tional hymns, is in swift tempo, almost jazz such as can
be heard at any point on your radio dial any day in the week.

The jolt wagon, with its rows of straight hickory chairs, carrying the
whole family to meeting with a well-filled basket with victuals for all,
is a thing of the past. At a recent foot-washing down in the Georgia
mountains there was but one wagon in front of the little church. A
string of automobiles of all sizes and makes was strung along the road
for a mile.

The solemn funeralizing with its simple beauty is almost a thing of the
past in the southern mountains. Today it is accompanied by the barking
of the hot-dog vendor, "Get your hot dogs here. A nice ice cold drink of
Coca-Cola here! Here's your Doctor Pepper! Cold orange drink!"

The decorations on the grave--once paper flowers made by loving
hands--are garish factory-made flowers in cellophane covers. Mother's
picture in the glass-covered box beside her headstone is gone long ago.
The favorite hymn is sometimes sung and a few of the old-time preachers
survive to weep and pray and sing and offer words of praise for the
long-departed friend. The present generation do not speak of the
funeralizing. Today it is a memorial. Strangely enough, however, only a
few miles from the heart of the Big Sandy country, a memorial service
was held for O. O. McIntyre for the second time on August 11, 1940. A
twilight memorial it was called and his good friends and close
associates came to hear him eulogized.

The mountain preacher of yesterday is passing fast. Then, his was a
manifold calling. When he traveled the lonely creek-bed road with his
Bible in his saddlebags, he was the circuit rider bringing news of the
outside world to the families along the widely scattered frontier. He,
like the mountain doctor, was truly counselor and friend. The people
looked to him to tell of things that would be happening in the near
future. They hung upon his every word from the pulpit. His reasoning in
spiritual matters was sound and his eloquence impelling. His sermons
often combined quotations from the early writers of England, passages
from Shakespeare, true echoes of Elizabethan English, as might be
expected considering his ancestry. Words flowed freely from his lips.
The mountain preacher to this day has a natural gift of oratory. It has
been handed down through generations. He needs only the spur and the
occasion to burst forth. The mountain preacher, as some may imagi