Jean Ritchie (December 8, 1922 – June 1, 2015) was an American folk singer and songwriter who was known for playing the Appalachian dulcimer. Born to a family of folk singers in Viper, Kentucky, Ritchie was the youngest of fourteen siblings. As a child, her father Balis barred his children to play the dulcimer, but Ritchie defied his injunction and began playing it in secret. Thus, by the time her father began teaching her how to play, she was already accustomed to the instrument, and he labeled her as a "natural born musician". Ritchie popularized the dulcimer by playing it on many of her albums and writing tutorials, making her ultimately responsible for its revival, and earning her the nickname "Mother of Folk". This 1950 Associated Press photograph shows Ritchie playing the Appalachian dulcimer.Photograph credit: Associated Press
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It is so terribly sad that I have to explain that the above is a JOKE
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!