# When the Leaves Come Out/What Happened in the Hollow

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE HOLLOW
This story may of interest be, although its none too nice— The story of a mine-guard thug who had to pay the price. You know well, boys, the kind I mean, they'd steal an orphan's shoes Or sell their mother's honor for a swig of rot-gut booze. They are the watch-dogs, so its claimed, of property and life, And yet they rob and rape and kill; grow prosperous on strife. They carry "gats" to "get you" and "knucks" to crack your jaw Yet live in fat security, protected by the "Law"— The law that is for Parasites steel bars to clutch their prey And for the workers of the world the Club that means "obey"!
This tale is of Kanawha when the strike was getting hot, And some men worked and some men scabbed and many men were shot. The men who scabbed were living hard, the men at work scabbed too, Although they said "the 'contract' left them nothing else to do." The men on strike resisted well, of that there is no doubt;
Though "union men" hauled in the scabs and hauled the scab coal out. The outside miners sent in grub and shoes and all the like And then went back into the mines and helped to break the strike. For these two things have always helped to keep us in the ditch: The "contracts" of our unions and the hirelings of the rich.
Now Jurgot was this mine-guard's name (for treason to his class He had to pay) and you will hear just how it came to pass. They came to drive us from those shacks the Operators' own And on the dusty county road our goods were being thrown. The Baldwins did the dirty work with Yellow-legs on guard— A bunch of low scab-herding curs before each miner's yard! And what was left for us to do but just to stand aside And let them finish up the job—and swallow down our pride? They'd thrown us out—we knew they would—and we could hit the pike, Our masters could do everything except to break our strike. They had the courts, the guards, the guns, the earth—without, within— But we had one another and a fighting chance to win!
Bill Parson's house they came to last; it was the farthest down,
And Bill they feared and hated more than any man in town. Bill had a fist as hard as rock, he measured six feet two; And we were kind of wondering to know what Bill would do. Big Gurgot came and banged his fist and rattled at Bill's door; The two had met and Gurgot burned to settle up the score. When Bill appeared he didn't seem to be surprised at all, His woman stood beside him there, and Buddy, slim and tall. "Come out of this, it's time to move; you've got no business here!" Said Jurgot, and he curled his lip into a wolfish sneer. . . . Bills fists were clenched, his knuckle bones were slowly growing white. His jaw was set, his eyes grew cold; we feared there'd be a fight Bill knew too well the penalty to play into their game, He sniffed and smiled an ugly smile, but came out just the same. We knew that this was hard for Bill—we knew it made him sore, For he had licked that Baldwin pup a time or two before. And we, we saw the bluish glint upon each army gun We felt the menace of their lead and cursed them, every one. And we knew that somewhere handy a machine gun stand was set
With the starry flag above it—to be used should we forget,— And that somewhere chained and hidden with the yellow-legs in town Were a dozen dainty blood-hounds that would gladly hunt us down. Then two Kanawha cossacks came to where Bill Parsons stood, They grabbed him tight on either arm to make sure he'd be good. Said Bill, "Don't fret, I won't fight yet, I know what I'm about; But wait till spring and hear me sing to see the leaves come out. We'll make you pay, remember that, for all the dirt you do, And when the hills are not so bare we'll settle up with you!" The dough-boys knew what Bill meant, they gathered round him thick,— The very thought of leafy hills would always make them sick. And then it happened, that one thing that lashed us like a goad, They took Bill's woman by the arm and dragged her to the road. Big Jurgot jerked her brutally and swung her half around And when she cursed him in her pain he knocked her to the ground. . . . But Bill's boy Buddy, like a flash, sprang over where she fell; "I'll fix you yet, you Baldwin cur, I'll send your soul to hell!" Big Jurgot cowered back afraid of brave young Buddy's eye,
He knew that like a tiger cub the kid would fight and die. . . . Then Bill took one terrific lunge straight at the rat-faced hound, He smashed him square upon the eye and sprawled him to the ground! Then all the mine-guards grappled Bill, before he could resist They overpowered him and snapped a bracelet on each wrist. And Jurgot, coward that he was, when helped back to his place, He held his battered ugly eye and struck Bill in the face. . . . We saw Bill's muscles bulge and strain, we saw him reel and sway. They dragged him to the bull-pen then and locked him safe away. We saw the cruel bluish glint upon each army gun, We felt the menace of their lead and cursed them, every one.
From this time on we had no word, no single trace of Bill, And now our tents were clustered at the bottom of the hill. But in about a week, I think , one grey and rainy day A striker came into our camp and said, "Bill's got away!" Soon came the guards to look for him, and each one armed to kill; Scab-herders came and yellow-legs, and each one after Bill! It always happens just this way whenever slaves rebel.
The Powers that Be unloose on them the very scum of Hell!
We thought of how we'd like to go to help Bill get away But knew their eyes and lights and guns were on us night and day. We saw the wig-wam village of the tin-horn crew near by And we knew the one of us that went was pretty sure to die. That night we heard the baying dogs, a lonesome shot or two, While Mrs. Parsons, horror-eyed, sobbed on the whole night through. We heard the sentry's answering call, the brooklet gurgling near, And red, red thoughts went through our brains, some dim and others clear. But little Buddy, all alone bent over Bill's old gun; He oiled it up and polished it—and waited for the sun.
The mine-guards came next morning and they brought Bill to the door, They had him in a blanket that was spotted red with gore. And Mrs. Parsons didn't weep as lots of women would But she had such a look on her that made us wish we could. She stroked Bill's white and rigid face, her eyes looked far away...... Well! We all got together then we had a plan to lay.
When Jurgot came a swaggering up in front of every one
He had blood upon his khaki coat and powder on his gun. "I said to him" he boasted loud "the hills or bull-pen which? He took the hills and so did we, I fixed the son of a bitch!" Then Buddy raised his father's gun, but Jurgot saw his game, He quickly flashed his fourty two and took a steady aim...... But Mrs. Parsons ran between and screamed "what would you do, You've killed my Buddy's father; would you kill my Buddy too?" Poor Bill! his wife and kid, O hell!—what can a fellow say; It was this sight that made us glad that we had found a way.
That very night saw Jurgot drunk and saw him leave for town, He had two barren hills to cross, we knew them up and down. We knew his doom was settled for at some time soon or late He'd have to leave the camp alone—and then he sealed his fate. Our crowd they couldn't blame at all—they knew right where we were, And none of us was paid to watch their profit-guarding cur. The night grew very calm and still as on his way he went, But nought seemed strange about our camp, each lamp was in its tent. And he walked on in confidence as if he felt secure
With the strikers power broken and a trigger finger sure. His "gat" was in his pocket, he could "legally" get by, And the miners had to cringe before his hate-envenomed eye. Why should he fear the living when he had not feared the dead With a government machine-gun on the hill-top overhead? We said "Don't fret, we'll get you yet; we know what we're about, But we won't wait and starve our hate until the leaves come out We'll make you pay, remember that, for all the dirt you've done, And your black soul will be in hell before tomorrow's sun!" He headed for the hollow and he swaggered as he went— This martyr to his master's rifle-guarded twelve percent.
Next morning came the soldiers for to find out what we knew, And of course we only asked them what in hell could miners do When the hills are full of yellow-legs, their rifles full of lead And a murderous machine-gun teaching caution overhead. They pleaded with each one of us to kindly tell them all; We 'lowed as how their friend got drunk and likely had a fall. We saw that gleaming bluish glint upon each army gun
And we knew just what would happen, could they blame a single one, We knew they'd have a carnival without a bit of doubt; They always like to fight that way—before the leaves come out. They laid some crafty traps for us to trip and stumble in, But when we stick together, hell! How can we help but win? They went away, without their prey—they could not gather toll; Of all they do with bayonets they cannot dig for coal. The coal that Nature planted there for folks like me and you And not to yield up twelve percent to Mammon's favored few!