Sunset Valley
By A.C. Pinkney
The very name is suggestive of green trees, glowing skies
and blue, blue hills!
One afternoon in late September we took the trail to Sunset
Valley—along a road of clay so red it seemed to have a reflected glow which was
no doubt caused by the ardent kisses of old Sol, who is at his best in the
mountains. We passed a few mountain cabins, with their over-flowing inmates and
bright hued flowers. Next appeared a quaint old farmhouse with a view
calculated to broaden the narrow soul on every side.
After some miles of road, lined with tall sentinels of
graceful queen of the meadow, golden rod and deep purple iron weed, we came
around a sharp curve and the old mill came into view. The old mill, there gray
in the distance, with its great wooden wheel, so suggestive of latent power! A
few yards further and our ears caught the trinkling (what was written) of
running water, one of nature’s offerings to man—and surely no sweeter sound can
come to human ears! Just before we reached the mill, we stopped to examine the
great hand-bellows and forge, relics of primitive days—bringing up pictures of
the times when man indeed earned his bread by the sweat of his brow. We walked
on for a distance, ascending a hill, at the top of which we turned and beheld
“Sunset Valley” in all its glory, a green knob in the foreground, with cattle
grazing peacefully, the old mill in all its picturesque beauty, and beyond, and
always beyond the dim, mysterious hills, rising higher and ever higher, until
they seemed to touch the sky.
The streams go safely flowing down
to Sunset Valley!
Nothing earthly seems to frown
On Sunset Valley.
The winds are cool and soft and sweet
In Sunset Valley;
The wild flowers gather at your feet
In Sunset Valley.
The old world seems so far away
In Sunset Valley;
Oh! I could worship every day
In Sunset Valley.
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