September peeps cautiously around the corner as if debating whether to allow autumn to enter our hills, or permit summer to linger a little longer. There are definite signs that autumn is anxious to come. The cricket’s cry grows more mournful . . .
Summer released her hot grip on the hills this past week as fall-like weather spread cooler fingers through our days. Nights were blessedly cool after the steamy weather that we endured this summer, and although hot weather will come again, we have . . .
Summer is still hanging around the hills, but the school term starts this week anyway. Blending in with the yellow of the goldenrod, the blue of the gentian and the purple of the ironweed are the bright yellow school buses as they travel our ridges . . .
Stifling summer heat continues to smother our hills while each foray outside is like stepping into a sauna. However, the garden flourishes in spite of the heat, with occasional thundershowers refreshing the crops. The country housewife forges ahead . . .
I SAW GOD WASH THE WORLD
by William L. Stidger
I saw God wash the world last night
With His sweet showers on high,
And then, when morning came, I saw
Him hang it out to dry.
He washed each tiny blade of grass
And every trembling tree;
He flung . . .
Hot summer days sizzle along in typical July fashion, with droning honeybees visiting the flowerbeds and carrying their nectar back to the hive. Flowers take on a midsummer look with Rose of Sharon bushes putting forth their rose-like blossoms, and . . .
Hot July days simmer across our hills bringing orange day lilies, deeper orange butterfly weed (pleurisy weed,) vacations, and lightning bugs. Sporadic thunderstorms bring momentary relief from the heat, and water our gardens just in time. Green beans . . .
Friday the 13th dawned bright and beautiful, with caroling songbirds and flitting butterflies rejoicing in the sunshine after days of rain. Light of heart (but not so light of foot!) I put the flat of flowers on the porch and headed for the shed to . . .
Another serene May day sits lightly on our hills. After weeks of rainy weather, we are doubly thankful for the bountiful sunshine that blesses us, and for the idyllic spring day that God has sent us. It is quiet today; the only sounds are the tweeting . . .
The wind is sighing through the treetops, hopefully bidding the last vestige of cold rain good-bye. It has been a stormy week, with heavy rain studded with hail, and strong winds that created havoc in many places. We were spared the brunt of it, although . . .
All about us, the earth is waking up from the long sleep of winter. The maple trees are blooming; their twigs red-tipped and softly glowing from a distance. There is a greenish haze around the weeping willow tree, and the buds are fat and swollen on . . .
I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as . . .
DANNY
Oh, Danny boy, the pipes the pipes are calling,
From glen to glen and on the mountainside.
The summer’s gone and all the leaves are falling
‘Tis you must go, ’tis you must go and I must bide!
But come you back, when summer’s . . .
LAY MY HEAD BENEATH THE ROSE
Darling, press me to your bosom,
As you did in days of yore,
Press your lips upon my forehead,
Ere I see the golden shore.
Life is from me fastly flowing,
Soon I’ll be in sweet repose,
When I’m gone, I’ll ask this favor,
Lay . . .
STOPPING BY THE WOODS
ON A SNOWY EVENING
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse . . .
Snow, snow and more snow. Snow on top of snow on top of snow. It is still snowing.
It is beautiful—even if you are sick and tired of snow. Ordinary objects have been transformed into things of beauty; even the trash cans are topped . . .
The sun is just rising on the morning of another day, the first day of the New Year. What can I wish that this day, this year, may bring to me? Nothing that will make the world or others poorer, nothing at the expense of other men; but just those things . . .
Our hills have been shivering in the onslaught of winter weather, with continued snow and frigid temperatures that came suddenly and wiped away every vestige of warm weather. Long, jagged icicles hang from the eaves of the house and snow covers the . . .
November days grow browner, mornings are crisper, and Thanksgiving looms very near. There is something about Thanksgiving that makes it more special than all the other holidays.
It must be the memories of that day that go all the way back to childhood; . . .
The mellow air of autumn surrounds our hills and enfolds us in a warm and tender embrace. This has been a glorious week of Indian summer weather, which traditionally comes after heavy frost and freeze in November. It is autumn bidding a farewell to . . .
October days slide by smoothly, one golden day after another, as cooler weather moves in slowly. The nights are becoming a little nippier and a warm blanket feels good. After the morning fog burns off, the days have been warm and sunny with drifting . . .
Yellow leaves are falling in the slow-moving creek while yellow-eyed wild asters peer over the bank as if watching them float lazily along. Their long blue eyelashes reflect the blue of October’s sky, while the golden rays of the sun fall upon the . . .
The Full Harvest Moon shines in golden splendor as the first day of autumn fades away into the night shadows. Summer weather is still hanging on, but these cooler nights are a blessing. Thick white mist shrouds Pilot Knob at morning, but the rising . . .
A lone crow calls from the hillside above the camp, the only loud sound on this drowsy day. The low hum of crickets makes background music, while an errant breeze blows through the pines. There is change in the air.
Premature brown leaves drift . . .
When purple ironweed lines the roadsides, and the underbrush begins to turn yellow, it is time for the school term to begin again. Each year the yellow school buses begin their appointed rounds, up hills and hollers, across ridges and bridges, to pick . . .
A lone cricket chirps outside the kitchen door, a song of longing and sadness and foreboding. He knows his days are numbered, and summer is on the wane. The withered and dry grasses tell him so, while a cooler breeze is threaded though the yellowing . . .
The dusty-pink blossoms of the Joe-Pye weed droop over the road banks and warn us of summer’s passing—very, very soon. In the meadows and along the road the fragrant blooms of wild pinks (dianthus) decorate the scene and add their perfume to the . . .
Yellow and black swallowtail butterflies hover above the Rose of Sharon bush which is so loaded with double blossoms that the boughs are drooping downward. It does resemble a giant rose bush, with a mass of heavy, deep pink blooms. Although it is mid . . .
Dog days came into our hills hot and dry, with searing heat and crops begging for rain. It is a 40-day period which runs from the third of July until the 11th of August, with the hottest temperatures of the year. According to folk lore, . . .
Summer has exploded in our hills like a Fourth of July firecracker, with searing heat and high humidity. The widespread daisies are giving way to Queen Anne’s lace, bright blue chicory and showy orange butterfly weed. It already looks like midsummer, . . .