peoples in the Southern
Appalachians which are untainted by any form of insincerity or
make-believe. There is growing interest among city-bred people in the
folk-ways, and through research and actual experiences, they are
learning to appreciate the simple folk-life that is still intact."

Sid, like Devil Anse, understands crowd psychology, though neither calls
it by that name. Sid had the attention of his hearers and he told them
more. "We're getting our eyes open more every day to the boundless
treasures in America. People all through the Blue Ridge don't aim to
stand by and see things disappear because new ways have come in. They've
started all sorts of gatherings and festivals to keep alive the things
that mean America!"

With quick gesture he enumerated upon his fingers as he named some of
them: "There's the Forest Festival held in October at Elkins, West
Virginia, with a pretty mountain maid for its Queen; the Tobacco
Festival in Shelbyville, Kentucky, that pays homage to the leading
product of the Blue Grass country, next to the race horse, of course;
there's the Mountain Laurel Festival at Pineville, Kentucky, in May,
glorifying the beauty and profusion of the mountain flower; the Virginia
Apple Blossom Festival in April in the Shenandoah Valley at Winchester,
Virginia--a wilderness of blossoms that has made beautiful a once lonely
valley; the Rhododendron Festival in Webster Springs, West Virginia, in
July, that vies in charm with a like event in Kentucky; the Sweet Potato
Festival in Paris, Tennessee, that pays tribute to the yam; the American
Folk Song Festival in the foothills of Kentucky. Then there's the Snead
Picnic that our good friend Grady Snead has been carrying on every
summer ever since he got back from the war across the waters; there's
the Mountain Choir Festival over in Oakland, Maryland, in the month of
August, when hundreds of mountain boys and girls gather together to sing
hymns and old ballads too; there's the Arcadian Folk Festival and the
Poet's Fair and the Arcadian Guild all bunched together at Hot Springs
National Park and McFadden Three Sisters Springs where down in the Ozark
Country folks welcome the advent of 'the Moon of Painted Leaves' and
pattern new dreams in the valley of pastoral fancy, listen to the Pipes
of Pan, meet old friends, and make new ones in a sylvan environment,
where poetry slides down every moonbeam. Every sort of gathering right
where it belongs, where it was crad