Comments about Ann Anderson
I strolled the quiet, shady lanes.
Watched the bubbling streams hurrying on their way over great white stones.
The streams, where as a boy I used to count the freckles on my nose in the clear reflection.
Looking on the far distant hills so tall.
Cattle gazing contently on the green slopes.
It was the close of another day.
The bright golden sun was shinning slowly out of sight.
The back of a dog.
The bray of a jackass somewhere in the stillness of the evening.
The sweet smell of honeysuckle, the call of a whipper will for his mate.
The old farmhouse with ...