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Our history of Pike County, Kentucky, writers begins with Effie Waller Smith, and Effie’s story begins in 1860 at a public slave auction held in Pikeville, Kentucky. At a time when Kentucky was torn between loyalty to the national Union and her sister slave-holding states farther south, no county was more evenly divided than Pike. Sympathy, one way or the other, was hardly a consideration when a Pikeville tavern owner known as General Ratliff attempted to buy a whole family of slaves doomed to be separated. Regrettably, he was able to buy only the mother and daughter. The couple were immediately accepted into the Ratliff family and given the Ratliff name. These former slaves became the maternal grandmother and mother of the poet Effie Waller Smith. 

Who was Effie Waller Smith? We’re not surprised when this question comes up among those whom we consider today’s educated. The name Effie Waller Smith does not appear in any of the anthologies of Kentucky writers-or national writers-of the twentieth century. In 1966 when Sister Mary Caramel Browning of Brescia College in Owensboro, Kentucky, asked her American Literature class to list as many important Kentucky writers as they could think of, 150 names were submitted. The result was Kentucky Authors, and Effie’s name was not among them. Neither was she included in Wade Hall’s definitive The Kentucky Anthology: Two Hundred Years of Writing in the Bluegrass State, published in 2005 by University Press of Kentucky. Given the poet’s unusual talents, we’re left wondering why. 

Nearly all of what we know about this turn of the twentieth century black writer is due to the curiosity of one man. It was Pike County, Kentucky, historian William David Deskins who, at his own time and expense, rescued Smith from literary obscurity by telling her story and seeing that her long out-of-print books were made available to modern readers. In addition to The Collected Works of Effie Waller Smith (Oxford University Press 1991), all three of Smith’s books have been reprinted in hardback by Intrinsic Publishing Corporation of Pikeville, Kentucky. 

In his introduction to The Collected Works Deskins tells how he was loaned a copy of each of the poet’s books by Bruce Brown, a former professor at Pikeville College. He was surprised to learn that all together only about a dozen copies of the books existed. It was while reading the slender volume titled Rosemary and Pansies, he realized he was in the thrall of a major talent. In his words: “I wanted to know more.” 

“Miss Effie,” as she came to be known, was born January 6, 1879 at Chloe Creek near Pikeville, Kentucky. Sibbie was the name of her mother, the former slave girl adopted by the Pikeville Ratliffs of Division Street. Her father, Frank Waller, also a former slave, had taken his name from a wealthy family in Spotsylvania, Virginia. He was himself a respected businessman who owned a farm on Chloe and operated a successful blacksmith shop. Effie was the third child. Alfred and Rosa, her older brother and sister, would become teachers of unusual abilities. A younger brother, Marvin, would die in his twenties. 

Effie developed an interest in books and learning at an early age but was often kept home from school because the only colored school was in Pikeville, several miles from Chloe Creek. With the help of her mother and her two siblings she finished eighth grade with high marks. In 1901 she entered the Kentucky Normal School for Colored Persons at Frankfort where she embarked on the intensive two-year program leading to teacher certification. 

For the next sixteen years she made her home where the jobs were, teaching and writing in Pike County, Kentucky, and eastern Tennessee. In Deskins’ book, Pike County: A Very Different Place, there is a outdoors picture of “Colored School B,” a log school near Millard, Kentucky. Attired in an ankle-length dress Miss Effie is seen posing with students and supervisors. A few white students are conspicuous in the photo. 

As Deskins explains, they probably chose this school for its proximity to their homes.

Effie was a successful and competent teacher, but she was first of all a writer. She longed to see her poems and stories published in major journals and anthologies alongside such luminaries as Robert Frost and Gwendolyn Brooks. With high hopes she mailed her best efforts to the big houses in New York and elsewhere, only to have them returned with the cold and impersonal rejection slips. Meanwhile, she was earning local notoriety with poems appearing regularly in area newspapers. In 1902 her talents caught the attention of several Pikeville residents, including Mary Elliott Flanery, wife of a prominent local attorney. Flanery launched an effort on Effie’s behalf to raise enough money to publish a collection of her poems with a vanity press in New York. Songs of the Months was published in 1904. Flanery was optimistic, if not prescient, in her introduction to the book: “Who knows, that like Paul Lawrence Dunbar she may not one day surprise and delight her own race and cause white critics to wonder at her genius.” 

The next five years were tumultuous ones for Effie Waller. In 1904 she married a drifter named Lyss Cockrell but divorced him a few months later after he’d moved in with another woman. She didn’t improve her lot much in February of 1908 when she married Charles Smith who had been a classmate at Colored School District “A” in Pikeville. They would separate a few months later. 

It was while married to Charles Smith that her literary life took a turn for the better. In 1909 she published two books of poems, Rhymes from the Cumberlands and Rosemary and Pansies. The latter bore the imprint of a major publisher in Boston and appeared with her husband’s last name. At the same time, she placed three short stories and two poems with prestigious national journals. With her name among the elite, it seemed that Effie was on the threshold of becoming the important writer of her dreams. 

Five months after she had separated from Charles Smith, a deputy sheriff, she received news that he had been murdered while serving a warrant. The sufferings that cause some writers to take up the pen for healing, all but silenced Effie Smith. In 1917, after publishing a poem in Harper’s Magazine, she no longer appeared in print. 

A few years after her father died in 1916, a discouraged Effie made the biggest move of her life. According to Deskins, Effie, along with her mother Sibbie, left her home in Pikeville to join a religious sect known as the Metropolitan Church Association in Waukesha, Wisconsin. The MCA, also known as “The Burning Bush,” emphasized charismatic worship, holy living and communal values. Effie and her mother joined the group’s commune and lived there until 1924. After leaving the group, Effie became a member of the local Methodist Episcopal Church. She continued living with her mother until Sibbie’s death in 1927, when her brother Alfred moved up from Kentucky. He would live with his sister until his death in 1933. 

Except for a single trip to Pikeville, for the purpose of adopting Ruth Ratliff, the daughter of a friend, Effie never returned to her home in Pike County. Instead of writing poetry she spent her time raising wildflowers and cultivating an enormous rock garden that became a popular showpiece. It is easy to imagine a profusion of Rosemary and Pansies. 

In 1950 her health began to fail and she was no longer able to tend the garden or receive the thousands of visitors it attracted every year. She sold her house in Waukesha and went to live with Ruth in Neenah. She was living with her daughter at the time of her death in 1960. In four days she would have been eighty-one. Effie was buried without fanfare in Neenah, Wisconsin. The casual visitor might stop and wonder just what manner of person lies beneath the simple chiseled tombstone that says E.W. Smith, 1879-1960. 

When we undertake to examine the poems of Effie Waller Smith we need to keep in mind that during the time in which they were written, traditional rhymed poetry was being practiced less and less. American poets such as Carl Sandburg and Langston Hughes were expressing themselves in free verse, a loosely structured form mainly influenced by Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. Therefore, it seems only fair that we allow Effie Waller an occasional departure from the strictures of formal poetry. 

Although five years separate the publication of Songs and Rhymes, we see little change in the author’s style or language. Technically, both books are marred by the mistakes common to beginners who have chosen to write in this deceptively simple medium. We must forgive the absence of form, balanced meter and other conventions of formal poetry. In spite of these flaws, we witness moments that are nothing less than the birthing of a true poet.

In "Once Upon a Time," from Songs of the Months, Waller insouciantly admits to a thwarted dream.

Once on a time, no matter when,
I thought I'd be a rhymer;
A poet that the world would praise,
No common jingle rhymer!

We must overlook the redundancy of "winds that blow"
in this sharply drawn salutation to Spring. 

Hail! gruff messenger of Spring!
March so mad and blustering 
With your howling winds that blow
Into drift-heaps huge the snow.

With a Shakespearian interjection the poet welcomes "berrying time" in the Cumberlands.

Heigh-ho! for the fields and meadows,
And the walls and hedges high,
Where in plenty grow the berries
That ripen in July. 

In "The 'Possum Hunt," Waller, as a teacher in a country school,
displays a sense of humor, as well as adventure, when her students talk her into going possum hunting. 

"Now wouldn't it be funny,
And it wouldn't be impolite,
If we could get our teacher
To 'possum hunt tonight?"

In "The Colored Soldiers of the Spanish-America War" Waller recognizes the bravery of her own race in "far-off Cuba." 

I think they're the ideal soldiers,
Tho' a little bit rough and tough;
Yet they've certainly shown to the world
They're made of the "proper stuff."

After the reading the astonishing "The Lone Grave on the Mountain," one might wonder how it is possible for the daughter of a former slave to pay tribute to an unknown Confederate solder: 

They say a soldier fills that grave,
Who bravely fought and died
For rights and liberties
On the Confed'rate side. 

Miss Effie teaches us that true freedom is the freedom of forgiveness: 

But little does it matter now,
Can't we forgive his fault?
And the faults of his fellow soldiers
As we stand by his wooded vault? 
 
O Cumberland! O Cumberland!
My own, my native hills...

So begins Rhymes from the Cumberlands, and the alert reader is reminded of Sir Walter Scott's words: "This is my own, my native land," describing a person as emotionally dead who has never voiced his own patriotism. Whether or not Effie's poem is derivative is of little importance. Loyalty to her own land is no less than that of the Scottish bard. 

For you, my dear old Cumberland
With love my bosom fills. 

In the poem "At Pool Point" the author's fascination with the grandeur of nature takes a morbid turn. A deep hurt and a dark yearning have crept into these solitary musings at one of her favorite retreats on the Big Sandy River:

"How easy it would be, I mused," 
"To follow where I threw 
That tiny stone and peacefully sleep 
Hidden away from view."

She regrets the words as soon as they are spoken and asks God's forgiveness: 

"Should suicidal thoughts conceive,
Forgive, forgive thy child." 

The reader is left to his own conclusions.

Although Waller has labeled herself as a mere "jingle rhymer," both Songs of the Month and Rhymes from the Cumberlands prove she is more than that. What we have in each book is a poet in the making, blissfully unfettered by agenda or literary pretension. She is a singer who has not quite found her voice, or the proper key. But sing she must, for the sheer joy of making music. 

Old timers in the Kentucky hills have looked upon the green and fragrant Rosemary plant as a symbol of love and remembrance, a flower to be placed on a grave or planted in honor of a loved one. They believed the beautiful pansy, in its rich and varied colors, offered friendship and empathy. It is likely that Effie Waller was aware of this symbolism when she chose the title for her third and most important book of poetry. The publication of Rosemary and Pansies (1909) by The Gorham Press in Boston was an auspicious beginning for a serious poet, but Effie's fame would be short-lived. 

The author of these thirty-five well-crafted poems had reached a hard-earned maturity, both as a poet and a person. She had known the warm sentimentalities of the Rosemary and the Pansy. More importantly, she had become acquainted with hardship, death, grief and unrequited love. With a sure hand and a new wisdom she wove these universal themes into poetry fused with a Christian faith and vision for mankind: "The ceaseless surging of the ocean tide do cleanse the mighty waters which they roll." Sadly, the vision she had for herself was short ranged. The fact that she stopped writing at the age of thirty-eight is one of literature's great losses. 

With Rosemary and Pansies we have what Bruce Brown called "Effie the artist" at work. In "At the Grave of One Forgotten," the poet ponders the significance of wild flowers planted on the grave of a young man:

Passing stranger, pity not
Him who lies here, all forgot,
'Neath this earth;
Someone loved him-more can fall
To no mortal. Love is all
Life is worth.

These rhyming couplets from "Preparation" warn against the foolishness of missing out on today's treasures by dwelling in the future:

Or if we reach the mark that we have set,
We still would seek another, farther yet.
Thus, all our youth, our strength, our time go
past
Till death upon the threshold stands at last
And back unto our Maker must give
The life we spent preparing well to live.

In this quatrain from "Heroes" Smith defines a true hero: 

The bravest soul that ever lived 
Is he, unloved, unknown, 
Who has chosen to walk life's highest path,
Though he must walk alone. 

In one of her most powerful poems, "After the Last Lesson," "Miss Effie" experiences something deeper than heartbreak when one of her students dies: 

I was his teacher yesterday-
Now, could his silent lips unclose,
What lessons might he teach to me
Of the vast truth he knows! 

She closes the book with these lines from "Good Night":

Good night! And now as I fall asleep
I give you the garment I wore to keep;
You will hold it safely till morning dawn
And I rise from my slumber to put it on. 


Even though Effie Waller Smith spent the last half of her life in the state of Wisconsin and is buried there, she belongs to Pike County, Kentucky. She was born here. These mountains, the Cumberlands, sheltered and nurtured her. The Breaks, the Big Sandy River, Pikeville, Elkhorn City-and a people of the earth-inspired her poems. This is where she dared to dream. 

"Miss Effie" has earned a special place in our little pantheon of poets and writers. She is part of our rich heritage, a daughter of whom we're proud.

Contributor-Gayle Compton 

Evening Among the Cumberlands

Among the rocky Cumberlands
A summer day is ending;
The woodman now with axe on arm
His homeward way is wending.

The sun is hid from sight, but leaves
A pleasant afterglow
On western, and quietude
And peace are reigning now.

And from the woodland pasture
The cattle slowly roam;
I hear the jingle of their bells
Now on their journey home.

The robin gay has caroled
His sweet and goodnight lay
And with his mate has gone to sleep
Until another day.

The whipo'will so plaintive
His night song has begun,
And everywhere's the music
Of insects ceaseless hum.

And now and then the night-hawk
With scream so loud and shrill,
I hear on some high distant peak
When all things else are still.

So calmly and so peacefully,
Just in this charmful way,
Among the rocky Cumberlands
Closes another day. 

From Rhymes from the Cumberlands

Fallen Leaves

Beneath the frost-stripped forest boughs, the
drifted leaves are spread,
Vanished all summer's green delight, all
autumn's glory fled.

Yet, gathering strength from that dead host,
the tree in some far spring
Shall toward the skies a denser growth, a
darker foliage fling.

Ah, if some power from us, long dead, should
strengthen life to be,
We need not grieve to lie forgot, like sere
leaves 'neath the tree!

From Rosemary and Pansies

After the Last Lesson

How wonderful he seems to me,
Now that the lessons all are read,
And, smiling through the stillness dim,
The child I taught lies dead!

I was his teacher yesterday--
Now, could his silent lips unclose,
What lessons might he teach to me
Of the vast truth he knows!

Last week he bent his anxious brow
O'er maps with puzzling Poles and Zone;
Now he, perchance, knows more than all
The scientists have known.

"Death humbleth all"--ah, say not so!
The man we scorn, the child we teach
Death in a moment places far
Past all earth's lore can reach.

Death bringeth men unto their own!
He tears aside Life's thin disguise,
And man's true greatness, all unknown,
Stands clear before our eyes. 

From Rosemary and Pansies 

Decoration Day

Scatter flowers o'er the graves
Where sleep our dear and honored braves;
Bring those emblems of love today,
Flowers, so pure, beauteous and gay;
Scatter them, scatter them o'er.

Strew them lovingly over all,
Caring not on which ones they fall;
On the grave of the hero-lover,
Husband, father, son and brother;
Strew them lovingly o'er.

And cover them careful over,
Cover the grass and running clover;
Cut down the briers and weeds that are there
And cover their graves with blossoms fair;
Cover them carefully o'er.

Lay them gently o'er, bouquet and wreath,
Think of the  heroes lying beneath;
Some who bravely fought and fell,
Nobly dying by bullet and shell;
Lay them gently o'er.

Tenderly o'er their ashes dear,
Place blossoms, and moisten them with a tear;
Naught our love for those brave shall blight,
Who died for freedom, peace and right--
Place them tenderly o'er.

Shower them over, freely shower,
Beautiful, bright--colored flowers;
While the loved old "red, white and blue,"
Floats o'er our living veterans few;
Shower them freely o'er.

From Songs of the Months

The Test

"He fears not death, and therefore he is 
brave"--
How common yet how childish is the 
thought,
As if death were the hardest battle fought,
And earth held naught more dreadful than
the grave!

In life, not death, doth lie the brave soul's
test,
For life demandeth purpose long and sure,
The strength to strive, the patience to 
endure;
Death calls for one brief struggle, then gives
rest.

Through our fleet year then let us do our
part
With willing arm, clear brain, and steady
nerve;
In death's dark hour no spirit true will
swerve,
If he have lived his life with dauntless heart.

From Rosemary and Pansies

Ghosts

Upon the eve of Bosworth, it is said,
While Richard waited through the drear
nights gloom
Until wan morn the death-field should 
illume,
Those he had murdered came with soundless 
tread
To daunt his soul with prophecies of 
dread
And bid him know that, gliding from the 
tomb,
They would fight 'gainst him in his hour 
of doom
Until with theirs should lie his discrowned
head.

To every man, in life's decisive hour,
Ghosts of the past do through the conflict 
glide,
And for him or against him wield their power;
Lost hopes and wasted days and aims that
died
Rise spectral where the fateful war-cloud
lower,
And their pale hands the battle shall decide.   

From Rosemary and Pansies

The Patchwork Quilt

In an ancient window seat,
Where the breeze of morning beat
'Gainst her face, demure and sweet,
Sat a girl of long ago,
With her sunny head bent low
Where her fingers flitted white
Through a maze of patchwork bright.

Wondrous hues the rare quilt bears!
All the clothes the household wears
By their fragments may be traced
In that bright mosaic traced;
Pieces given by friend and neighbor,
Blended by her curious labor
With the granddame's gown of gray,
And the silken bonnet gay
That the baby's head hath crowned,
In the quaint design are found.

Did she aught suspect or dream,
As she sewed each dainty seam,
That a hundred things she wrought?
That each linsey scrap was fraught
With some tender memory,
Which, in distant years to be,
Would lost hopes and loves recall,
When her eyes should on it fall?

Years have passed, and with their grace
Gentler made her gentle face;
Brilliant still the fabrics shine
Of the quilt's antique design,
As she folds it, soft and warm,
Round a fair child's sleeping form.
Lustrous is her lifted gaze
As with half-voiced words she prays
That the bright head on that quilt,
And the little feet below
Darksome paths may never know.

Yet again the morning shines
On the patchwork's squares and lines;
Dull and dim its colors show,
But more dim the eyes that glow,
Wandering with a dreamy glance
O'er the ancient quilt's expanse;
Worn it's textures are and frayed,
But the hands upon them laid,
Creased with toils of many a year,
Still more worn and old appear.

But what hands, long-loved and dead,
Do those faded fingers, spread
O'er those faded fabrics, meet
In reunion fond and sweet! 
What past scenes of tenderness
And of joy that none may guess,
Called back by the patchwork old,
Do these darkening eyes behold!
Lo, the deathless past comes near!
From the silence whisper clear
Long-hushed tones, and, changing not,
Forms and faces unforgot
In their old-time grace an