul this dirt around. Lay a thousand miles of railroad Before the sun goes down. Walking Boss So homp yo’ back you bullies, And strow dat dirt around, We’ll build de Yaller Dog railroad Before de sun goes down. Blind Lemon Ef-a you don’t think I’m sinkin’, Lawdy, look what a hole I’m in. Billie Bob Russell Mules cost a hundred dollars, Hire my niggers by the day. Sun too hot for a hundred dollar mule, Niggers roll that dirt away. Walking Boss Put dem po’ mules in de lot. Feed ’em on oats and hay. Niggers burn out and we hires some more For a dollar and a dime a day. Billie Bob Russell and Walking Boss So hump your back, you bullies And strow that dirt around. We’ll build this Yaller Dog railroad Before the sun goes down. [Apparently satisfied with the result of their song, Billie Bob Russell and Walking Boss walk down stage left and engage in a private conversation. As soon as they turn their backs, the workers slow down their rhythm, once more.] Blind Lemon Lawdy, look what a hole I’m in. Nigger Named Sam Water-roo, water-roo bring yo’ water ’round.

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Ef you ain’t got no water, set yo’ bucket down. Ruby Must be hot out yonder on de dump to make my Sam sing dat water-roo song. A Worker Workin’ on de railroad, dollar and a dime a day. Give my woman de dollar, and th’ow de dime away. A Woman Dat’s my man singin’ ’bout how he gonter give me his money. Ruby Do yo’ man give you his money? A Woman I don’t know; he ain’t got paid off, yit. [There is laughter at the joke.] Old Aunt Dinah Sho’, child, he’ll give you de money. He livin’ wid you, ain’t he? A Woman He livin’ wid me now, but you can’t tell about a man. He liable to move. Old Aunt Dinah You wrong, honey. A man don’t move onless his woman make him. Ruby What you know about men, Old Aunt Dinah? Old Aunt Dinah [She recites, rather than sings.] When I was young and in my prime, I set myse’f to have a time. I stole de mens f ’m dey long, frail browns. I stole ’em in de country, and I stole ’em in de towns I’d love ’em and I’d leave ’em, and I’d stick out my hand And de next thing I knowed, I had another man! [Old Aunt Dinah takes Ruby and A Woman by their waists, and the trio does a happy dance step, during which Blind Lemon sings.] Blind Lemon So I reads on down to-a Number Ten, Take another woman’s man, and you’s doin’ a sin. Old Aunt Dinah A woman’s like a dog and a man is like a cat. Now, listen whilst I tell you how I figger dat. A gal’ll wag her tail and follow any man

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Which pats her on de head and gives her his right hand. But a man want a place whar he kin sleep and eat And take off his shoes and cool off his feet. Cause a man don’t like to quar’l and fight. He’d druther roll wid his woman to broad day light. [The Chorus Of Women extemporize their approval of Old Aunt Dinah’s ideas.] Blind Lemon I don’t see no fi-yer, but I’m slowly burning down. Billie Bob Russell By God! We’ve been out here all day, and the sun ain’t an hour high. Walking Boss, them niggers ain’t done a thing. They ain’t got this railroad started, even. Walking Boss You’s right, Cap’m Billie Bob Russell. Dem niggers ain’t hardly hit a lick. But I’ll git ’em strung out. —Line up, you dirt eatin’ bullies, and git set for de Po’ Little Frenchman. [There is movement of the workers arranging themselves along the fill, with picks and shovels poised.] Billie Bob Russell Now, when I drop my hat— Walking Boss Ev’ybody ready? Men Chorus Ready. Walking Boss Well den, Hit’s po’ Little Frenchy— Chorus Well? [As the song progresses, the Walking Boss’s line and the Chorus response allow for the Chorus to poise their work implements and swing, striking the ground at the end of the Chorus response which brings a concerted grunt from the workers.] Walking Boss Little Frenchy. Chorus Well.

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Walking Boss Said, Little Frenchy, Chorus Oh, yes. Walking Boss Said, Po’ Little Frenchy, nine days old— Chorus Po’ Little Frenchy, Nine days old, Nine days old, Nine days old. Po’ Little Frenchy, Nine days old. Walking Boss Said he stuck his finger In de crawfish hole. Chorus Said he stuck his finger In de crawfish hole. Po’ Little Frenchy, Nine days old Stuck his finger in de crawfish hole. Crawfish hole, Crawfish hole. Stuck his finger In de crawfish hole. Walking Boss Crawfish backed back— Chorus Well? Walking Boss Crawfish backed back— Chorus Well. Walking Boss Crawfish backed back— Chorus Crawfish backed back—

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Walking Boss Winked one eye. Chorus Winked one eye, Winked one eye, Winked one eye. Crawfish backed back And he winked one eye. Walking Boss Frenchy told de crawfish Hit’s yo’ day to die. Chorus Day to die, Day to die, Frenchy told de crawfish Hit’s yo’ day to die. So hit’s Po’ Little Frenchy, Nine days old, Stuck his finger In de crawfish hole. Crawfish backed back And he winked one eye. Frenchy told de crawfish Hit’s yo’ day to die. Billie Bob Russell Hold on, Walking Boss, and hold on, you niggers. We got to scheme up some scheme to get this road built before the sun goes down. Now, I got plenty of niggers, and I got plenty of mules, and we ought to have a railroad. Now, we’ve got to scheme up some way to get this railroad built. John Henry [John Henry and Julie Anne spring suddenly upon the stage; they both appear playful and happy.] Hyar us is, Julie Anne. Jest in time to git dis Yaller Dog built, before de sun goes down. Julie Anne Hit look kind er good, darlin’, but I don’t see no railroad, yit. John Henry Well, you jest set down and watch me, and de fust thing you know—

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Walking Boss Who hired you, boy? John Henry Dis whar old man Jay Gould want de Yaller Dog railroad built, ain’t hit? Walking Boss Yeah, but Cap’m Billie Bob Russell do de hirin’. John Henry He kin hire me, or not, and hit’s all de same. But when old man Jay Gould want to build a railroad, he call out my name, cause he know I kin build hit before de sun go down. Billie Bob Russell That sounds like railroading talk. John Henry Dat is railroadin’ tawk. Wid de bark on hit. [The Women of the Chorus have gathered about John Henry and are admiring him.] Walking Boss Whar you from, wid all er dat big tawk? John Henry I’m f ’m away on away f ’m hyar. A Woman Hmmm. He big enough to come f ’m It’ly! Ruby Dat big sapsucker is big enough to come plum f ’m whar de Southern crosses de Dog, and den some. Julie Anne He come f ’m de Black River country, whar de sun don’t never shine. Walking Boss What’s yo’ name, boy? John Henry Dey calls me John Henry when dey sends for me to build a railroad. Walking Boss [Talks] John Henry, he was a dirt rollin’ man. And he swung him a twenty-foot line. He built de Yaller Dog before de sun went down, And axed de Cap’m for his time, Lawd, Lawd. He axed de Cap’m for his time.

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Billie Bob Russell Well, John Henry, if you are a railroad building man, then, let’s get going. Now when I drop my hat— John Henry Wait a minute, Cap’m Billie Bob Russell. Dat ain’t no way to build no railroad. Hit takes a thousand niggers to build a railroad before the sun goes down. Billie Bob Russell I got a thousand niggers, at a dollar and a dime a day. John Henry And a thousand head er mules? Billie Bob Russell I got a thousand head of mules at a hundred dollars a head. John Henry And wheelers? Billie Bob Russell [Pointing off left.] Yonder is a hundred brand new wheelers. John Henry How come de mules ain’t hitched up to de wheelers? Billie Bob Russell Sun’s too hot for the mules. Mules cost a hundred dollars. They get off their feed. Walking Boss You kin wawk all around dat big corral, And you can’t find no mule wid his shoulder well. Billie Bob Russell When a nigger burns out, I hire another one, but when a mule goes bad, I can lose a hundred dollars. Walking Boss But de sun don’t hurt a nigger. John Henry Nor neither mules. White mens and hosses can’t stand de sun, but for niggers and mules, hit’s all one and de same. So, stand back you dirt eatin’ bullies, And stand back, you ladies, true.

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And listen whilst I tell you What John Henry’s fixin’ to do. Julie Anne, go fix me some victuals Wid cawnbread, greasy and brown, Cause I’m fixin’ to build de Yaller Dog Before de sun goes down. So git me a pair er jack-striped mules Sixteen hands f ’m de ground And git me a wheeler wid ten foot wheels Whilst I rolls dis dirt around. Some sweet-iron trace chains made outn’ steel And a double-tree made outn’ logs And a single-tree made outn’ hickory wood And axle grease made outn’ hogs. So stand outn’ my way, you bullies, And fare-you-well, my Julie Anne, Cause I’m got me a job, and I’m fixin’ to work, And God knows I’m a natchal man. [John Henry rushes off stage, down right, where he noisily harnesses a pair of mules and hitches them to a dirt-wheeler. The Walking Boss vainly tries to get the workers back to their jobs, and the women chatter noisily, their admiration for John Henry. Presently, he drives across stage with a pair of mules hitched to a dirt wheeler, exiting down, center, over the fill. The Workers move off, right, as though the job that is in view of the audience has been completed. Blind Lemon and the Women remain on the stage. Julie Anne makes preparations to cook John Henry’s supper.] Ruby Put plenty er side meat in dem cabbages, honey. A big man like him got to eat a heap. Julie Anne Don’t I know hit? He de eatinest fool in de world. And he work like he eat. Ruby I bet he kin work. How do he git along wid his love makin’? Julie Anne He ain’t never had to send out to git help. Ruby He a rollin’ fool, hunh? Julie Anne He’ll do.

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Ruby I’m got a big man out yonder, name Sam. Julie Anne How do he make out wid his lovin’? Ruby Ah, Lawd, he’s a rollin’ fool. Julie Anne Really do, hunh? Ruby [Speaking.] I said, he’s a rollin’ fool. Standin’ in de doorway watchin’ Grandma cry, Ef rollin’ kill grandma, let old grandma die. Cause he is a rollin’ fool. Old Aunt Dinah Ef you don’t like rollin’, you ain’t got no sense, Cause hit’s been takin’ place since de world commence. Julie Anne My man rolled all night, and de night before, And woke up dis mawnin’, want to roll some more. Ruby He sound like a case. Nigger Named Sam [From the fill.] Water-roo, water-roo Bring yo’ water ’round. Ruby Humph! Dat’s Sam, now, beggin’ for water. Nigger Named Sam Ef you ain’t got no water Set yo’ bucket down. Julie Anne Maybe he want a drink er water. Ruby He always wantin’ somethin’, when de work git tight. Nigger Named Sam Water-roo, water-roo Bring yo’ water ’round.

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I can’t see no fi-yer But I’m burnin’ down. Old Aunt Dinah Dat Nigger Named Sam is singin’ like he about burnt out. Ruby He always ’bout burnt out. Julie Anne I never hyared John Henry sing like dat. Nigger Named Sam [He enters from where he has been working, and sits on a bale of hay. He is about exhausted.] Whew! I never did see de sun so hot, and de work so hard. Ruby So you burnt out, hunh? Nigger Named Sam Hit’s a big nigger name er John Henry out dar, settin’ de pace too fast for me. Julie Anne Dat’s my man; he always set de pace fast. Nigger Named Sam He a fool. I won’t work myse’f to death out yonder for old man Billie Bob Russell. Ruby You ain’t workin’ for old man Billie Bob Russell. You’s workin’ for a dollar and a dime a day, so us kin eat. Nigger Named Sam I’m got to kill myse’f for a dollar and a dime? Ruby Efn you don’t bring me a dollar and a dime ev’y night, you can’t eat my grub. Nigger Named Sam Aw, baby, hit’s a heap easier ways to make a dollar and a dime den workin’ out yonder. Come on and gimme some supper. I’m hongry. Ruby I’d druther give my somethin’-to-eat to a dog. [Ruby walks off. Julie Anne is interested and somewhat sympathetic.] Julie Anne Hit must er been powerful hot out yonder. Nigger Named Sam Hit was sort of hot. But not too hot. I don’t stay to hit gits too hot. I quits.

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Julie Anne But hit do take dat dollar and a dime to eat on, don’t hit? Nigger Named Sam For fo’ks which ain’t smart, yas. But when a man is smart, like me, he kin use his brains, and make more money den he kin, out yonder, workin’ like a dog. Julie Anne How you mean? Nigger Named Sam [Talks.] Take a gal like you down to New Aw-leans. And dress you up in red. Git you a house over back er town, And git you a foldin’ bed. Julie Anne Aw, you jest tryin’ to vex me. Nigger Named Sam Git you a pair er high-heel shoes, And I’ll git you a dress of blue. And git you a great big diamond ring, And darlin’, I’ll be true to you. Julie Anne Hit sounds sort er pleasant, de way you speaks hit. Speak on. Nigger Named Sam I’m too hongry to do no more speakin’, right now. I been out yonder in de sun, all day. Julie Anne I got a little grub cooked up hyar. [She feeds the Nigger Named Sam, while the workers sing, off stage.] John Henry I’m on my last go-around, lovin’ babe. I’m on my last go-around. Chorus Woman, woman, don’t you grieve ’bout a dime. Woman, woman, don’t you grieve ’bout a dime. I will give you more money Den yo’ aprons kin hold, Oh, darlin’, don’t you grieve ’bout a dime.

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Nigger Named Sam Lawd, dat tasted good. Julie Anne Boy, you sho’ eat fast. You done might’ nigh et up all er John Henry’s supper. Nigger Named Sam Who keer about John Henry’s supper? Julie Anne He do. He gonter want his supper, bad. He eat bad as he work. Nigger Named Sam What you keer ’bout what he keer ’bout? You too smart and purty to weary yo’ mind on him. Julie Anne I’m his woman, fool. I’m got to feed him. Nigger Named Sam Ef you was my woman, you wouldn’t have to feed him, would you? Julie Anne Naw, I reckon not, but— Nigger Named Sam Listen, baby. You too purty to waste yo’ time on dat boy. He work out yonder, and den he come in and eat. What’s dat? Julie Anne Hit’s somethin’. Nigger Named Sam Gal, you ain’t never been at New Aw-leans, is you? Julie Anne Nawp, I ain’t never— Nigger Named Sam Come on, darlin’, I’m gonter take you to New Aw-leans. I’m gonter git you all dressed up purty, and us will live high. Julie Anne Hit sound sort er pleasant, but John Henry won’t have nobody to feed him. Nigger Named Sam You ain’t got nothin’ to feed him on, now, and hit ain’t gonter be no fun to tell him dat, when he come in f’m work. Forgit about him, and put yo’ mind on dat fancy red dress I’m fixin’ to buy you. Hurry up, and we’ll git over to de river and grab de steamboat. Julie Anne Aw, Sam—

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Nigger Named Sam Git yo’ bundle, gal. Dey’ll be quittin’ work, purty soon. [While Julie Anne hurriedly gets together a bundle of clothes, a Woman sings.] A Woman Captain, Captain, let de sun sink down. Captain, Captain, let de sun sink down. Cause I’m waitin’ for my man, He been workin’ so long. Captain, Captain, let de sun sink down. [Nigger Named Sam and Julie Anne hurry off, right. Almost simultaneously, John Henry and the Workers come on, from fill.] John Henry [As though turning a team of mules over to a hostler.] Turn ’em in de corral, son, and tell de corral boss to feed ’em. And don’t cut down on dey feed, cause dey didn’t cut down on de work. [John Henry enters.] I jest burnt out dat Nigger Named Sam And I rolled dat dirt around. I built de Yaller Dog railroad track Before de sun went down. Cause I’m six foot tall, and a workin’ fool And I works twell de sun goes down. And den I quits and I comes to camp— Julie Anne, bring my victuals ’round. [An ominous quiet comes over the women, when Julie Anne’s name is called. John Henry continues, boisterously, until he senses something is wrong.] Bring me turnip greens tree-top tall And season hit down wid a ham. Bring me a pot full er whippoorwill peas And four hog jowls— Julie Anne? Whar you at, baby? Don’t fun wid me when I’m hongry. Ruby I’ll feed you, John Henry. John Henry Whar Julie Anne at? Ruby Gone. Old Aunt Dinah She’s long gone, son.

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John Henry Whar she gone at? Old Aunt Dinah Hit was a Nigger Named Sam— John Henry I burnt him out, before de sun went down. Old Aunt Dinah So he come and tuck yo’ woman and runned off wid her. John Henry Naw. He can’t do dat. I burnt him out. I’m more better man den he is. He can’t take my woman. Old Aunt Dinah Dat’s de way womens do’s, John Henry. A woman will do a good man bad, ev’y time. John Henry She won’t do me dat, no more. I’ll break her neck. Old Aunt Dinah Nawp. She can’t he’p hit. A woman love for a man to work for her. But whilst he’s out yonder workin’, well, she want to do some playin’. So a man come along, and she gonter play. John Henry I don’t like dat kind er playin’, whilst I’m out workin’. Whar she playin’ at? Old Aunt Dinah Her and Sam went to de river to flag de steamboat for New Aw-leans. But John Henry, she didn’t mean hit. She got de all-overs and went off. When you’s around, she won’t look at Sam, but you wan’t around— [John Henry is more puzzled than angry. He sits down on a bale of hay, and studies. The Chorus hums softly the “last go-round” song, to Blind Lemon’s guitar. Ruby assembles a big plate of food and comes slowly to John Henry. She sings.] Ruby John Henry, don’t you grieve for Julie Anne. John Henry, don’t you grieve for Julie Anne. I will fix you more victuals Den yo’ belly kin hold. John Henry, don’t you grieve for Julie Anne. John Henry [Slowly, quietly.] I ain’t hongry. [Curtain.]

AC T I I

SCENE TWO Moonlight. A moving steamboat. The effect to be obtained is that the boat is moving from right to left, so that the audience gets a view of the forward half of the boat. The various deck levels should be approximately as follows: The bow of the boat should be near, but not against the left wings. The open portion of the main deck should occupy about a quarter of the stage, when the structure for the boiler deck is raised. About stage center, the structure for the hurricane deck should rise, and three quarters of the stage, to the right, the texas should be placed. Almost masked in the right wings, the pilot house should be visible. The set should be so constructed that the companionway of the boiler deck should extend across the entire stage, down, which is where most of the action of the scene takes place. The forward main deck is strewn irregularly with miscellaneous pieces of steamboat freight. Roustabouts and their women are sleeping or talking. John Henry is sitting on a packing box, stage center, his chin resting in the palm of his hand. He apparently is studying the water. Julie Anne, on a box nearby, watches him intently. Old Aunt Dinah, The Nigger Named Sam and Ruby are forward and are not so readily discernible when the curtain rises. As the curtain rises, a crew of men are in the act of sounding, as follows: A line heaver, with a leaded line, pitches the lead far out at the head of the boat, and as the boat comes up to the line, he marks the water line with his hand. A Reader calls out the depth, to a Relay Caller on the boiler deck, who repeats the message to a Caller on the hurricane deck. The sounding is accomplished in deliberate song: Lead Heaver Hunh! Reader You got a mark and a little bit mo’. First Relay Caller You got a mark, and a little bit mo’. Second Relay Caller You got a mark, and a little bit mo’.

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Lead Heaver Hunh! Reader Mark and a ha’f. First Relay Caller Mark and a ha’f. Second Relay Caller Mark and a ha’f. Lead Heaver Hunh! Reader Quarter less twain. First Relay Caller Quarter less twain. Second Relay Caller Quarter less twain. Lead Heaver Hunh! Reader No bottom. First Relay Caller No bottom. Second Relay Caller No bottom. Lead Heaver Hunh! Reader I said, no bottom. First Relay Caller I said, no bottom. Second Relay Caller I said, no bottom. [A steamboat bell, off stage, taps two times, calling off the sounding crew, and they wander away, and sit down.] Lead Heaver Did you hyar dat bell ring, baby? Dat mean, pull yo’ line outn’ de water.

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Ruby [She arouses from a drowsy sleep.] Hunh? My line ain’t in no water. [Guffaws of laughter in which both join.] Lead Heaver I jest didn’t want you to think hit meant dinner time. First Relay Caller [Coming on deck.] Hit means, no bottom. Lead Heaver No bottom and de river gittin’ deeper all de time. Ruby [Lewdly.] No bottom, hunh? Dat ain’t for me. Old Aunt Dinah No bottom, Lawd, and de boat ridin’ high. [Blind Lemon begins picking chords on his guitar.] Reader No bottom. Blind Lemon Heave my line and I heave my lead, And what you reckon did de line man said? Ruby What he said, Lemon? Blind Lemon No bottom. [There is laughter, as Lemon continues to play and sing.] No bottom in de river and de boat ridin’ high. I listened and I hyared what de line man cry. Ruby Cryin’ what? Blind Lemon No bottom. Ruby and Chorus Cause hit ain’t no bottom And de river gittin’ deeper, Maybe dis steamboat Carry me along.

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Said, carry me along Back to my good man Said, maybe dis steamboat Carry me along. Blind Lemon I’m singin’ ’bout de line and I’m singin’ ’bout de lead. And I’m singin’ ’bout de word dat de line man said. No bottom. Now, you ridin’ on de river and you ridin’ mighty high, Gonter keep on ridin’ to de day you die. No bottom. Ruby and Chorus [Repeat.] [During the last chorus, John Henry comes out of his reverie, and hums the song along with the Chorus. As the song ends, he shakes his head, drops his chin into his hands.] John Henry No bottom. Julie Anne What de matter, darlin’? You got somethin’ on yo’ weary mind? John Henry Hunh? Julie Anne I don’t like to see you act so sad, darlin’. John Henry Well, den, don’t look at me. Cause when I feels sad I acts sad. Julie Anne But you hadn’t ought to feel sad. I don’t like dat. John Henry Well, ef you don’t like for me to feel sad, how come you make me feel sad? Woman, you tawk like a fool. Julie Anne Darlin’, I ain’t did you nothin’. John Henry You ain’t did me nothin’? You runned off wid dat Nigger Named Sam, didn’t you? Julie Anne Darlin’, us done argyed all er dat out. I didn’t aim you no evil.

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John Henry Hit make me feel evil in my mind. Hit was like my heart was dirt in de road, and you tromped on hit. Julie Anne Darlin’, efn I do’s you like dat, you wouldn’t be lovin’ wid me, no mo’. John Henry You done me like dat, and I ain’t lovin’ wid you no mo’. Julie Anne Aw, go ’head, John Henry. Efn you didn’t love me, how come you runned off f ’m de levee camp to follow me and de Nigger Named Sam? Dat sound like pure love. John Henry [Uncertainly.] Maybe I didn’t runned off to follow you. Julie Anne You’s hyar. John Henry Maybe Old Aunt Dinah put me up to hit. Julie Anne Maybe yo’ true heart put you up to hit, darlin’. Dat’s how come you’s hyar. You know I’m yo’ woman, and you know you’s my man. You kin set and argy all de way down de river, but I’m still yo’ woman, and you’s still my man. [She sings.] I’ll cry for you, darlin’ when you’s feelin’ sad, I’ll sing and dance for you when you’s feelin’ glad And den I’ll do yo’ rollin’— John Henry Take away wid dat noise! You had yo’ chance to sing for me, up yonder in de levee camp. Julie Anne John Henry, honey, you’s jest tired. You better git you some rest. Hyar, lie back and rest yo’ head in my lap. [John Henry reluctantly puts his head in Julie Anne’s lap.] Go to sleep, great big old darlin’, and dream a sweet dream about me. Den when you wakes up— John Henry Ah, Lawd. Maybe I don’t love you no mo’, and den maybe I do’s love you. Julie Anne Go to sleep, man. Hyar, lemme put dis pillow under yo’ weary head.

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[She substitutes a sack of flour as a pillow for John Henry.] [The Nigger Named Sam comes on deck, standing behind John Henry so that only Julie Anne sees him. She nods her recognition to Sam.] Now, you go to sleep, whilst I gits over behind dis box and rests myse’f on dat pile er cottonseeds. [As soon as the business of getting John Henry settled comfortably is done, Julie Anne and The Nigger Named Sam disappear together behind the box.] Blind Lemon [Singing.] I done done all I kin do, And I can’t git along wid you. I’m gonter send you to yo’ mamma, Sho’s you bawn. Cause I’m sick and tired of yo’ low down dirty ways. [There is a giggle among the workers and their women who are on the forward part of the main deck.] Ef-a you don’t think I’m sinkin’, Lawdy, look what a hole I’m in. Old Aunt Dinah [She starts singing softly from where she is on the forward main deck and slowly walks stage center. During her song, the steamboat bell taps twice, and the sounding process is repeated, as in the opening of the scene, with the callers singing background for Old Aunt Dinah’s song. The combined singing and sounding wake John Henry.] John Henry, you sho’ got a burden, And de burden gonter do you bad Yo’ burden is a weary woman, And she got you feelin’ bad, Lawd, Lawd, She de worst you ever had. De man ain’t been bawn which kin shade you. And I don’t reckon he’s been dead. [John Henry rises sluggishly, stretches, and yawns.] But what about de woman on yo’ weary mind, And what about yo’ foldin’ bed, Lawd, Lawd, Said, what about yo’ foldin’ bed? John Henry I worked and I loved and I rambled some more, Twice as far as I could see I quit Poor Selma like a job of work, And I whupped bad Stacker Lee, Lawd, Lawd, And I whupped bad Stacker Lee. But I choosed and picked me a woman

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And her name is Julie Anne She love me so good hit aches her heart, And she gives me her weary hand, Lawd, Lawd, And I rule her wid a heavy hand. Old Aunt Dinah You works and you rambles like a natchal man And you picks you a woman so true, A bale er cotton can’t bear you down, But yo’ gal’ll be death er you, Lawd, Lawd, So what kin a poor boy do? John Henry No man, no woman, no burden so big Kin bend my shoulders down Cause I’m big and bad and six foot tall And my feet don’t tetch de ground, Lawd, Lawd, And I rambles f ’m town to town. I was bawn in de Black River country Whar de sun don’t never shine And de burden don’t be an’ ain’t never been Which kin bow dis back er mine, Lawd, Lawd, And you hyar dis song er mine. So stand you back, Aunt Dinah And gimme some room to spread, To I moves dis freight and I shows you my gal, Sleepin’ like she was dead, Lawd, Lawd— Sleepin’ like— [John Henry suddenly drags the packing box aside, and reveals Julie Anne and The Nigger Named Sam in close embrace. While the shock of the discovery holds, the Line Reader calls “No Bottom,” and the Chorus sings, softly, the No Bottom song. The Nigger Named Sam hurriedly leaves and Julie Anne protests her innocence.] John Henry Woman! You do me like I was a dog. Julie Anne I wan’t doin’ nothin’ bad, darlin’. I was jest speakin’. John Henry You lyin’ to me. You was frivolin’. Julie Anne Aw, darlin’, I and Sam was jest speakin’.

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[A landing whistle blows, one long blast, two short blasts and a long, and during the remaining dialogue, extemporized preparations are made for landing. A Roustabout says, New Aw-leans, great God! Ruby chirps, I’m fixin’ to make me some fun. Another Rouster says, I’ll meet you back er town, baby, and he’p you out, etc.] John Henry Oh, Lawd, I wish I was dead. Julie Anne Now, darlin’, you knows I’m yo’ woman. John Henry Take away woman. Git on away. Julie Anne I loves you true. John Henry I don’t love you, and I don’t love nobody. Leave me be, whilst you kin. I’m gittin’ mad, now. Julie Anne I bet you is bad when you gits mad, you’s so big and stout. John Henry [His slow, bewildered hurt finally crystallizes into rage.] Git out er my way, you Julie Anne, and git out er my way, you womens. I treats you good, and you do’s me bad, and you ain’t worth de patience. So I quits you ladies, and fare you well. Cause John Henry don’t need you. Hyar I’m is in New Aw-leans, and I kin find my pleasure. I done worked, and I’m fixin’ to play, but I don’t need no ladies. Hit’s yuther stuff dat’ll ease my mind, and all hell can’t stop me. [The steamboat bell taps one time. The Mate yells, Lower the stage! and during the brief confusion in preparation for landing, John Henry sits down, his angry outburst having collapsed.] John Henry I wish I was dead and buried, or never had been bawn. [Curtain]

AC T I I I

SCENE ONE Mink Eye’s gin mill on Saratoga Street, New Orleans. The place is small, stuffy and tawdry. An undecorative bar is up right, an abused upright piano is down left. Up left is a door. The room is lighted by a single electric bulb that is hung from the ceiling, and guyed approximately over the bar. The rest of the room is shadowy. At rise of curtain, Mink Eye, the bar tender, is behind the bar. The Nigger Named Sam, Ruby, and one or two other couples are lounging in chairs at tables. Blind Lemon sits, down left, removed from the others. The scene is anything but gay, and the characters are gloomy. Mink Eye shakes his head sorrowfully as he surveys his customers. Mink Eye Dis de deadest damned place I ever seed. Whyn’t some er y’all git somethin’ started? I’m gonter quit runnin’ dis place and git me a lively job wid some old undertaker. The Nigger Named Sam [Dolefully, and without any apparent reference to what Mink Eye has said.] Drink me a drink of bourbon, Drink me a drink of rye. But I ain’t gonter drink none er Mink Eye’s cawn whisky, Cause I’m skeered I’ll die. [A half-hearted chuckle or two follows the song.] Mink Eye Dat ain’t much of a song, but I reckon hit’s better den no song a-tall. Ruby, whyn’t you hit ’em a lick or two. Maybe somebody’ll hyar a woman squallin’ and come in. Ruby [She gulps a jigger of gin, gags, and presently, without moving from her chair, sings without much enthusiasm.] Take me a shot of cocaine, Take me a shot of gin. De Doctor say hit’ll kill poor me, Lawd, But he didn’t say when.

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[John Henry enters. He is tired and dejected, and he sits down by himself, near the bar. His entrance apparently is unnoticed by everyone except Ruby, who deliberately sings the next verse to him.] [While singing this verse, she gets up, strolls to John Henry’s table and sits down. Mink Eye, without an order, serves each of them a drink.] Ruby Papa likes his whisky. Mamma likes her gin. Papa likes his outside women Mamma likes her outside men. [RUBY gulps her gin, and gags, and then smiles at John Henry.] Hit’s purty good gin. John Henry [He contemplates his drink, and then shoves it aside.] I done drunk so much er dis stuff to hit don’t taste like nothin’, to me. Ruby Not none er dis stuff, big boy. You might er drunk some fo’ks’ gin dat don’t taste like nothin’, but Mink Eye’s gin go down like fightin’ wildcats. John Henry [He tosses down his drink as though it were water.] Dis stuff don’t taste like nothin’. [Everybody is amazed at the way John Henry drinks without gagging.] Mink Eye Maybe I made a mistake. [He smells John Henry’s empty glass, and shakes his head.] Son, anybody which kin drink down my gin like dat, must be feelin’ low. John Henry I’m is feelin’ low down. I’m so low I’m under de bottom. Ruby Bring dis big stuff a muggle, Mink Eye. Dat’ll cyore his allovers, maybe. John Henry Ain’t no good. I done smoked so much muggles to I’m tired er muggles. I been smokin’ dat stuff ev’y since I been in New Aw-lins, and hit don’t do me nothin’ but dry up my th’oat. Ruby Man, you must be got troubles! Blind Lemon [Sings.] I love you, woman, but I don’t like yo’ low down ways.

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John Henry Hit was a lady down de street, told me I might c’d git some stuff hyar to ease my mind. Mink Eye Aw, why didn’t you tell me? Ruby Same thing. [She sniffs.] A big whiff er coke might ease yo’ weary mind, darlin’. John Henry My mind ain’t botherin’ me. Hit’s my heart. My heart feel like hit’s a ball er fire, and I’m so tired and weary. Ruby Tired and weary. John Henry Heavy hearted. Ruby Heavy hearted. John Henry And sick plum down to my soul. Ruby You got de down-yonders bad, son. John Henry Give my woman All er my wages And she left poor me in de cold. Blind Lemon —But I don’t like yo’ low down ways. [Mink Eye goes back of the bar, and begins moving bottles and packages, in preparation to getting to the cache of cocaine.] John Henry Why don’t you go on and finish dat song, fool? Seem like ev’y time I sees you, you jest sings out dat one line, and den you stop. Dat ain’t enough, or else hit’s too much. Now, go on and finish dat song before I gits mad. Blind Lemon Git mad, and den git glad. Cause hit ain’t no mo’ to dat song, John Henry. John Henry How come hit ain’t no mo’ to dat song? Blind Lemon Ain’t dat enough? You love a woman, but you don’t like her low down ways? Dat’s a heap, John Henry. De mo’ you love her, de mo’ she grieve you, and de mo’ she grieve

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you, well, de mo’ she love you. Hit go on like dat to you can’t stand hit no mo’. But dat ain’t de end er de song, John Henry, cause a song like dat ain’t got no end. John Henry [He takes a small package from Mink Eye, unwraps and inhales deeply, and sings sorrowfully.] I love you, darlin’, but I don’t like yo’ low down ways. Naw, hit ain’t got no end, hit jest git worse and worse. [While he is singing, Julie Anne, Old Aunt Dinah, and Hell Buster come in.] Julie Anne Dat’s him, Hell Buster, grievin’ out his po’ heart. Hell Buster Sho’, dat song got a end, John Henry. But you won’t find de end in dis low down dive er shame, whiffin’ coke and swillin’ gin. John Henry Den le’s hyar you sing de end er dat song. Hell Buster I’m gonter git down on my knees, I’m gonter say, Jesus, he’p me, please. I’m gonter make my troubles easy, On my knees. John Henry I don’t git down on my knees for nothin’ or nobody. Blind Lemon [Lemon leads and the others, except John Henry, join with him, uncertainly at first, and more boldly as the song progresses.] Down on me. Down on me. Look like ev’ybody in de whole wide world is down on me. Hell Buster Poor John Henry, Don’t you git lost. Git on yo’ knees And crawl on across. Look like ev’ybody in de whole wide world is down on me. Chorus [Repeating the chorus, as John Henry and Hell Buster talk above the singing.] I’m gonter git down on my knees, I’m gonter say, Jesus, he’p me please,

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I’m gonter make my troubles easy, On my knees. Hell Buster On yo’ knees, John Henry, and let Po’ Little Jesus he’p you end yo’ weary song. John Henry I’m a man and I sings my own songs. Hell Buster A man in yo’ back, maybe, yes. But is you a man in yo’ heart, John Henry? John Henry I kin tote a solid bale er cotton. Hell Buster On yo’ back, yes. But kin you tote Jesus in yo’ heart? John Henry I kin tote anything which ain’t nailed down. Hell Buster On yo’ back, you kin. But kin you tote Jesus in yo’ heart? John Henry Ef I cain’t, den I kin mock de man which kin. Hell Buster Den git on yo’ knees and gravel and groan, and lemme see is you man enough to tote Jesus. [The rhythm is changed, and John Henry reluctantly gets on his knees.] John Henry Now, what must I do? Hell Buster Gravel and groan, and beg Jesus to lift yo’ weary burden. Blind Lemon and Chorus [Syncopating, and patting hands and feet, triumphantly.] Oh, de stawm is passin’ over, Hallelu. Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Oh, de stawm is passin’ over. Hallelu. Hell Buster Courage, my soul. As we journey on. De way is dark. Won’t be very long. Oh, de stawm is passin’ over,

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Hallelu. [John Henry is bewildered, and he joins in the weaving and clapping of the singers, uncertainly, as the song goes through the next verse.] Julie Anne Courage, my soul, As we further go. De rollin’ sea, Obeys God’s command. Jesus, ease his soul, Peace, peace be still, Oh, de stawm is passin’ over, Hallelu. The Nigger Named Sam When you’s dead and gone We will follow on. Gone to live on high, On beyond de sky. Oh, de stawm is passin’ over. [John Henry suddenly leaps to his feet and lunges wildly at Hell Buster.] John Henry Tryin’ to trick me, hunh? Tryin’ to lay me out, dead? [Hell Buster retreats, rapidly, and John Henry grabs Ruby and shoves her after Hell Buster.] Hell Buster [As he exits.] I’ll see you again, John Henry. But you won’t be lookin’ at me. John Henry [He grabs Old Aunt Dinah, and shoves her out the door, pushing Ruby out with her.] And you, git out wid yo’ ju-ju tawk. [By now, there is a wild scramble for the door. John Henry grabs the Nigger Named Sam.] And you, wid yo’ fat-mouf creepin’. [He takes Julie Anne, roughly, and begins shoving her toward the door.] And you two-timin’ alley bat— Julie Anne I loves you good, John Henry. And you loves— John Henry [He grabs Julie Anne, raises her bodily, and pitches her out.] I’m done wid you, you strumpet. I’m done grieved my last, cause I’m a man and I’m mad, and I can’t be bothered.

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[Now, only John Henry and Blind Lemon are on the stage. Blind Lemon has remained all during the scene, in a chair to himself, down left. John Henry comes to stage center, and stands as if bewildered for a few seconds. He breathes heavily a time or two, and recites his credo. He begins talking as though taking inventory of himself, for reassurance, and gradually builds himself up to mighty self-confidence in his ability to work. While he speaks, Blind Lemon improvises softly on the guitar.] John Henry I’m big and bad and six foot tall, And I come f ’m de Black River country. Ain’t no work kin bear me down, And ain’t no man kin shade me. My back is iron, my muscles is steel, And my name is old John Henry. I works my way around dis world, And I don’t beg no favors. I works on de river and I works on de land And ev’ybody knows I’m a natchal man. I wrestles wid de freight all de summer and fall And I rolls more cotton den de White kin haul. I wheel de dirt, and I snake de log, And I laid de steel on de Yaller Dog I quits my work, cause I wants to play, And I quits Poor Selma and I wawks away. When I works I’m happy, and when I plays I’m sad. And I kills anybody which do’s me bad. Cause I’m bawn in de country and I’m raised in de town. I’m a workin’ poor fool f ’m my head on down. My name is John Henry, and when you calls my name Let yo’ backbone tremble, and bow yo’ head in shame. I’m gwine back to de Black River country Whar de sun don’t never shine. And hit ain’t no womens, and hit’s plenty er work, And work don’t bother my mind. Cause my name is old John Henry, And God knows, I’m a natchal man! [Black out curtain]

AC T I I I

SCENE TWO Same as Act I, Scene One, except that a device to represent a steam winch is in operation. The winch should be just left of stage center and must be mechanically constructed so that it will wind up or play out a long cable or rope. The rope should lead from the drum of the winch to the steamboat deck, through a snatch-block, and back on the stage to the pile of cotton bales, down, and right, so that when the lever on the winch is pulled, the drum turns, winding up the rope drawing a bale of cotton from the pile to the deck of the steamboat. When the winch lever is reversed, the rope is paid out by the drum, and a Roustabout walks back to the cotton with the free end, attaches it to another bale. At rise of curtain The Nigger Named Sam is sitting impersonally at the winch lever. Nearby, dramatically, is The Mate (Billie Bob Russell). Scattered about are other workers and their women, who idly watch the process of the steam winch operation, but not with a great deal of interest. Among them are Poor Selma, Ruby, Old Aunt Dinah, and Hell Buster. The rope is attached to a bale of cotton by means of a pair of grab-hooks, which are held in place by a Roustabout, and everything is in readiness to drag the first bale of cotton on the boat. The Mate Now, Sam, when I drop my hat, you yank that lever. You hear? The Nigger Named Sam I hyar you, Cap’m. The Mate You got that line hooked, Rucker? A Roustabout Got hit hooked so tight. The Mate Now, by Gannies, watch out, Sam! [He drops his hat with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. The Nigger Named Sam pulls the lever. The drum turns, and the bale of cotton is slowly dragged on the boat. The Roustabout follows the bale on the boat.]

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Roustabout Hold hit, Sam. The Nigger Named Sam [He reverses the lever.] Make me know hit. [The Roustabout coonjines back to the cotton pile, dragging with him the rope which is playing off the drum. He attaches the hooks into another bale.] Roustabout Snake hit away, Sam. Snake hit away. [The Nigger Named Sam pulls his lever again, and the bale is dragged on the boat. This process is continued without reference to other action taking place.] [John Henry enters, down left. He is walking with an exaggerated swagger but no one pays any attention to him, nor does he appear to notice the steam winch in operation. He walks directly to the Mate.] John Henry Cap’m, my name is John Henry, and I’m huntin’ for a cotton rollin’ job er work. The Mate [He stands for a second without hearing John Henry.] Hunh? What’s your trouble? John Henry My name is old cotton rollin’ John Henry, and I comes f ’m I don’t know whar. I worked and I played, and now I’m fixin’ to work some more. Cause I’m a cotton rollin’ fool, and yonder’s a pile of cotton. The Mate I’m not hiring cotton rollers any more, John Henry. I’m rolling my cotton by steam. John Henry [He notices the winch for the first time, and is puzzled.] Dat ain’t no way to roll no cotton, Cap’m. Hit takes a man to roll cotton. The Mate That gets it on my boat, and that’s what I want. John Henry I kin roll more cotton den dat thing kin. [The Nigger Named Sam grins derisively, but says nothing.] [Julie Anne comes on, down right, and stands near the cotton. John Henry does not see her, but Sam waves to her.] The Mate What’s that?

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John Henry I was bawn in de country And I was raised in de town And I’m a cotton rollin’ fool F’m my head on down. The Nigger Named Sam He’s braggin’. John Henry I’m big and I’m black, And I’m six-foot-five. I kin roll more cotton Den any man alive. The Nigger Named Sam He’s braggin’. John Henry I’m stout like a bull And I’m six-foot-ten I kin roll more cotton Den dat thing kin. The Nigger Named Sam He’s braggin’. You tawks mighty big in de country, And you tawks mighty big in de town. But hit takes a heap more’n big tawk To roll dis cotton down. And John Henry, you know you’s braggin’. [At the conclusion of Sam’s song, the Workers on the set are obviously dividing themselves to three groups. One group gathering about Julie Anne is actively pro-John Henry; a Second, down left, led by Poor Selma, is pro-Sam, while the Third and larger group, is undecided. As the action proceeds, the members of the Third, center stage, led by Ruby, join one or the other groups so that by the time John Henry begins work, the Chorus is definitely lined up in support of either John Henry or Sam.] John Henry Well, stand back all er you bullies, And lay dat gangplank down, And watch big ol’ me load dis boat Before de sun goes down. John Henry’s Friends Oh, he’s a man, man.

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Nigger Named Sam’s Friends He’s braggin’. [As a second gangplank is laid for John Henry, who stands a bale on end, backs up against it, hooks it over his shoulder, and slowly walks up the levee and on the boat.] Julie Anne John Henry is a cotton rollin’ man. He totes his hook in his hand all de time. And before he’ll let dat steam winch burn him down, He’ll die wid dat hook in his hand, Lawd, Lawd. John Henry Lawd, I’ll die wid de hook in my hand. Julie Anne John Henry, you knows I’m yo’ woman. And God knows you is my man. I’ll pick up de hook ef you lays hit down, And roll cotton like a natchal man, Lawd, Lawd. John Henry’s Friends And he’ll die wid he hook in his hand. [During Julie Anne’s song, her friends extemporize: Look at him! He’s a man and you can’t stop him. He’s a cotton rollin’ fool, and his name is John Henry, etc., while The Nigger Named Sam’s Friends punctuate the song with repeated He’s braggin’. The extemporized cheers and jeers grow louder during Poor Selma’s song, drowning out the last line.] Poor Selma Oh, they’s been some changes made, John Henry, since you’ve been gone. Said they’s been some changes made, Darlin’, since you’ve been gone. You was bawn in de country And you comed to town, And de steam and de steel Is gonter burn you down. Said they’s been some changes made, John Henry, since you’ve been gone. Julie Anne [She shouts above the din, and the Chorus begins to quiet.] John Henry ain’t changed. Ain’t nothin’ kin burn him down rollin’ cotton—meat or iron.

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[Extemporize: Dat’s right. She know her man. She sho’ tawk him up.] Poor Selma Got any money to back up dat tawk? [Extemporize: Tawk is cheap. Hit takes money to crow. Bet some money on yo’ words or call hit chin music.] Julie Anne Sho’, I got some money. I always got money to lay on my man. I got fawty dollars say he a better man den de steam winch. [She extracts a roll of bills from the top of her stocking.] Poor Selma [Taking a roll from her stocking.] You’s faded, dark child. Julie Anne [Taking a roll from the other stocking.] Hyar’s fawty mo’ say you’s wrong. [The money is piled on the stage, and extemporized consternation is expressed: Dat’s a heap er money. Genuine frog skins, too. She sho’ believe in her man. I believe in him too. I got a thin dime say he do.] [The betting continues spiritedly by pantomime. In the meantime, John Henry continues toting cotton on his back, and Sam keeps working the lever. Growing out of the confusion of the noise of betting, the Chorus takes up the “Coonjine Song” establishing its rhythm. Against this, Old Aunt Dinah, who is off stage, sings.] Old Aunt Dinah Take a little hog jowl, take a little lye And make a little soap before de jaybird die. Chorus Gimme little coonjine, coonjine, coonjine Gimme little coonjine, please ma’am. Old Aunt Dinah [She comes on the stage, the lights begin to go down, slowly at first and increasing in rapidity, so that by the time the Chorus completes the refrain of her song, only dimly outlined shadows can be seen on the stage. As the darkness is set, thunder and lightning start, growing in intensity as the action proceeds.] Let de thunder roll and de lightnin’ blast. So I wonder how long kin dat poor boy last. Chorus Soap and water, sho’ will keep it clean. [The stage now is completely dark, except for flashes of lightning, which reveal John Henry on a dead run and Sam working the lever feverishly.]

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The Nigger Named Sam [Mournfully and lazily.] I’m on my last go ’round. I’m on my last go ’round. I will drag mo’ cotton Den de Big Jim kin haul. I’m on my last go ’round. Chorus Make a little soap before de jaybird die, Soap and water— Julie Anne [She cuts through the chorus with a high note and ends her song as Chorus completes Sho’ will keep it clean.] Got a head like a rock and a heart like a marble stone. Old Aunt Dinah When John Henry was a baby I stood him in de pa’am er my hand. Cryin’, baby, baby, take old Dinah’s advice, And don’t never be a cotton rollin’ man, Lawd, Lawd. Full Chorus Or you’ll die wid a hook in yo’ hand. [There is a second of absolute dark and quiet. A sharp peal of thunder breaks the silence, and a blast of blue lightning reveals John Henry, stage center, going down under a bale of cotton. The Chorus begins a wail which will later grow into the chorus of “The Old Ship of Zion.” Subsequent flashes of lightning reveal Julie Anne rushing to John Henry and trying to roll the cotton from his body. A second and more sustained period of complete darkness comes. The lights start up slowly, and the wail of the chorus has now become a definite chant.] A Singer It is the Old Ship of Zion. It is the Old Ship of Zion. Yes, it is the Old Ship of Zion. Git on board— Old Aunt Dinah Have mercy, Lawd— A Singer —Git on board. It have—

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Chorus Landed many a thousand. It have landed many a thousand. Yes, it have landed many a thousand. Git on board— Hell Buster [He has come upon the stage during the second period of dark.] Oh, yes, git on board, chillun— Chorus —Git on board. [During the “Old Ship” song the lights have risen gradually from complete darkness to approximately a twilight, and the remainder of the scene is played in twilight. A bale of cotton under which John Henry fell is stage center, and three quarters back, where it has been moved. It conceals Julie Anne, as appears later. John Henry is dead, in the center of the stage, in front of the bale, which has been moved off his body during the singing. His cotton hook is not in his hand, as appears later. The Men of the Chorus work methodically at placing his body upon the bale of cotton, moving out a second bale so as to make his bier larger, and as the song closes, a piece of tarpaulin is spread over his body. Hell Buster takes up a place near the cotton, facing diagonally across the stage, so that he will not be standing directly behind the cotton bale.] Hell Buster Oh, yes! Now, efn hit’s any er dis poor man’s kind friends would like to say a few words, let ’em come forward. [Six Women file forward and form a semi-circle around John Henry’s body. Five of the women are dressed in ordinary clothes; the sixth is in widow’s weeds.] First Woman I comed hyar all dressed in red, Cause I hyared John Henry was dead. Second Woman I comed hyar all dressed in blue, Cause I loved John Henry true. Third Woman I comed hyar all dressed in green, Cause he’s de biggest man I ever seen. Fourth Woman I comed hyar all dressed in gray, Cause cold death tuck John Henry away.

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Fifth Woman I comed hyar all dressed in yaller, Cause John Henry quit Poor Selma. Sixth Woman I comed hyar all dressed in black, Cause I wisht I had him back. [She snatches away her veil and reveals her identity as Poor Selma. Extemporized cries of Poor Selma! Old Selma, herself. She de one which couldn’t be quit, wan’t she? John Henry quit her like he quit a job er work.] [Ruby walks sadly to the head of John Henry. As she recites her monologue, the Chorus hums the melody of “Old Ship of Zion.”] Ruby Lay down, darlin’ and git yo’ rest. Cause God knows you need hit. I loved you good, but you didn’t love me, Julie Anne was yo’ woman. And now you’s dead, my lovin’ man, And hyar stand me, a-moanin’. But I don’t see no Julie Anne A-groanin’ at yo’funeral. Blind Lemon [He gropes his way to the head of John Henry, his guitar swinging by a cord around his shoulders.] I’m old and blind and I can’t see, And I never seed John Henry. But I hyared him tawk, and I hyared him sing, And I hyared him roll de cotton. So before y’all lays dis body away, Please grant me one kind favor. Let me tetch his cotton hook, And let me feel de handle. Let me hold hit in my right hand, And make like I’m a cotton rollin’ man, Let me play like I’m John Henry. Old Aunt Dinah John Henry’s cotton hook ain’t hyar, And ef hit was, Blind Lemon, You couldn’t hold hit in yo’ hand Cause you ain’t got de muscle.

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John Henry was a mighty man Bawn way up on Black River, And when he worked and when he played, De man wan’t bawn which could shade him. So he loved poor Julie Anne And got out in deep water, Cause she loved John Henry good— Ruby You speaks a lie, Old Woman. Cause ef she loved her man so good, Why ain’t she hyar moanin’? Hell Buster Don’t go lyin’ on de dead. Old Aunt Dinah I won’t lie on nobody. John Henry loved his woman, true. And she loved poor John Henry. Wid plenty er love and plenty er fault, So dey couldn’t git together. And dat’s how come day bofe is dead When dey bofe might be livin’. Hell Buster Bofe? Who else is dead? [Old Aunt Dinah makes a signal to Sam and he gets up, rolls aside a bale of cotton revealing the body of Julie Anne where she fell, rolling cotton. He picks her up and carries her to John Henry’s side. When Sam puts her on the cotton bale, he twists John Henry’s cotton hook from Julie Anne’s right hand, and contemplates it.] The Nigger Named Sam She died a-rollin’ cotton. Ruby Dat’s Julie Anne, layin’ by her man. [She weeps on Sam’s shoulder.] Women Of Chorus John Henry, he had him a woman, And her name was Julie Anne. She picked up de hook John Henry laid down, And rolled cotton like a natchal man, Lawd, Lawd, And she died wid de hook in her hand.

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Hell Buster [He begins his oration as the Chorus sings, “Lawd, Lawd,” and continues shouting above them until the final curtain. The music of the “Old Ship” also is easily identifiable.] Ashes unto ashes, Lawd, And dust unto dust. So say de Sperrit, John Henry. And so, to you, poor Julie Anne, So fare you well, my children. Now, lock yo’ hands and flap yo’ wings And I’ll preach you in de Kingdom. Saint Peter, give John Henry a crown As tall as a John B. Stutson. And give his woman a harp er gold And high heel silver slippers. Den march ’em on down to de Th’one er Grace And set ’em at de Welcome table. John Henry, son, why don’t you eat? Dat’s pyore milk and honey! Hit’s de finest grub in all de world— Maybe hit don’t suit you? Den, how ’bout cabbage piled high as de stars, And cawn bread stacked to glory? And now, you’s happy, Poor Julie Anne, Up yonder wid John Henry. I kin see you smile and take his hand And lean agin his shoulder. And I sees de Lawd smile on you bofe, And give you His sweet blessin’. [The “John Henry” song verse is sung by part of the Chorus against the full “Old Ship of Zion” by the rest, as Hell Buster concludes shouting above both groups.] First Chorus [“John Henry” song] He went to de east and he went to de west, And I reckon he went all around. He went to de river and he got baptised So dey laid him in his buryin’ ground, Lawd, Lawd, And he died wid his hook in his hand.

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Second Chorus [“Old Ship of Zion” song] It will take you home to Glory It will take you home to Glory It will take you home to Glory, Git on board; git on board. Hell Buster Oh, you sinner, can’t you see Dat pair r’ared back in Glory? Oh, you sinners can’t you see Dey’s in de shade er de Eternal Tree Hit’s good for you and hit’s good for me. Dey’s landed in de Kingdom! [Curtain]