Old Sixes School - Little Red One Room Schoolhouse

The Old Sixes one room school house is where my mother and her brothers attended school first thorough 8th grade. The school picture above was taken in 1940 and was recently featured in Dixie Living Magazine.  My uncle Rufus and uncle Earnie Hillhouse attended the one room school and are pictured standing in the back row.  The Sixes school house is located in Cherokee County, Georgia outside of Canton. Sixes is an unincorporated community in western Cherokee County located about three miles west of Holly Springs and near the eastern shore of current-day Lake Allatoona.

Driftwood Beach, A Tree Graveyard

The beach has driftwood and trees that resemble a tree graveyard. This is due to the north end of the island slowly eroding away and being deposited on the south end of the island.  The shoreline is strewn with the remains of fallen trees.  Deposited by storms, the uprooted, fallen trees are bleached and scoured bare by the fierce ocean winds and appear quite ghostly.

In a Disused Graveyard

 The living come with grassy tread
To read the gravestones on the hill;
The graveyard draws the living still,
But never anymore the dead.
The verses in it say and say:
"The ones who living come today
To read the stones and go away
Tomorrow dead will come to stay."
So sure of death the marbles rhyme,
Yet can't help marking all the time
How no one dead will seem to come.
What is it men are shrinking from?
It would be easy to be clever
And tell the stones: Men hate to die
And have stopped dying now forever.
I think they would believe the lie.   
By Robert Frost  

 Robert Frost is a renowned American poet and four times Pulitzer Prize winner. ... His memorial on the graveyard reads, 'I had a lover's quarrel with the world' ...

'The Cow-Girl' and 'Call of the Range'

My cowgirl's hat came in the mail today.  The Children's Express Theatre has started rehearsals for "SonWest Roundup"  about the Town of Dirt Clod.  There are cowgirls, cowboys, and a sheriff in our little town.  The children and I are learning how to talk and walk like cowgirls. The old western range is calling the children to perform this summer for Shores UMC VBS.  I am featuring Candian poet Rhoda Sivell beautiful poems "The Range Call" and "The Cow-Girl".

 The Range Call by Rhoda Sivell of Canada, 1912

I'm lonely to-night for the old range,
And the voices I loved to hear;
Though the band in the town is playing,
The music comes soft to my ear.
There's only the river between us,
The town in the flat shows bright,
But I'm lonely, lonely, lonely,
For my old range home to-night.

I'm lonely to-night for the old friends;
For new friends can never be
Just what those dear old range friends
Have been in the past to me.
But I hear their voices calling,
And the band has ceased to play,
And my heart has gone out from the gas-lit town
To the wild range far away.

If you ever the range call,
The voice that speaks soft and sweet;
That wins you back to the prairie,
Away from the gas-lit street;
If once you hear her calling,
You sure than have got to go,
For the old range is waiting for you,
And you've got to love her so.

 Rhoda Cosgrave Sivell was born in Ireland in 1874. She lived in Canada and published a collection of poems, Voices from the Range, first printed in 1911.  Rhoda Sivell's Voices from the Range was covered by Canadian copyright law until 2012.  Her poems are now public domain. 

The Cow-Girl by Rhoda Sivell, 1912

Out on the wild range, riding
To the music of drifting feet;
As we lope o’er the sunburned prairie, I and the cow-girl meet.

The sun in the West is setting.
And shoots out its golden beams;
One falls on the face of the rider,
The cow-girl of my dreams

She’s as lithe as the supple willows That grow by the bed of the streams;
Her hair like the golden sunbeam
That falls on the girl of my dreams.

Her eyes are as dark as the shadows
That creep down the canyon wide;
With a look like a half-broke broncho, Half fearful, yet trusting beside.

Her face like the roses in summer
That grow in the coulees deep;
Her lips like the scarlet sand-flower
That blossoms in cut-banks steep.

She’s as fair as a summer morning; As pure as the prairie air;
She’s as wild as the silver sage brush
That grows by the grey wolf’s lair.

The sky in the West has darkened
As home to the camp we ride,
As I lope o’er the shadowed prairie With the cow-girl by my side.

We laugh and we talk together, To the music of drifting feet.
As we lope o’er the sunburned prairie, Where I and the cow-girl meet.

'There Once was an Oyster'

The Oyster

There once was an oyster
Whose story I tell,
Who found that some sand
Had got into his shell.
It was only a grain,
But it gave him great pain.
For oysters have feelings
Although they’re so plain.

Now, did he berate
The harsh working of fate
That had brought him
To such a deplorable state?
Did he curse at the government,
Cry for election,
And claim that the sea should
Have given him protection?

No – he sad to himself
As he lay on a shell,
Since I cannot remove it,
I shall try to improve it.
Now the years have rolled around,
As the years always do,
And he came to his ultimate
Destiny – stew.

And the small grain of sand
That had bothered him so
Was a beautiful pearl
All richly aglow.
Now the tale has a moral;
For isn’t it grand
What an oyster can do
With a morsel of sand?

What couldn’t we do
If we’d only begin
With some of the things
That get under our skin.

Author Unknown

'Song of the Trees' by Mary Colborne-Veel

Song of the Trees
by Mary Colborne-Veel
We are the Trees. Our dark and leafy glade Bands the bright earth with softer mysteries. Beneath us changed and tamed the seasons run: In burning zones, we build against the sun Long centuries of shade. We are the Trees, Who grow for man’s desire, Heat in our faithful hearts, and fruits that please. Dwelling beneath our tents, he lightly gains The few sufficiencies his life attains— Shelter, and food, and fire. We are the Trees That by great waters stand, By rills that murmur to our murmuring bees. And where, in tracts all desolate and waste, The palm-foot stays, man follows on, to taste Springs in the desert sand. We are the Trees Who travel where he goes Over the vast, inhuman, wandering seas. His tutors we, in that adventure brave— He launched with us upon the untried wave, And now its mastery knows. We are the Trees Who bear him company In life and death. His happy sylvan ease He wins through us; through us, his cities spread That like a forest guard his unfenced head ’Gainst storm and bitter sky. We are the Trees. On us the dying rest Their strange, sad eyes, in farewell messages. And we, his comrades still, since earth began, Wave mournful boughs above the grave of man, And coffin his cold breast. Mary Colborne-Veel was a well-known Christchurch poet, a poet of some dramatic and narrative power. Born in Christchurch and educated at home, she began writing verse and essays for the Press in 1887, and was an early contributor to Zealandia. Subsequently she frequently had work published in Australian and English periodicals.

Big Savannah Pond Overlook

 

We looked for the famous pink hues of the roseate spoonbills at Big Savannah Pond but only saw one far off in the distance.  The Savannah Loop is 2.8 miles and joins Capo Loop.  We did see several ducks swimming in the Little Savannah Pond when hiking Capo Rd.

Capo Tower Overlook

The Capo Tower has a stunning view of the Tolomato River, Capo Creek and salt marshes.  Capo Loop is 2.3 miles and it connects to the Savannah Loop which is 2.8 miles. We were the only hikers on the two trails and saw a lot of wildlife in the salt marshes and creeks. Capo Creek has clear beautiful blue waters.

Hiking Trails at Tolomato River

We hiked the South Point Loop 2.7 miles and the Timucucan Trail 2.7 miles along the Tolomato River at the National Estuarine Reserve.  There are two rivers that the trails followed:   Guana River and Tolomato River. It was cloudy which help with heat and a pygmy rattlesnake slithered across our path.

Winter-Spring Valentine's Day Raindrops

Winter flowers are blooming and so are Spring Flowers.  The seasons are merged but it makes a interesting and beautiful display of flowers.  Today is Valentine's Day and it is raining on my flowers.  Christmas Poinsettias and Camellias are in full bloom with Azaleas. It is a winter-spring mixed Valentine's Day of raindrops hanging from the flowers.

Fairies In My Garden

Fairies In My Garden

As the rain drops fall
I wandered past my garden wall,
Among the dark green hedges
Within the flowers blooming as rubies rare,
There lies a fairy land
As only I the beholder can see,
As rain-pools form at my feet
I walked along the shady creek,
I saw a  lovely sight indeed,
Standing among the grassy stalks,
With a small basket of lily leaves
A fairy was catching tiny raindrops,
Beyond the growth of ivy vines
Fairies fluttered between the twines,
Gathering rosebuds for their hair,
Dressed in colors of every hue,
Green, purple, white and blue,
With graceful wings, swiftly they flew,
As I wandered thru their garden home.

By PL Fallin

Last Remembrance of Fall

 A lone tree sitting against the blue sky in a field of rusty grass glowed with brilliant colors for the Christmas holidays at Lake Huron in Michigan.  Of course, the snow started falling within an hour of this photo.  There were only moments remaining to see fall colors and all would be covered in white.

Graham Swamp Preserve

The lake at Graham Swamp had a unusual amount of lily pads.  Alligators were lurking on the banks but the view was like a water color painting.

"I hear lake water lapping"

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

 

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

 

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

 

By William Butler Yeats 1865–1939

The Unnamed Lake

The Unamed Lake

It sleeps among the thousand hills
Where no man ever trod,
And only nature's music fills
The silences of God.

Great mountains tower above its shore,
Green rushes fringe its brim,
And over its breast for evermore
The wanton breezes skim.

Dark clouds that intercept the sun
Go there in Spring to weep,
And there, when Autumn days are done.
White mists lie down to sleep.

Sunrise and sunset crown with gold
The pinks of ageless stone,
Her winds have thundered from of old -
And storms have set their throne.

No echoes of the world afar
Disturb it night or day,
The sun and shadow, moon and star
Pass and repass for aye.

'Twas in the grey of early dawn,
When first the lake we spied,
And fragments of a cloud were drawn
Half down the mountain side.

Along the shore a heron flew,
And from a speck on high,
That hovered in the deepening blue,
We heard the fish-hawk's cry.

Among the cloud-capt solitudes,
No sound the silence broke,
Save when, in whispers down the woods,
The guardian mountains spoke.

Through tangled brush and dewy brake,
Returning whence we came,
We passed in silence, and the lake
We left without a name.

By Frederick George Scott, 1897

 

Frederick George Scott (7 April 1861 – 19 January 1944) was a Canadian poet and author, known as the Poet of the Laurentians.  Scott published 13 books of Christian and patriotic poetry. Scott was a British imperialist who wrote many hymns to the British Empire—eulogizing his country's roles in the Boer Wars and World War I. Many of his poems use the natural world symbolically to convey deeper spiritual meaning. Frederick George Scott was the father of poet F. R. Scott.

Sugar Mill at Bulow Plantation Ruins

The Sugar Mill ruins has a scenic walking trail a short distance from Bulow Creek.  Bulow's sugar mill, constructed of local "coquina" rock, was the largest mill in East Florida. At the boat slips, flatboats were loaded with barrels of raw sugar and molasses and floated down Bulow Creek to be shipped north. This frontier industry came to an abrupt end at the outbreak of the Second Seminole War. It is surrounded by old oak trees and native habitation of plants and animals.

"Water, Water, Everywhere"

 

In Flagler County I hiked the Betty Steflik Memorial Preserve trails. It consisted of boardwalks and rustic decks throughout the marshland and Intra Coastal canals.  The land is not dry enough to walk  so long wooden decks were constructed over the marsh and canals.

“Water, water, everywhere
And all the boards did shrink
Water, water everywhere
Nor any drop to drink.”
― Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Treebeard of Middle-earth My Protector

Ents are a race of beings in J. R. R. Tolkien's fantasy world Middle-earth who closely resemble trees. They are similar to the talking trees in folklore around the world. Their name is derived from the Anglo-Saxon word for giant.  The Ents appear in The Lord of the Rings as ancient shepherds of the forest and allies of the free peoples of Middle-earth during the War of the Ring. The Ent who figures most prominently in the book is Treebeard, the oldest creature in Middle-earth.

 

"Treebeard and Hobbits" by Tom Loback

 

A Crooked Little Bird in a Crooked Tree

Hiking the nature trail at Faver Dykes, this bird kept his wings spread as if he was going to launch into flight.  The tall pine tree was lending and its branches had grown crooked in a very unusual way. It remind me of a Mother Goose poem. 

 

 "There was a crooked man,"

By Mother Goose

There was a crooked man,

and walked a crooked mile,

He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile;

He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,

And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

 

"There was a crooked Bird"

By PL Fallin

 

There was a crooked bird,

Who flew a crooked mile,

He found a crooked branch against a crooked sky,

He caught a crooked fish, which caught a crooked bug,

And they all lived together in a tall crooked Pine.

 

The Green Trail at Princess Preserve

 The Green Trail has an old wooden bridge crossing the creek flowing to the Matanzas River. There is a small island, a salt marsh, that the bridge connects to the mainland.  Along the trail were rustic benches surrounded by palms and oak trees with limbs hanging heavily with thick Spanish moss.

The Bridge Builder

by Will Allen Dromgoole 1860-1934

An old man going a lone highway,

Came, at the evening cold and gray,

To a chasm vast and deep and wide.

Through which was flowing a sullen tide

The old man crossed in the twilight dim,

The sullen stream had no fear for him;

But he turned when safe on the other side

And built a bridge to span the tide.

 

“Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim near,

“You are wasting your strength with building here;

Your journey will end with the ending day,

You never again will pass this way;

You’ve crossed the chasm, deep and wide,

Why build this bridge at evening tide?”

 

The builder lifted his old gray head;

“Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said,

“There followed after me to-day

A youth whose feet must pass this way.

This chasm that has been as naught to me

To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be;

He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;

Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!”

Source: Father: An Anthology of Verse (EP Dutton & Company, 1931)
Will Allen Dromgoole was born in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. A prolific author who wrote novels, plays, and more than 8,000 poems, she was the author of the best-selling novel The Island of the Beautiful (1911).

"At the Old Mill" by Voilet Lee, 1873

 

The Mingus Mill is nestled among trees, but, in its heyday, the mill was surrounded by cleared fields and crops.  The present structure was completed in 1886.  The mill's distinction was its metal turbine, an improvement on the traditional wooden waterwheel that made Mingus Mill one of the most advanced in the Smokies.  A poem by Voilet Lee, written in 1873 is a lovely poetic expession of another grist mill where her "darling" worked.

At the Old Mill

 

Radiant day is slowly fading,
And the evening calm and still,
Gazing through the oak and willow,
Stoops to kiss the ancient mill.

Listen to the damsel dancing
To the jig of feed and flour,
And the water-wheel revolving
With a dashing, constant power.

There is music in the rattle
Of the tinkling wheat that falls,
In the hopper, as the miller
Stops to heed the gristman’s calls.

Yes, I love this shaded building,
Love the flowing stream and flowers,
Love to hear the busy clatter
On the lingering summer hours.

More than all, I love the miller,
For his sake, I love the rest;
Of this world and its enchantments
I adore him the best.

Of these twilights I would weary
If his voice came not to cheer.
And this mill – life would grow dreary
If my darling was not here.

Violet Lee, 1873