During the whole of McRae's term as sheriff there was no time that
decent food was given voluntarily to the prisoners as a whole. At times,
with low cunning, McRae gave the men in the upper tank better food than
those confined below, and also tried to show favoritism to certain
prisoners, in order to create distrust and suspicion among the men. All
these attempts to break the solidarity of the prisoners failed of their
purpose.

On one occasion McRae called "Paddy" Cyphert, one of the prisoners whom
he had known as a boy, from his cell and offered to place him in another
part of the jail in order that he might escape injury in a "clubbing
party" the deputies had planned. Cyphert told McRae to put him back with
the rest for he wanted the same treatment as the others and would like
to be with them in order to resist the assault. In the face of this
determination, which was typical of all the prisoners, the contemplated
beating was never administered.

McRae would oftentimes stand outside the tanks at a safe distance and
drunkenly curse the prisoners and refer to them as cowards, to which the
men would reply by repeating the words of the sheriff on the dock,
"O-oh, I'm hit! I-I'm h-hit!! I-I-I'm h-h-hit!!!" Then they would burst
forth with a song written by William Whalen in commemoration of the
exploits of the doughty sheriff, a song which since has become a
favorite of the migratory workers as they travel from job to job, and
which will serve to keep the deeds of McRae fresh in the minds of the
workers for many years to come.

TO SHERIFF McRAE

Call out your Fire Department, go deputize your bums;
Gather in your gunmen and stool pigeons from the slums;
You may resolute till doomsday, you ill-begotten knave;
We'll still be winning Free Speech Fights when you are in your
grave!

You reprobate, you imp of hate, you're a traitor to the mind
That brought you forth in human shape to prey upon mankind.
You are lower than the snakes that crawl or the scavengers that
fly;
You're the living, walking image of a damn black-hearted lie!

We'll still be here in Everett when your career is ended,
And back among the dregs of life your dirty hide has blended;
When you shun the path of honest wrath and fear the days to come,
And bow your head to the flag of red, you poor white-livered bum!

For the part you played in Everett'