The Sea-Bird by Samuel Griswold Goodrich

 

 

Samuel Griswold Goodrich (August 19, 1793 – May 9, 1860) was an American author, better known under the pseudonym Peter Parley. Goodrich was associated with his brother Charles A. Goodrich in writing books for the young. His series, beginning in 1827 under the name of Peter Parley, embraced geography, biography, history, science and miscellaneous tales. Of these he was the sole author of only a few, but in 1857 he wrote that he was the author and editor of about 170 volumes, and that about seven millions had been sold.

The Sea-Bird

Far, far o'er the deep is my island throne,
Where the sea-gull roams and reigns alone;
Where nought is seen but the beetling rock,
And nought is heard but the ocean-shock,
And the scream of birds when the storm is nigh,
And the crash of the wreck, and the fearful cry
Of drowning men, in their agony.
I love to sit, when the waters sleep,
And ponder the depths of the glassy deep,
Till I dream that I float on a corse at sea,
And sing of the feast that is made for me.
I love on the rush of the storm to sail,
And mingle my scream with the hoarser gale.
When the sky is dark, and the billow high,
When the tempest sweeps in its terror by,
I love to ride on the maddening blast
To flap my wing o'er the fated mast,
And sing to the crew a song of fear,
Of the reef and the surge that await them here.

When the storm is done and the revel is o'er,
I love to sit on the rocky shore,
And tell to the ear of the dying breeze,
The tales that are hushed in the sullen seas;
Of the ship that sank in the reefy surge,
And left her fate to the sea-gull's dirge:
Of the lover that sailed to meet his bride,
And his story gave to the secret tide:
Of the father that went on the trustless main,
And never was met by his child again:
Of the hidden things which the waves conceal,
And the sea-bird's song can alone reveal.

I tell of the ship that hath found a grave
Her spars still float on the restless wave,
But down in the halls of the voiceless deep,
The forms of the brave and the beautiful sleep.
I saw the storm as it gathered fast,
I heard the roar of the coming blast,
I marked the ship in her fearful strife,
As she flew on the tide, like a thing of life.
But the whirlwind came, and her masts were wrung,
Away, and away on the waters flung.
I sat on the gale o'er the sea-swept deck,
And screamed in delight o'er the coming wreck:
I flew to the reef with a heart of glee,
And wiled the ship to her destiny.
On the hidden rocks like a hawk she rushed,
And the sea through her riven timbers gushed:
O'er the whirling surge the wreck was flung,
And loud on the gale wild voices rung.
I gazed on the scene I saw despair
On the pallid brows of a youthful pair.
The maiden drooped like a gentle flower,
When lashed by the gale in its quivering bower:
Her arms round her lover she wildly twined,
And gazed on the sea with a wildered mind.
He bent o'er the trembler, and sheltered her form,
From the plash of the sea, and the sweep of the storm;
But woe to the lover, and woe to the maid,
Whose hopes on the treacherous deep are laid!
For the Sea hath a King whose palaces shine,
In lustre and light down the pearly brine,
And he loves to gather in glory there,
The choicest things of the earth and air.
In his deep saloons with coral crowned,
Where gems are sparkling above and around,
He gathers his harem of love and grace,
And beauty he takes to his cold embrace.
The winds and the waves are his messengers true.
And lost is the wanderer whom they pursue.
They sweep the shore, they plunder the wreck,
His stores to heap, and his halls to deck.
Oh! lady and lover, ye are doomed their prey
They come! they come! ye are swept away!
Ye sink in the tide, but it cannot sever
The fond ones who sleep in its depths for ever!

Wild! wild was the storm, and loud was its roar,
And strange were the sights that I hovered o'er:
I saw the babe with its mother die;
I listened to catch its parting sigh;
And I laughed to see the black billows play
With the sleeping child in their gambols gay.
I saw a girl whose arms were white,
As the foam that flashed on the billows' height;
And the ripples played with her glossy curls,
And her cheek was kissed by the dancing whirls;
But her bosom was dead to hope and fear,
For she shuddered not as the shark came near.
I poised my foot on the forehead fair
Of a lovely boy that floated there;
I looked in the eyes of the drowning brave,
As they upward gazed through the glassy wave;
I screamed o'er the bubbles that told of death,
And stooped as the last gave up his breath.
I flapped my wing, for the work was done
The storm was hushed, and the laughing sun
Sent his gushing light o'er the sullen seas
And I tell my tale to the fainting breeze,
Of the hidden things which the waves conceal,
And the sea-bird's song can alone reveal!

The Lily by William Blake

 Since the beginning of time, lilies have played significant roles in allegorical tales concerning the sacrament of motherhood. Roman mythology links it to Juno, the queen of the gods. The story goes that while Juno was nursing her son Hercules, excess milk fell from the sky. Although part of it remained above the earth (thus creating the group of stars known as the Milky Way), the remainder fell to the earth, creating lilies. Another tradition has it that the lily sprang from the repentant tears of Eve as she went forth from Paradise.  This is one of the few lilies that grew in my yard this spring.

The Lily
by William Blake

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:
While the Lily white shall in love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

Marshmallow Clouds



 
Many states in the mid west are still experiencing snow in early April but in Florida it is now officially spring and sunshine at Marine Land.  Many sea shells were washed ashore and nothing but blue skies, Marshmallow clouds and sunshine.

Julington-Durbin Preserve

The White Trail to Durbin Creek has an opened field that leads into a very shaded path that had several bridges over the salt Marsh. It was a 2 mile round trip walk and was a perfect outing for a Sunday afternoon.

Durbin Creek

Durbin Creek is located at Julington-Durbin Preserve.  I walked the white trail to reach the creek. It was very green and lush with lily pads and hardware trees. I really would like to walk the length of the creek but there was so much thick under grow it would be difficult.

The Big Oak - A Southern "Oakenshield"

The Big Oak, located in Thomasville, Georgia is a 329 year old Live Oak, and is one of the largest of its kind East of the Mississippi River. Unlike Thorin's oak shield in "The Hobbit" it cannot be used as a shield but it has seen many years of history. The Big Oak dates back to circa 1680, which makes it one of the oldest Live Oaks in the country. I journey to this place just to see this tree.  I feel like I traveled to Middle Earth. Standing next to the Big Oak, I look like a dwarf!  One of my favorite poems by Tolkien.

ROADS GO EVER EVER ON
By J.R. R. Tolkien

Roads go ever ever on,  
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where sun has never shone,  
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,  
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,  
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on  
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone  
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen  
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green  
And trees and hills they long have known.

RiverWalk "The Song of the Chattahoochee"

The RiverWalk is an outdoor 15-mile linear park that hugs the banks of the Chattahoochee River.  For centuries, the Chattahoochee River has flowed from the mountains of North Georgia to the oyster beds of the Florida Panhandle. Sometimes a trickle. Sometimes angrily slapping against the rocks.  On Good Friday, It was a gorgeous walk and I never get tired of the river.  I grew up on the Chattahoochee River banks and it is home to me. It is an intrigue part of my southern heritage and childhood memories.  I watched several boys fishing along it's banks and it brought back my own memories of playing on the river bank and catching bugs.


The beauty of the Chattahoochee River is commemorated in the epic poem The Song of the Chattahoochee (1877), by the noted Georgian poet Sidney Lanier.

The Song Of The Chattahoochee
                                 

Out of the hills of Habersham,
Down the valleys of Hall,
I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall,
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side
With a lover's pain to attain the plain
Far from the hills of Habersham,
Far from the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham,
All through the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried 'Abide, abide,'
The willful waterweeds held me thrall,
The laving laurel turned my tide,
The ferns and the fondling grass said 'Stay,'
The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
And the little reeds sighed 'Abide, abide,
Here in the hills of Habersham,
Here in the valleys of Hall.'

High o'er the hills of Habersham,
Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
Said, 'Pass not, so cold, these manifold
Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
These glades in the valleys of Hall.'

And oft in the hills of Habersham,
And oft in the valleys of Hall,
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,
And many a luminous jewel lone
-- Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,
Ruby, garnet and amethyst --
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
And oh, not the valleys of Hall
Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.
Downward the voices of Duty call --
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main,
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
And the lordly main from beyond the plain
Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,
Calls through the valleys of Hall.

 

 

Old Southern Pickup Trucks

 

 

You are not a true southerner if you don't like old run down wooden houses with a rusty pickup truck in the front yard.  That is true southern landscaping.  This old red rusty truck is located off of highway 82, 60 miles south of Columbus, Georgia.  At Christmas, it is decorated with Christmas lights and is part of a real country Christmas.  I am always on the outlook for true southern traditions and customs.  Rusty pickup trucks is an authentic southern tradition and you can usually find them all over the south.  Cowboys like trucks too.  Here is an excerpt from 'Rodeo Red' by Lucky Whipple from Cowboy Poetry at the Bar-D Ranch website.

 

Rodeo Red

"Ol' Rodeo Red
Was a Cowboy's truck
No maintenance involved
We just run him on luck.

He's a '52 Chev
With a flathead six
There's everything broke
But there's nothin' to fix.

From Fort Worth to Cheyenne
On to Spokane we sped
He was soon dubbed the title
Of Rodeo Red.

He was quite well renowned
That old pickup truck
Here comes Rodeo Red
Powder River let's buck.

The floorboard was muddled
With mud, cans and trash
To-bacco spittle
And cigarette ash.

The hub caps are missin'
The left runnin' board's gone
And the right lamp's burnt out
When the headlights are on.

The emergency brake
Would never apply
So a rock hind a tire
Was our safety reply..."

Rains Mud in Georgia

 I believe it rains mud in Georgia.  It is a phenomena that only the folks of Georgia knows about. On a rainy night in Georgia the clay dyes the rain into shades of red and burnt orange mud that runs down into the creeks, brooks, ponds and rivers.  That is really why so many folks are called red necks for bathing in muddy Georgia water. I am sure most of the country thinks it is because of the bubba trucks and guns.

"Georgia Clay"

Ain’t it funny how some things take you back?
And the here and now just fades to black
When I pull that blue tarp off of that time machine
Man, it hits me

Seventeen years old running on dumb luck
Spent the whole damn summer
Living in that truck
Them old tires still covered in that mud
Like it sticks with me, in my blood

When life was nothing more than living for the night
Just trying to steal a kiss on a tailgate of that ride
Good old days don’t wash away
Just like that Georgia Clay

Only one of my friends with a Fake I.D.
It made the hometown celebrity
Used to put her in park in a vacant lot
And I still can’t believe we never got caught

When life was nothing more than living for the night
Just trying to steal a kiss on a tailgate of that ride
Good old days don’t wash away
Just like that Georgia clay

All over everything, every last memory
Man it’s all coming back to me...

lyrics by Josh Kelly



Wild Wisterial Flowers

 

The old southern farms that once farmed the land in Lumpkin County had many vines of wisteria flowers and the remnants of the vines are growing wild in the underbrush, old fence posts, and throughout the southern part of Providence Canyon.

Spring at Providence Canyon

The canyon is coming alive with dogwood blossoms and wild flowers.  Many of the hardwood trees are sprouting new growth.  There are flowers from old wisteria vines that have grown entwined with the undergrowth and trees.  It was cool and perfect weather for hiking and the new growth give enough visibility to see up the slopes of the canyon.

In the Mouth of the Canyon

This is the first time I had the opportunity to hike within the floor of the canyon.  It was wet, muddy with a stream of water flowing or trickling down the trail.  It was easy going down the trail to the canyon floor but not so easy climbing back up the canyon. I definitely need to get in better shape if I ever hike the 7 mile wilderness trail at Providence.  Being at the bottom and looking up at the high cliffs and peaks made me feel like a dwarf.

Wild Dogwoods

Traveling along Georgia back roads, I was searching for the wild dogwood trees that usually grow in the forest among the pine trees. These pictures were taken in Lumpkin outside Providence Canyon Park.

Providence Canyon Hiking Fever

 

I got spring hiking fever on the way to visit my mother in Columbus, Georgia.  Providence Canyon is an hour's drive from Columbus so we put on our sneakers and went searching for wild dogwood trees and flowers.

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.