The fool-killer., 1914-08-01
A HISTORY
OF The E'OOl-kilIer and Its Editor
Dear Comrades and Friends:


never have tried to write history
of my great and wonderful career,
but if you'll just keep your mouth shut
and let me alone for about thirty min
utes, sarn-taked if | don't try 1t.
I am going to tell you all about
The Fool-Killer and how it happened.
But before doing that, must go ALT
tie further back and give you sort
of birds-eye view of myself as poor
little ragged, barefooted kid here in
the backwoods of North Carolina.
knowing that all great men had
habit of being born in log cabins,
was very careful to select log cabin
for my birthplace. It consisted of one
small room with stick-and-mud
chimney at one end. The chimney
probably started out with the
firm intention of going to the
top of the house, but when it got
about half way up it took swim
ming in it's head and stopped. You
could almost stand outside and reach
your arm down the chimney and pick
the dinner out of the pot with your
fingers.
This cabin stood in a little clearing
on top of "Berry's Mountain" about
three miles from where The FoOl-Kill-
er office stands In this cabin on the
18th of September, 1879, was first in
troduced to the trials and tribulatiOns
of this world.
No room here for the little details.
1t is enough to say that I grew up
there in the backwoods without any
school advantages. The little district
school of two or three months in the
year was taught in the winter when
the weather was bad, and we lived too
far away for me to go. Altogether,
my schooling would not amount to
more than twelve months, but it was
enough to give me little start i'll
reading and writing. Just that little
glimpse into the kingdom of knowl-
edge set my brain on fire, and I be-
came an omnivorous book-worm. At
home, during my spare moments, I
read and studied every book I could
get my hands on, and soon developed
a great liking for poetry. Strangest
of all, I got it into my head that /
could write poetry! So I got hold OF
an old broken slate, and it was sight
to see the poems I turned out. They
were simple and childish in thought
to be sure, but the rhyme and measure
were always perfect. From the very
first attempt, my thoughts seemed tc
flow into poetical feet just as natur-
ally as breathing. When l showed my
efforts to people they were surprised
and would hardly believe that I com.
posed them.
That settled the matter of my choos
ing career-I was to be a POET!
Live or die, sink or swim-the MUSES.
for mine!
But as I grew older and became
more familiar with the ways of the
world it began to dawn upon me tha
poetry was a mighty poor dependence
Tor living. While I continued tt
write and occasionally had a poem
printed in some paper, found is nee
essary to work on the farm abou
twelve hours a day and do my readin.
and writing by the light of a pine-kno
after supper
And so it went on that way till
was FL years old We moved abou
from one rented farm to another, an
seemed to get poorer and poorer al
the t1me-if that we're possible. Their
were just four of us in family, an
we all worked like slaves, but we nev
er could accumulate any property ]
was hand-to-mouth struggle for ex
1stence, with the wolf always at tn
door
Through all these ups and downs
never entirely lost sight of my chose
calling. [ knew that was destined t
be writer, and that my chance wa
sure to come by and by. When OF
ploWing in the corn-feld I always ker
my note book and pencil with me. A
l plodded along the furrow my min
was busy working out a poem, and {
the end of the row I would stop an
let the old mule pick grass while
wrote out what I had composed. I
that WaV manY of nv hast r,noron mo.