Folk Song, True Crime or Nursery Rhyme?

Three different presentational approaches to the same process-driven trick.

A few years ago, I wrote a blog post called “Twisting the Aces Three Ways”, which remains my most popular piece of writing (by total page views). In it, I share three vastly different presentations for Dai Vernon’s classic packet trick “Twisting the Aces” to encourage magicians to write scripts for their tricks. One method, three different presentational approaches.

I thought it was about time I tried something like this again. In this post, I’ll share three relatively easy, semi-automatic card tricks that all use the same core method—the Automatic Placement, as named and popularised by Ed Marlo—yet feature very different presentations. What the audience experiences isn’t identical across the three tricks, but the same spelling procedure sits at the heart of each. These are experimental pieces. I developed them to see whether a series of three presentations could make the mathematical placement less suspicious—and more deceptive—by justifying the mechanical process the trick depends on. One of the tricks draws inspiration from Appalachian folk magic and a traditional American folk song; another returns to the scene of the crime in 1919 New Orleans; and the third riffs on a popular English poem and nursery rhyme.

My starting point for this creative exercise was “Quatre de Carreau” (“Four of Diamonds”) by Dominique Duvivier. Duvivier’s trick uses the Automatic Placement to deliver an amusing prediction effect that is, in fact, a spelling/location effect in disguise.

While I like the effect, the trick doesn’t work in English if you use “Four of Diamonds” as your prediction, because the thought-of card ends up fifteenth from the top of the deck, and the phrase contains only fourteen letters. Duvivier suggests using “Seven of Diamonds” instead, which does spell in fifteen letters. This got me thinking about other card values (or phrases) that could be used, or how to make small modifications to the setup or the method to make the mathematical placement principle more flexible.

History of the Automatic Placement

Although legendary Chicago magician Edward Marlo is widely credited with naming and popularising the Automatic Placement, the underlying mathematical principle has a lineage that stretches back quite literally for centuries. Denis Behr’s indispensable Conjuring Archive categorises this technique within the broader taxonomy of “Placement Principles”, while its foundational mathematics—often referred to historically as the “Transposed Cards Principle” (or the “Smith Myth”)—are intimately linked to Faro and riffle shuffle concepts. The core of this idea lies in reversing part or all of a deck to force a mathematical placement. According to Conjuring Credits, this less refined conceptual ancestor first appeared in the early 1700s. One of its earliest appearances is in Pablo Minguet’s classic Spanish text, Engaños a ojos vistas (1733). The specific routine, “Trick for Guessing the Card from a Deck that Someone Else Has Thought of”, was highlighted in the Pieper translation published in the Summer 2009 issue of Gibecière. By the late nineteenth century, Professor Hoffmann was also detailing early counting locations in his 1876 classic text, Modern Magic.

Gibecière 8, Summer 2009. Image Credit: Conjuring Arts Research Center.

A more modern handling emerged in the twentieth century, courtesy of Walter Gibson, whose “The Transposed Cards” (Popular Card Tricks, 1928) gave the principle the name by which it is often known today.

Fast-forwarding to the mid-twentieth century, the specific mechanics of the modern mathematical placement began circulating in print several years before Marlo formally codified them. Because magicians of that era rarely cited their inspirations, historians assume a degree of parallel invention occurred among several creators.

Edward G. Brown worked out his “Two Pile Trick” in 1947, though it wouldn’t see publication until 1973. In 1950, Eddie Joseph utilised similar mechanics in “Who Knows the Card?” from Eddie’s Dumbfounders with Cards. Rufus Steele then published multiple routines using the concept in his 1952 book Steele’s Last Word on Cards, including a collaboration with Robert Parrish titled “Tell and Spell”. By late 1953, Joe Berg marketed an instruction sheet for Gerald Kosky’s “No-clue Card Miracle”, which featured virtually the exact same mathematical handling that would soon become synonymous with Marlo.

Edward Marlo officially christened the concept “the automatic placement” in the August 1955 issue of The New Phoenix (No. 329). In this article, Marlo suggested six different applications for the procedure, including a spelling effect, and magic historians note he may have genuinely believed he invented the underlying principle himself. Three years later, he cemented the concept’s utility by recasting and expanding on it in his 1958 publication, Faro Notes.

Edward Marlo. Photo Credit: Conjuring Arts Research Center.

Marlo’s work directly inspired further innovations, most notably from Alex Elmsley, who was fascinated by the spelling effect published in The New Phoenix.

Deepening the Deception

Here’s what usually happens during a trick involving the Automatic Placement: someone shuffles the cards. Then, while the performer’s back is turned, a spectator cuts off a small group of cards and quietly counts them. When he’s finished, he remembers the number and hides the packet out of sight. The performer turns back, picks up the rest of the deck, and, looking away, begins showing him cards. The spectator is asked to remember the card that falls at his number. The hidden packet is then returned to the deck.

I love playing with mathematical principles such as the Automatic Placement. However, if you don’t justify the process, this type of self-working trick can come across as laborious, algorithmic and intensely boring. This isn’t because process-heavy tricks are inherently bad; it’s because your audience doesn’t understand why you’re following the procedure, so they rightly assume it’s tied to the method (which, in most cases, it is).

So, what’s the best way of making a trick like this more deceptive? I think the most sensible approach is to focus more of your attention on the process itself—as the popular saying goes, if you can’t hide something, paint it red.

For example, you can explain that by dealing the cards onto the table to count them, the spectator is attaching a “physical action” to their chosen number, making it easier for them to remember it. And selecting a card “by association” makes it more difficult for you to “psychologically manipulate” them into picking a specific card, such as the Ace of Spades or the Queen of Hearts. By suggesting that you’re having your helper select a card under “test conditions”, you’ve created a plausible rationale for the somewhat odd and indirect selection process.

Another way to justify the strange selection process is to explain to your audience that it allows everyone to share a secret without having to whisper it to one another. The person making the mental selection can share their secret number nonverbally by counting the cards onto the table while the performer’s back is turned. This, in turn, enables the entire audience to identify and remember the card that falls on this number during the associative selection process.

With all this in mind, there is still one aspect of the Automatic Placement I really don’t like: the need to ask your participant to hide a small packet of cards. Sure, this is a trivial thing to do if they have an empty pocket, or if you’re performing on a close-up pad (the cards can be hidden beneath it). But in most situations, it’s awkward for someone to hide the cards, and I don’t want to make life difficult for someone who has volunteered to assist me.

Another reason I dislike this part of the process is that, even if your spectator hides the cards in the tuck box (a good solution to the problem), they might think you can estimate how many cards are missing from the deck by looking at or handling the remaining cards. While this isn’t part of the actual method, leaving this door open significantly weakens the overall effect.

I’ve attempted to resolve all of these issues by clearly justifying the process, modifying the method to make it more deceptive, and developing an engaging presentation to make the magic more memorable.

Counting Crows in Appalachia

The first version I want to share with you is a trick called “Gambler’s Lament”. What began as a cautionary tale about gambling excesses in the Old West became an Appalachian folk-magic ritual for finding a lost card! My initial idea was to locate the spectator’s selection by spelling “Jack o’ Diamonds” and base the presentation on the traditional American folk song of the same name (also known as “Rye Whiskey” or “The Drunkard’s Song”). For those unfamiliar with it, here are the most iconic and frequently sung verses that form the backbone of the traditional song:

Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey, I cry,
If I don’t get rye whiskey, I surely will die.
Jack o’ Diamonds, Jack o’ Diamonds, I know you of old,
You’ve robbed my poor pockets of silver and gold.

Beefsteak when I’m hungry, rye whiskey when I’m dry,
Greenbacks when I’m hard up, and religion when I die.
Oh, whiskey, you villain, you’ve been my downfall,
You’ve kicked me, you’ve cuffed me, but I love you for all.

If the river were whiskey and I were a duck,
I’d dive to the bottom and never come up.
But the river ain’t whiskey and I ain’t a duck,
So I’ll play Jack o’ Diamonds and trust to my luck.

“Rye Whiskey” sung by Jake Book. Video Credit: Trask McFarland via YouTube.

The song emerged in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, blending earlier Scottish folk influences with Appalachian and Western American traditions. As a traditional folk song, “Jack o’ Diamonds” has no fixed set of lyrics. It evolved through oral tradition among American railroad workers, itinerant labourers and gamblers, with verses constantly added, swapped or altered as it travelled. Singers would freely mix in verses from other “rambler” folk songs, which is why you’ll often hear variations mentioning “sweet Mollie” or a “rabble soldier” heading to Dixie, depending on who’s performing it. The trick still uses part of the song, recasting it as a charm to summon the Jack of Diamonds from the deck. I’ve also added a British rhyme, “One for Sorrow”, to better justify the way the chosen card is selected. Finally, I added some patter about dowsing for water—an authentic practice of Appalachian “granny women”—and a couple of additional made-up verses.

Here’s what happens:

A card is selected “by association” using a traditional British nursery rhyme:

“One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a wedding,
Four for a birth,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for a secret never to be told,
Eight for love,
Nine for health,
And ten for Old Splitfoot, the Devil himself.”

It’s then lost deep in the deck while your back is turned, ensuring there’s no way you could estimate its location.

Borrowing the techniques of an Appalachian water witch, you divide the deck into two piles. You hover your hand over the cards, demonstrating how they used to dowse for hidden objects, and confidently set aside the pile that lacks the proper feeling.

To cause the selection to rise to the top of the pile, you recite a historical mountain charm:

“Part the dirt and turn the stone,
Make the hidden secret known.
Draw it upward from the earth,
Bring the buried truth to birth.”

The top card is turned over, but it isn’t the spectator’s selection. Explaining that the first charm wasn’t strong enough, you note that old Appalachian “granny witches” would sometimes use a folk song to summon a little help. You deal the wrong card onto the table and ask the spectator to knock on it three times. To complete the charm, you recite an old mountain poem:

“Jack o’ Diamonds, Jack o’ Diamonds, I know you of old,
You’ve robbed my poor pockets of silver and gold.”

When the card is turned face up, it has transformed into the Jack of Diamonds. Your spectator will reluctantly tell you that this is still not her chosen card. You smile and explain that this was expected—you summoned the Jack of Diamonds because he has an unnatural talent for finding hidden things. To force the scoundrel to find her card, you use a very different kind of magic spell. You deal one card from the deck for each letter in his name (“J-A-C-K-O-D-I-A-M-O-N-D-S”). The final card—the one that lands on the “S”—is turned over to reveal the chosen card.

I’m pleased with this presentation because, of all the variations shared in this post, I feel this one does the best job of distracting an audience from the unusual selection process.

In terms of the method, I haven’t made any major changes—this is, essentially, an application of the usual Automatic Placement. However, I’ve tried to deepen the deception by using a Breather Crimp to allow for a more hands-off construction. By including a transformation (through the use of a double turnover), I’ve also made it a little harder to backtrack the mathematical method. Most significantly, I’ve found a way to avoid the need for the spectator to hide the usual small packet of cards. You can learn the trick for free by following the link below:

Learn Gambler's Lament

Using Appalachian mountain magic, the Jack o’ Diamonds enables the magician to locate a card that a spectator has mentally selected.

Effect Type: Spelling/Location Effect
Difficulty: ★★★☆☆ (Easy)
Duration: 3-5 minutes
Setup Time: Minimal
Reset Time: Instant
Props: A standard deck of playing cards
Key Moves & Principles: Automatic Placement, Double Turnover, Breather Crimp, Marked Key Card

Learn Gambler's Lament ⛰

The Axeman Returns

This version of the trick, called “I Alone Know”, draws inspiration from the true-crime mystery of the Axeman of New Orleans. This isn’t the first time I’ve explored this idea; a couple of years ago, I developed two tricks based on the unidentified, jazz-loving killer, one called “Man with the Axe” and the other “The Axeman’s Ghost” (see “Jazz, Murder & Magic!” for full details).

Here’s what happens in “I Alone Know”:

A spectator thoroughly shuffles a deck of cards as you remove a letter from your pocket and hand it out to be examined and read.

You explain that the letter is a reproduction of one purportedly written by “the Axeman of New Orleans”, an infamous serial killer active in the early twentieth century. It was published in the New Orleans Times-Picayune. In it, the Axeman threatened to kill again on the night of 19 March at fifteen minutes past midnight, but promised to spare the occupants of any home where a jazz band was playing.

Next, you invite a spectator to play the part of “The Angel of Death” and pick the Axeman’s next victim by choosing a secret number between one and ten (inclusive). This number is then used to mentally select a playing card “by association”. The chosen card is cut back into the deck, and the spectator repeatedly cuts the cards so that no one knows where the Axeman’s next victim resides.

You mention that one card in the deck represents the Axeman and is considered extremely unlucky in New Orleans. So unlucky, in fact, that many people remove it from the deck before playing cards, believing it to be cursed by the evil spirit of the jazz-loving killer. Matching action to words, you run through the pack and remove the King of Diamonds. The rest of the cards are placed face down on the table.

You explain that the King’s nickname is “The Man with the Axe” because he’s the only monarch who holds an axe.

You then ask the spectator holding the letter to read the second paragraph:

“When I see fit, I shall come and claim other victims. I alone know whom they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with blood and brains of he whom I have sent below to keep me company.”

You tell your audience that one reason the killer evaded capture was the absence of any discernible pattern in how he selected his victims. One detective, however, had a theory that he used his adopted name to find his next victim.

You pick up the deck and slowly deal one card onto the table for each letter in the phrase “M-A-N-W-I-T-H-T-H-E-A-X-E”. Turning the last card of the deal over, the one that falls on the letter “E”, you reveal it to be the selected card—the Axeman has found his next victim! At that very moment, jazz begins to play in the room in which you’re performing, saving the card from its grisly fate.

Although the method for “I Alone Know” also uses a key card, it doesn’t need to be crimped. This means you can perform the routine with any deck, and the key card won’t interfere with any subsequent card tricks you perform. Therefore, if you’re willing to sacrifice the letter, you can present it as a piece of impromptu card magic whenever you have a deck in your pocket.

However, this presentation is greatly enhanced by using a reproduction of the Axeman’s letter as a prop; it also helps with the method, enabling the deck to be thoroughly shuffled by a spectator before a card is chosen.

Clearly, this subject matter would not be suitable for a younger audience. However, it would make an excellent addition to a bizarre magick act centred on the Axeman. In fact, you could style the whole show as an unsolved “case file” game. These games, often branded as “Unsolved Case Files” or “Murder Mystery Case Files”, are immersive puzzles in which you play the role of a detective solving a fictitious murder mystery. They usually include a variety of paper-based props, such as police reports and witness statements, so this would be a natural way to expand the idea of the printed letter (and give you scope to perform several effects using the same set of props). Care would need to be taken, of course, because, unlike these games, the Axeman was a real person, as were his victims.

I Alone Know

The deck is the city of New Orleans, 1919—every card a citizen in fear. With a reproduction of the Axeman’s infamous letter in hand, the magician reveals how the jazz-loving serial killer selected his victims: by using his adopted name to find the one card a spectator merely thought of—his next unfortunate victim.

Effect Type: Location
Difficulty: ★★★☆☆ (Easy)
Duration: 2–3 minutes
Setup Time: Modest
Reset Time: 2 minutes
Props: Standard pack of playing cards, printed Axeman letter, envelope
Key Moves & Principles: Envelope load, key card, Automatic Placement

Learn I Alone Know 🪓

Another Rhyme, Another Crime

After developing the above trick based on the Axeman, I thought it would be helpful to develop a third routine suitable for both children and adults. I settled on a trick based on the British nursery rhyme “Queen of Hearts” because I like integrating poetry into my card tricks:

The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts,
All on a summer’s day;
The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts,
And took them clean away.

The King of Hearts called for the tarts,
And beat the Knave full sore.
The Knave of Hearts brought back the tarts,
And vowed he’d steal no more.

After trying to develop a presentation based on Chapter 11 of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (Who Stole the Tarts?), I decided to use the traditional rhyme because the Wonderland narrative was overcomplicating things.

It took me a while, but I managed to develop a more straightforward approach that provides a cute kicker ending to the location effect.

Here’s what happens:

A card is selected “by association” using a secret number, then lost in the deck by the spectator.

You remove one card from the deck: the Jack of Hearts. The spectator tells you the Jack isn’t her thought-of card. You reply, “I know, but the Jack of Hearts will help me find your card. Did you know his original name was the Knave of Hearts?”

You spell out “K-N-A-V-E-O-F-H-E-A-R-T-S”, dealing one card onto the table for each letter. You turn the final card of the count—the one landing on the “S”—face up to reveal the mentally selected card.

You shuffle the deck. With a flourish, you cut to the Queen of Hearts. “Ah, the Queen of Hearts,” you say. “This is her story. She baked some delicious tarts, one hot summer’s day…” You begin to recite the famous rhyme:

“The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts,
All on a summer’s day;
The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts,
And took them clean away.”

As you mention the Knave stealing the Queen’s tarts, you push over the face-up Jack on the table to reveal the Ten of Hearts—the stolen tarts—hidden beneath the thief all along!

Finally, you perform a one-handed cut, producing the King of Hearts from the centre of the deck as you finish reciting the children’s poem:

“The King of Hearts called for the tarts,
And beat the Knave full sore.
The Knave of Hearts brought back the tarts,
And vowed he’d steal no more.”

If you like this trick, you will probably also enjoy Wedding in Wonderland, a romantic coincidence effect with a similar kicker ending. 💒

Thief of Tarts

A card is thought of, then found by an unlikely helper: the Knave of Hearts, the light-fingered rascal of nursery-rhyme fame, who is made to spell out his own name to find the chosen card. By the time the old rhyme is told, the whole court of Hearts has assembled on the table, stolen tarts and all!

Effect Type: Location & Production
Difficulty: ★★★☆☆ (Intermediate)
Duration: 3–5 minutes
Setup Time: Modest
Reset Time: Less than a minute
Props: Pack of playing cards
Key Moves & Principles: Key card, Automatic Placement

Learn Thief of Tarts 🥧

Final Thoughts

I hope you invest time in learning one or more of these routines. I’ve dedicated considerable effort to documenting them because I believe it’s essential to craft engaging presentations that subtly hide the mechanics of the method, particularly when working with principles such as the Automatic Placement. While writing this post, I was reminded of another “Automatic” principle: Alex Elmsley’s Automatic Producer, a handy checklist of questions to ask yourself when assessing the effectiveness of a trick or act.

It can be found in The Collected Works of Alex Elmsley Volume 1 by Stephen Minch (see page 11), which was recently republished by Murphy’s Magic Supplies and is available again from your favourite magic dealer. In this section of the book, Mr Elmsley also shares a wonderful analogy: Performing magic is a lot like fishing. We must hook the audience, then play them, both increasing and relaxing the tension, and finally land them. I’ve tried to do this in each of the above routines. 🎣

In “Gambler’s Lament”, we hook them with an unusual selection process accompanied by the “One for Sorrow” nursery rhyme. We then play with them by introducing the charms of the Appalachian water witch, and have one of the charms fail to produce the expected result. Finally, we land them by transforming the wrong card into the “Jack o’ Diamonds” and using it to find their chosen card.

In “I Alone Know”, we hook the audience with the Axeman’s letter. We then play them by alternating the pressure: the cursed card is removed from the deck and set aside, which tightens the tension; the aside about the King of Diamonds being the only monarch with an axe—and the reason poker players call him the Axeman—lets everyone breathe again; then the second paragraph is read aloud, and the line “I alone know whom they shall be” pulls it tight once more. Finally, we land them by spelling out “Man with the Axe” to find the killer’s next victim.

The jazz at the end is doing something else again. Elmsley notes elsewhere in the same section that a climax should be revealed so that the tension peaks and is then released, and the unexpected music certainly does that. But it also settles a debt. The letter makes a promise in the first minute—any house where a band is playing will be spared—and the jazz cashes in on that promise at the last possible second. So the ending everyone was braced for turns out to be a reprieve rather than a death.

In “Thief of Tarts”, we hook them with the very first line: “There’s a story about a Queen, some tarts and a thief. I need your help to tell it.” We play them by producing the thief, who is promptly accused of being the chosen card and has to deny it, then putting him to work under his older name to find the card properly. With that done, the trick appears to be over—and the Queen arrives, and a nursery rhyme begins. Finally, we land them with the tarts hidden beneath the thief all along, and the King produced on the closing verse.

Elmsley’s Automatic Producer system reduces to two key questions—is it interesting, and can they follow it? These two questions are further broken down into a series of sub-questions to refine your performance script and help you identify and improve any structural weaknesses in your tricks. As these are experimental pieces, I’d encourage you to test them against Elmsley’s full list of questions and adjust accordingly.

Bonus Trick!

I thought I’d share a fourth bonus trick, hidden at the very end, for those dedicated readers who have made it through this rather long blog post. In this variation, the phrase spelt is “The Devil’s Bedpost”, and there is a second phase to the routine in which the spectator unwittingly cuts to three Sixes. 

Here’s what happens:

You invite a spectator to think of a “secret number” between one and thirteen and keep it to themselves. Thirteen cards—a Devil’s Dozen—are shown, and the spectator remembers the one at their chosen position. Because you never learn the number or see the faces of the cards, you cannot know which card has been noted—though everyone else present can see it perfectly well.

You remove a single card from the deck and lay it face up on the table: the Four of Clubs, known to generations of sailors as “the Devil’s Bedpost”.

You spell out the name of the card aloud, dealing one card for each letter in the sinister name. The card reached on the final letter is turned face up. Eerily, it’s the card the spectator thought of.

The spectator cuts the shuffled deck into three piles. You touch each pile in turn with the Four of Clubs. The spectator turns over the top card of each pile: Six, Six, Six—the mark of the beast.

The tutorial explains how to adapt the method to support almost any card name or phrase, so it’s worth reading if you’re interested in developing your own customised version of the trick.

Deal with the Devil

A spectator selects a card “by association”. The Four of Clubs—the Devil’s Bedpost, the unluckiest card in the deck—is used to locate the card the spectator merely thought of. The deck is then cut into three piles, each tapped with the Devil’s own card. The top cards are turned over to reveal three Sixes—Six, Six, Six—the mark of the beast.

Effect Type: Location
Difficulty: ★★★☆☆ (Easy/Intermediate/Advanced)
Duration: 3-5 minutes
Setup Time: Modest
Reset Time: Less than a minute
Props: Playing cards
Key Moves & Principles: Key card, Automatic Placement

Learn Deal with the Devil 👿