JOSEPH S. COTTER, SR.
Reading edition
“I was born in Nelson County, Ky., February 2nd, 1861, on a farm owned by my great grandfather, Daniel Stapp, a tanner. In 1829 he bought himself and a part of his master’s farm. Later he bought his daughter, Lucinda, my mother’s mother.
Martha, my mother, was born on a nearby farm owned by her English-Indian father, Fleming Vaughan. Prior to my birth she lived in Bardstown and was a servant at “My Old Kentucky Home.” She took me to Bardstown soon after my birth and brought me to Louisville in my fourth week, and here I have lived ever since.
I attended a private school and could read before my fourth year. Conditions were such that my attendance at school was very irregular. I quit school in my eighth year, having completed the third grade, and did not return until my twenty-second year.
During this time I picked up rags in the streets and worked in tobacco factories and brick-yards. My nineteenth year found me a distiller in one of the largest distilleries in Kentucky. A turn of fortune made me a teamster. I hauled cotton and tobacco and made up my mind to enter the prize ring. Another turn of fortune put me into a Louisville public night school. Here I began in the third grade where I left off in my eighth year.
At the end of two school sessions of five months each I was promoted to the high school. I keep this diploma under lock and key, for it is the only one I have ever received.
The man who turned my attention from prize-fighting to night school and then to school teaching, and who discovered my knack for writing verses, was Dr. W. T. Peyton of Louisville. He was my greatest benefactor.
My talent of whatever kind comes from Martha, my mother. She was poet, story-teller, dramatist and musician. My published works are: A Rhyming, Links of Friendship, Caleb, the Degenerate, a poetic drama, A White Song And A Black One and Negro Tales. My unpublished works are: Life’s Dawn And Dusk, poems, Caesar Driftwood and Other One Act Plays and My Mother And Her Family.”
THE TRAGEDY OF PETE
There was a man Whose name was Pete, And he was a buck From his head to his feet. He loved a dollar, But hated a dime; And so was poor Nine-tenths of the time. The Judge said “Pete, What of your wife?” And Pete replied “She lost her life.” “Pete,” said the Judge, “Was it lost in a row? Tell me quick, And tell me how.” Pete straightened up With a hic and a sigh, Then looked the Judge Full in the eye. “O, Judge, my wife Would never go To a Sunday dance Or a movie show. “But I went, Judge, Both day and night, And came home broke And also tight. “The moon was up, My purse was down, And I was the bully Of the bootleg town. “I was crooning a lilt To corn and rye For the loop in my legs And the fight in my eye. “I met my wife; She was wearing a frown, And catechising Her Sunday gown. ‘O Pete, O Pete’ She cried aloud, ‘The Devil is falling Right out of a cloud.’ “I looked straight up And fell flat down And a Ford machine Pinned my head to the ground. “The Ford moved on, And my wife was in it; And I was sober, That very minute. “For my head was bleeding, My heart was a-flutter; And the moonshine within me Was tipping the gutter. “The Ford, it faster And faster sped Till it dipped and swerved And my wife was dead. “Two bruised men lay In a hospital ward— One seeking vengeance, The other the Lord. “He said to me: ‘Your wife was drunk, You are crazy, And my Ford is junk.’ “I raised my knife And drove it in At the top of his head And the point of his chin. “O Judge, O Judge, If the State has a chair, Please bind me in it And roast me there.” There was a man Whose name was Pete, And he welcomed death From his head to his feet.
THE WAY-SIDE WELL
A fancy halts my feet at the way-side well. It is not to drink, for they say the water is brackish. It is not to tryst, for a heart at the mile’s end beckons me on. It is not to rest, for what feet could be weary when a heart at the mile’s end keeps time with their tread? It is not to muse, for the heart at the mile’s end is food for my being. I will question the well for my secret by dropping a pebble into it. Ah, it is dry. Strike lightning to the road, my feet, for hearts are like wells. You may not know they are dry ’til you question their depths. Fancies clog the way to Heaven, and saints miss their crown.