A few snowflakes drift down on our hills this morning from an overcast sky that seems to promise more snow. The air is still, but very cold and the landscape seems oddly deserted. Even the cardinals have left the bird feeder and gone to roost, possibly . . .
We turn another calendar leaf, and a New Year is spread out before us. Unused, unspotted and blank. The beginning of another year brings a desire to make each day count; to live it to the fullest. I am just now beginning to realize what the psalmist . . .
Buttermilk clouds riffle across the wide expanse of the sky this morning, as another mild day unfolds in the hills. One of our sons complained this morning “it doesn’t feel a bit like Christmas.” It is true that we have had an extended . . .
It is a brown and white November day, with patches of snow scattered over a brown landscape. It is bitter cold; the warm sunshiny days have retreated into the past. With regret, I discard the last bouquet of summer roses and replace them with a sprig . . .
A silvery, lopsided moon shone down last night out of a clear sky, highlighting the darkened woods and trees that are fast becoming bare and leafless. It was full last week, known as the Full Beaver Moon or Full Frost Moon. Our Native American Indians . . .
November throws her brown cloak around her shoulders and enters our hills, scattering dry leaves in her wake and bringing much colder weather. We have enjoyed a lengthy warm autumn, but now the trees are dropping their colorful leaves around their . . .
October by Robert Frost
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
. . .
There is a cool note in the brisk breeze that is blowing today; a warning sign that summer is fast slipping away. The song birds are still singing merrily at daybreak, and there are nestlings yet in the maple tree. Soon they will be warbling a farewell . . .
The sun has struggled all morning to break through the overcast sky, and is now shining down from a blue sky studded with a few drifting white clouds. A light breeze has sprung up, riffling the yellowing leaves on the trees and swaying the hanging . . .
By Shannon Georgia Schaubroeck
The summer days are fading, as they must
From endless hours to short and fleeting light
The bird’s once bright, immortal tune, now cries
A melancholy aura to the dusk.
The children fiercely . . .
We are now crossing the bridge from summer to autumn. On one side is the hot summer sun, gardens at their peak, rose of Sharon bushes in full bloom and cool swimming pools. On the other side are cooler nights, turning leaves, katydids hollering and . . .
August always seemed to me to be the tail end of summer, but the season seems to be hanging on. The garden is at its peak, while the housewife rushes to get it all canned and frozen while it is ready. This is the busiest time of the year for us, but . . .
Midsummer simmers along, with hot, humid days and sticky nights. The common oxeye daisies have given way to brightly colored black-eyed Susan’s that stare boldly from large patches along the wayside. Spotted Joe-pye weed is beginning to appear . . .
A few days ago was America’s birthday. Independence Day, commonly known as the Fourth of July, is the most celebrated birthday in the United States, commemorating the signing of the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776. We declared our . . .
Summer weather has settled down upon our hills with resulting heat and humidity, while hound dogs seek out a shady spot and the youngsters head for the nearest swimming pool. The early garden crops are flourishing in the warm weather and we are beginning . . .
TODAY
So here hath been dawning
Another blue day:
Think wilt thou let it
Slip useless away.
Out of eternity
This new day is born;
Into eternity,
At night, will return.
Behold it aforetime
No eye ever did:
So soon it forever
From all eyes is hid.
Here hath been . . .
FOREVER
I learn as the years roll onward
And leave the past behind,
That much I have counted sorrow
But proves our God is kind;
That many a flower I longed for
Had a hidden thorn of pain,
And many a rugged by-path
Led to fields of ripened grain.
The clouds . . .
“Springtime is coming, sweet lonesome little bird, your echo in the woodlands I hear.” Spring has finally come in its fullness. The songbirds know it; you can hear them singing at daybreak; a melody full of hope and rejoicing. The song . . .
The sun has tried valiantly all morning to break through the cloud covering but has succeeded very few times. There are patches of blue interspersed between the clouds, bringing hope for a nice spring day ahead. Warm weather has been a little remiss . . .
“Hark, I hear a robin calling!
List, the wind is from the south!
And the orchard-bloom is falling
Sweet as kisses on the mouth.
In the dreamy vale of beeches
Far and faint is woven mist,
And the river’s orient reaches
Are the palest amethyst.
Every . . .
“Oh, I wish that the winter would go, and I wish that the summer would come, and away from the tents on the hill, the little brown bees would hum . . And the robins their pipes would trill, and the woodpecker beat his drum, and away from the . . .
Sunlight is streaming down on hills that have been covered with snow for so long, lifting the spirits and making glad the heart. It is amazing how quickly the snow melts away, leaving the meadows basking in the sun. There is not a cloud in the blue . . .
WELCOME HOME
Will you join me in welcoming
The robin’s return to West Virginia.
It is a sign of winter ending
That thrills and warms the heart within ya.
Legend tells us the old, old story
Of why your breast is red.
They say you comforted . . .
Willie is missing. Never was a dog more loved, or more pampered. He was actually a squirrel dog, and one of the best. But he was more than that. He truly was man’s best friend, and more.
He was mostly a Norwegian, with a little Feist mixed in. . . .