“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. . . .
It is amazing how a split second occurrence can alter a person’s life. Two days before Christmas, I was looking forward to Christmas Eve and our 59th anniversary. Also, I was running through my mind the menu for Christmas Day and the various . . .
A half-hearted sun is trying to break through the clouds today and shine upon ground that is encrusted with snow. Cardinals are visiting the bird feeder, making a colorful spot of red in an otherwise bleak landscape. Trees lift bare arms to the sky . . .
The brownness of November has enveloped our hills, with brown fields and meadows, and brown leaves scattered on the forest floor. The air is a little nippier, and mornings brings a coat of white frost and ice frozen in puddles. I remember how the fields . . .
The first snow of the season came in the night this week and we awakened to a white world. The trees had stripped off their colorful autumn garments and put on cloaks of white. The hemlocks branches were draped in velvet, but the bare branches of the . . .
The little hobgoblins and miniature witches are gone for the year, still reveling in their booty and some nursing a stomach ache. Surely this must be the dentists’ favorite holiday. I’ve always enjoyed handing out candy to the neighborhood . . .
We are wrapping up the tag ends of summer, hurrying to finish warm weather tasks, getting ready for the colder weather ahead. Just as the woodland animals are storing their food for winter days, we are also filling the potato bin, stocking the cellar . . .
Autumn has rounded the corner and sent beautiful October weather to our hills. October gold is spread all over the landscape; gold that cannot be equaled even by the touch of King Midas. The turning leaves have a golden cast, the sunshine is pure gold . . .
The little wild asters are making their appearance now, leaning over the creek as if watching the yellow leaves floating by. These are the blue-petaled flowers with yellow centers, probably the New England aster. They grow in clumps this time of year . . .
Swinging on the porch swing in the gathering darkness. . . only the monotonous sound of the night bugs. . . tree frogs singing a sleepy good-night. . . an old song runs through the mind. . .
“Once in the dear, dead days beyond recall.
When . . .
Summer is dwindling down, with midsummer wild flowers holding court now. Yellow seems to be the dominant color, from the pale shade of the evening primrose to the tall stalk of the mullein. The small aster-like heads of fleabane, looking just like . . .
One of the sweetest compliments I have ever received since I began writing came in the form of a poem written by a new-found friend. It warms my heart, and makes me more thankful for my circle of friendship.
WRITE (for Alyce Faye Bragg)
By Ross . . .
One of the nicest pleasures in the summer is to sit on the porch swing in the early morning coolness and watch the day unfold. The sun has yet to peep out over Pilot Knob, and mist covers the deep hollows on the mountain. The songbirds are tuning up . . .
Heat simmers through our hills as the last week of June makes its exit. Mom always used the expression, “Hotter than the Fourth of July” so perhaps July sent her heat in advance. Gardens are flourishing however, with the first fruits being . . .
The air is hot and muggy today, as an impending storm draws closer. There is a low rumble of thunder in the background, and the little Jack Russell terriers crowd closer to my feet. Minnie is especially scared of thunder, and trembles at the sound. . . .
When Mother Nature puts on her finest garb, and the hills are covered with varied hues of green and bright flowers and shrubs bloom with abandon, it gives the housewife an urge to decorate and refurbish her dwelling. When the doors and windows can . . .
Summer weather exploded in our hills this past week, with hot days and mild nights, a real change from the frosty nights we endured just a short time ago. June spreads her flowered garments over the land, bringing roses, lacy white ash bushes and blushing . . .
IN SCHOOL DAYS
By John Greenleaf Whittier
Still sits the school house by the road,
A ragged beggar sleeping;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry vines are creeping.
Within the master’s desk is seen,
Deep scarred by raps official,
. . .
The last day of April dawned bright and sunny. Songbirds were warbling merrily; the purple lilac’s heavy blossoms wafted a heavenly scent across the yard, and vied with the lavender azalea bush for beauty. It was a perfect spring day to be enjoyed . . .
Springtime weather seemed to explode overnight in our hills, with trees on the mountainside bursting in bloom almost instantly. It seems too early for redbud to bloom, but the delicate pink of its blossoms shine in the warming sunlight. Sarvis (serviceberry) . . .
The first definite symbol of the coming of spring showed up in our yard last week. On a relatively mild day, our front lawn was populated by half a dozen youngsters (I say that loosely) playing a vigorous game of softball. We sat on the front porch . . .
The voice of spring is awakening the land after the long, cold sleep of winter. She whispered first to the songbirds, and they gathered their flocks together to return to our hills. Each morning, they greet the breaking of the day with their joyous . . .
Sometimes a simple object will trigger a flood of memories, things of long ago and almost forgotten. The recent high windstorm blew a small churn that I used to store umbrellas off the porch and smashed it in the yard. I looked at the broken pieces . . .
Snowflakes dance and twirl through the air as the capricious wind blows them this way and that. The wind chimes tinkle madly, and the bare limbs on the trees bend to the whim of the wind. Winter has been showing his fierce teeth the past few days, . . .
Winter has loosened its grip on our hills for a few days. The recent snow, piled wide and deep, has almost disappeared except for a few patches here and there. February has always seemed a dingy, muddy month that spans the bridge between winter and . . .
“Bare branches of each tree
on this chilly January morn
look so cold and forlorn.
Gray skies dip ever so low
left from yesterday’s dusting of snow,
Yet in the heart of each tree
waiting for each who wait to . . .