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Milking Time

Milking Time Winifred Kirkland Appalachian Heritage, Volume 4, Number 4, Fall 1976, pp. 5-7 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1976.0014 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/443312/summary Access provided at 20 Feb 2020 00:33 GMT from JHU Libraries Milking Time by WINIFRED KIRKLAND To one under the spell of a Cumberland my two boon comrades to share it, for to 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 "least one," as the mountain people say of of the forest, against which the dogwood a youngest child. Ma Duncan eludes the breaks in a filmy lace of white. Just on the snapshot of any pen. She is lean, keen, other side of the fence runs the sheep gypsy-eyed and gypsy-hearted, the mother pasture, strewn with gray boulders. Gray of eight of her own blood and body, and and glimmering like the stones, the sheep a mother in Israel, after her own highly go cropping. Below on the slope toward 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
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

Winifred Kirkland Appalachian Heritage, Volume 4, Number 4, Fall 1976, pp. 5-7 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1976.0014 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/443312/summary Access provided at 20 Feb 2020 00:33 GMT from JHU Libraries Milking Time by WINIFRED KIRKLAND To one under the spell of a Cumberland my two boon comrades to share it, for to 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 "least one," as the mountain people say of of the forest, against which the dogwood a youngest child. Ma Duncan eludes the breaks in a filmy lace of white. Just on the snapshot of any pen. She is lean, keen, other side of the fence runs the sheep gypsy-eyed and gypsy-hearted, the mother pasture, strewn with gray boulders. Gray of eight of her own blood and body, and and glimmering like the stones, the sheep a mother in Israel, after her own highly go cropping. Below on the slope toward

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

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