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In the winter there was a fire in the grate in the sitting room, and at Christmas time we decorated a cedar tree, cut from some hillside and brought back to the house. The tree was put in the parlor, where there was no fire, and it was chilly. Aunt Pauline was a schoolteacher, and there was a crate of oranges for her pupils when they stopped by. I remember one New Year's Eve in particular. I was allowed to stay up to see the New Year in. I remember the soft light of the kerosene lamps and shadows from the fire dancing on the walls and ceiling. I sat on the floor and leaned back against my father's chair, struggling against sleep. Dad-Dad was snoring, Aunt Annie rustled the pages ofher newspaper, and the clock slowly ticked the time away. Such good feelings-such peace and love and warmth-such security and contentment. Perhaps goingbackhome is a lotlikebeing inheaven. There Are Hard Stretches Down the Bald Each mountainside has places where I crawl on hands and feet as laurels twist in shade to end abruptly upon a cliff face. But most of the time it seems, these mountains and hills, the long ridges lie in easy rolling, undulant curves. I can feel movement and life as I sit to rest and watch the play of blue shadows upon the greens of pine and oak. The air is rich and clean with the breath of tumbling water, foot worked humus, and fairy smells of dew, moss, and fernbrake. For a moment, I am a king, eating from a can of sardines, the mountain world stretched before like a woman in my bed.-John Cantey Knight 79 ...

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