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Page 2 · column 4 of 7 · from the scan, no model involved
“We’re having a time selling tickets to the play Friday night,” says one of the Washington ladies, ‘‘because people have misjudged the title ‘Beacon Hill Billy’ as designating a hill-billy program.”
Perhaps it should have been advertised as “Mountain-William.” Since this isn’t a “mountain-william” show, it loses part of its attraction, to my mind. Now, I don’t mean these nasal misarfthropes on some radio programs. Boiling in oil wo.ild be too good for them. But one of the most pleasant experiences of my younger days was the privilege of hearing a performance by a collector of mountain ballads. He sang the genuine articles—no guitar accompanied mush. The only thing anywhere near it that can be heard today is Burl Ives. Some fine musician in the country is now getting ready to classify my taste in music along wit!) the. space of daylight under a snake’s stomach. Oh, well, I still think the “Blue-Tail Fly” is far superior to many of the dissonances concocted by some big name with forty consonants and several vowels.
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Other spring signs are appearing with the beginning of the apple trees to bloom. Clean-up programs are the order of the day and the Updike house across from the post office in Washington is getting shined up with a coat of paint. Fog from lime-spreaders hangs in the hollows between the mountains. Orchards are graywhite with spray. Contour stripping has assumed brighter colors. The beautiful county of Kappahaaaock is getting prettier by the day.
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