In an old country store, way back in the hills

Sits a cast iron stove for winter's chills

What tales you'd hear if this stove could speak

Of life's daily toils on high mountain peaks.

As a youngster I'd sit by that stove so black

Now memories flow in as my mind slips back

Of the lonely folks who came by that store

And told their tales of mountain lore.

Tales of love, revenge and hate

Of births, death and the Pearly Gates

You'd hear about honor, debts and pride

Of moonshine stills and life's backward slide.

You'd hear about care for friends in need

Of Sunday-go-to meetings and sinful greed

Tales about lovers, and broken hearts

Of winners, losers and lives torn apart.

Tales about winters, the snow and sleet

Of Spring in the mountains and summer's heat

You'd hear about fishing and country fairs

Of snowslides, rockslides and killer bears.

You'd hear about ghosts with mournful shrieks

Of lovers who leaped off frozen peaks

All this and more is in its keep

If only that cast iron stove could speak.

 - Gracie E. Buck -