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Milking Time

Milking Time by WINIFRED KIRKLAND springtime the milking hour is the most them too it is the happiest hour of the beautiful of all the day. The cow yard twenty-four--Ma Duncan, my farmhouse stretches off and away up the mountain, hostess, and fifteen-year-old Mabel, her fading into the mysterious brown shadow of the forest, against which the dogwood breaks in a filmy lace of white. Just on the other side of the fence runs the sheep "least one," as the mountain people say of a youngest child. Ma Duncan eludes the snapshot of any pen. She is lean, keen, To one under the spell of a Cumberland my two boon comrades to share it, for to pasture, strewn with gray boulders. Gray and glimmering like the stones, the sheep go cropping. Below on the slope toward the hidden creek bed lies the orchard. The gypsy-eyed and gypsy-hearted, the mother of eight of her own blood and body, and a mother in Israel, after her own highly individual fashion, to all the mountain. To photograph Ma Duncan one needs a phoarms in a wind-blown dance: "Now what but a God could have made all that beau- pear trees are fountains of http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

by WINIFRED KIRKLAND springtime the milking hour is the most them too it is the happiest hour of the beautiful of all the day. The cow yard twenty-four--Ma Duncan, my farmhouse stretches off and away up the mountain, hostess, and fifteen-year-old Mabel, her fading into the mysterious brown shadow of the forest, against which the dogwood breaks in a filmy lace of white. Just on the other side of the fence runs the sheep "least one," as the mountain people say of a youngest child. Ma Duncan eludes the snapshot of any pen. She is lean, keen, To one under the spell of a Cumberland my two boon comrades to share it, for to pasture, strewn with gray boulders. Gray and glimmering like the stones, the sheep go cropping. Below on the slope toward the hidden creek bed lies the orchard. The gypsy-eyed and gypsy-hearted, the mother of eight of her own blood and body, and a mother in Israel, after her own highly individual fashion, to all the mountain. To photograph Ma Duncan one needs a phoarms in a wind-blown dance: "Now what but a God could have made all that beau- pear trees are fountains of

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 1976

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