October 14, 1915

“The month of May spent on a trout stream among the mountains of West Virginia is an unfailing source of pleasure to those who can get close to nature and her teachings.” Thus sings W. C. Doddrill, of Webster Springs, in his book, “Moccasin Tracks.”
We opened the book at random and the lines quoted above caught the eye. We groaned and said, “Shut up, Bill!”
We felt like taking a club and killing him. Why should he remind us of the month of May and the trout, and the sun on the rippling water. Here we are chained to the rock, eating out our hearts, sober and industrious, and a man comes and talks about a whole month of May handy to the creek with trout jumping, crazy for the fly. He ought to be made to hush up. What kind of shape would our work be in by the time we got back to it? We just can’t go, Bill! There is no other to it.
This is a book that is written in the woods by a man who knows them. The whole state has been attracted to Doddrill since he acquired his soubriquet, “Rattlesnake Bill.”
The way we heard it was in regard to a contested delegation in a State convention. A stranger sought recognition as a delegate from Webster County and Doddrill, who is a powerful speaker and an educated man, caught the temper of the convention and carried his point against the usurper by saying: “Mr. Chairman, he is not a Webster county man – he don’t like ramps, he don’t know sang, and the whirr of a rattlesnake sets him crazy.”
Lay of the Last Minstrel
Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell!
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self
Living shall forfeit fair renown,
And doubly dying shall go down
To the vile dust from which he sprung
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.”
“We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heartthrobs. He most lives who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.”
The imperishable words quoted above apply to the life and career of our departed friend, Michael E. Pue, with peculiar force. In his untimely death Pocahontas county has lost a foremost citizen; a sorrowing mother – a dutiful son; a bereaved wife – a devoted husband; his loving sisters – a kind and thoughtful brother; the church – a pillar of strength; and the world – a splendid man.
The subject of this memorial was born in Harford County, Maryland, the son of Colonel and Mrs. E. D. Pue. He comes from a long line of distinguished ancestry. About ten years ago he came to Pocahontas county as the clerk of a lumber company. At this time he was the main support of a widowed mother and three young sisters. He soon branched off into business for himself and established for his family a palatial home in Marlinton, which has become noted all over West Virginia for its hospitality and refinement. No man was more active and energetic in his business and he became very prosperous. He was united in marriage with Miss Nan Kinsey, a daughter of James Kinsey, Esq., of Philadelphia, who survives him, with two sons.
In his religious faith he was a member of the Protestant Episcopal church, into which he was born, and at the time of his death he was a vestryman of the St. John’s Episcopal church of Marlinton.
On Saturday, October 2, he was riding a spirited horse along a lonely mountain road. The horse became frightened at some object and threw the rider and probably fell and rolled upon him. He was found in a desperate condition and was brought to the Marlinton Hospital where he lingered in an unconscious condition for the most part until the 8th day of October. Then on the morning of a beautiful autumnal day, surrounded by his loved ones and hosts of sympathizing friends, his spirit took tis flight and this remarkable young man lay dead in the thirty-second year of his life…

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