The Voices of Spoon River Country
by Joe Helle 15th Generation
I have listened to the voice of the Cricket and Katydid at night,
The Whip-poor-will, urging the Farmer to "plant your corn, plant your corn,
The hoot of an owl, the cry of a coon dog on a trail,
A faraway dog barks at the sound
The lonely coyote sings on a high hill
In the distance the whistle of a steam locomotive as it comes to the valley
The angry voice of Spoon River as it rolls over the obstacles in its way
The soft voice of the smaller stream as it rolls along or finds its way over a beaver dam
With the dawn, the birds welcoming a new day,
The quail calling their brood together
The low of a cow as she awaits her feed and the milk bucket
The chatter of a squirrel as he tells the world of his joy and of the security of a hollow tree
The bleat of a lamb and the reassuring voice of a ewe
A frightened calf, and the bellow of a bull
The voice of an enraged sow as she comes to the aid of her offspring
The chuck, chuck of the male as he slobbers over his tusks
The cry of a wounded fawn and the shrill voice of a stallion A screaming hawk, high over head. These are but a few of the many voices of Spoon River Country.
In all of Spoon River, no other such a voice,
Yet at this time, silent this is not the mating call of the wild; rather a protest.
When heard, the squirrel ceases his chattering; the hawk circles even higher; the birds are silent.
The leaves of the trees tremble as this mighty voice begins to roll over the hills and in the valley, gaining momemtum on its way;
What is he saying? This is my story: For a thousand generations we have walked by your side and carried your burdens.
For ten thousand years we have labored for you. We are your servant. We are not your slave.
We will be heard and heard again and again.
In the valley a farmer with his mule team stops his plow and listens, the mules flick their long ears back and fourth; they do not know their Father's voice, their Mother was a percheron mare.
A small boy comes to his Father who wipes the sweat off his brow and drinks from an earthenware jug.
In a quavering voice he asks, "What was that?"
The Father slowly answers, "Sonny, you have heard a Jackass Bray."
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Spoon River Valley by Katie Gray 15th generation
There's a spot in old Spoon River Valley,
If I could only see the place once more
Where the dear old home stood
Away back in the woods
At the end of the lane so secure.
Just to hear the whip-poor-will
Softly calling from the hill
And the lonely screech owl's weird and mournful cry and the
wise old owl's "Whoo,whoo,"
Trying to call, "Who are you?"
And the hounds and coon dogs on their trail go by.
Chorus:
Take me back to the Spoon River Valley,
To my dear old home there among the trees;
I can close my eyes and see,
Things just like they used to be
Fields of grain a nodding in the breeze.
There we spent many happy childhood hours,
Along the banks among the trees and flowers
Swinging on the old grape vine,
Building Castles all the time.
In that dear old spot in Spoon River Valley.
note; Katie Gray was the daughter of Joesph and Mary (Helle) Gray
