The Hills Sing |
The VanZandt Cemetery Strangers have bought the VanZandt place, and I wonder if they know Of a little plot upon the hill where sad white roses grow? Will they see that way, that solemn way, that leads up to the hill, Where the gate is closed in sorrow and everything is still? The old Captain lies here sleeping in the fields he loved so well, Where melodious tones still echo from his old farm dinner bell. We have two darlings lying within this sacred sod..... Oh, remember, please, dear strangers, this acre belongs to God. |
Doc Storms One of the sounds we hear no more and never shall hear again, Is the rhythmic ring and rattle of a swinging bridle chain. And the screaking saddle leather and a gruff old scolding voice, As Doc Storms rode down the mountain, sounds that made our hearts rejoice. For we knew that help was coming, in our hour of desperate fear. How we strained our ears to listen, as those hoof beats sounded near. Entering in so bluff and cheery, scolding Coalie to stay at the door. But we were glad to see his old dog, lying by our hearth once more. Leather saddle bags he cast down, warmed his hands before the fire. Asked that some one take old Slocum, as the wind was getting higher, And tie him somewhere in the stable, maybe near a little hay. Then he donned his steel-rimmed glasses, and his eyes would never stray, From the white face on the pillow, gently touching wrist and brow. And we felt our fears all vanish, Doc Storms was with us now....... |
The Visitor He was a highhat, pompous and stately. In anguish I twisted my aprons strings (Wealth and dignity are fearsome things), Wondering what I should try to say To this potentate who'd come my way, Twisting and folding my apron strings (Wealth and dignity are fearsome things), Then he stooped to carress my flowering moss, He smiled at my rose on its cedar cross, And I dropped my twisted apron strings..... For roses and gardens are kindred things. |
Commonplace I stick smart weed and beggar lice in with my bouquet And then I smile when my friends begin to say, "How beautiful, how delicate, what can these blossoms be?" "Oh, yes," I say, "Oh, yes, but it takes one just like me To show you all that common things have beauty, charm and grace, .....But not until you see them stuck in a crystal vase." |
"Almost from the time the Ozarks region was first settled by intrepid pioneers, hill people have been looked down upon by outsiders. The isolation and difficult demands of life in the hills have shaped Ozark culture, but from the perspective of the outsider, hill people are almost always depicted as uncultured and unsophisticated. It is for this reason that the people of the area treasured the writings of Mary Elizabeth Mahnkey, who was born in the Ozarks in 1877. Beginning in the 1890's, first in local papers and later for regional and national publications, she wrote about Ozark life in a simple, honest voice, helping both the local people and the nation appreciate the beauty of Ozark values and traditions. Hers was the voice of a sensitive and cultured woman, native to the hills. Proud of her heritage, understanding of her neighbors, she presented a picture of the Ozarks that showed the pride, the beauty, the caring and the work ethic of the people. Her mission seemed to be to 'transform commonplace things into silver and gold,' so that her readers might see the beauty all around them." -- A History of Taney County, Missouri |
Priority There's a twickety-twock on the bridge, Uncle Andy is coming to mill On his old gray mule, so steady and true, from over yan side of the hill. The old gray mule lays back his ears at the sound of a motor horn, And a rich, powerful car whines down to a creep; serene, Uncle Andy rides on, Secure in his right-of-way. "Let'em toot, let'em cuss, I'm fust on the bridge.....An' I'm goin' to mill today." |
Illiterate He? .......and yet he sees Wild gnomes and harps in leafless trees And pale gold stars bend low to tell The secret of this strange, bright spell. |