Tom Snow was a miser and scrooge and they said he still had half of every penny he ever made. Tom was a jolly little man, always a speaking and doffing his danged derby hat. Tom raised goats, three different kinds they were, all for his wife Catherine to make into thread and use for making sweaters, coats and such.

But old Tom had another odd habit; he put bells on all of his critters. “Me bellwethers the goats each with a different tone and the cows and horse; why even me own dogs,” he said. Also he had a small kiln, always trying to make church bells, but they always seemed to crack.

You go by his place on an average day and all you could hear were bells a clanging. High-pitched ones for the chickens and cat, way-low ones for the horses and oxen. Even the dogs knew which tone was which as they took care of the cows and the sheep.

But down the road from old Tom lived three families of the worst shanty Irish. And they did not enjoy the sounds of the bells. One night they got into their cups and snuck up and changed all the bells.

One dog had a deep bell another a high one; the cat's bell was on the cow and the bellwether goat’s horns on the chickens. Old tom got up and heard the noises and by lunch he was running wild across the heath as the odd bells did drive him crazy. So if you ever are near the border and see a name, “Crazy Tom Dale,” you will know exactly where you are.

© By Tom (tomWYO@aol.com)






(with thanks to Edgar Allan Poe whose poem by the same name provided my inspiration)


I have pretty tinkling crystal bells
On display in my living room
Their sound is pure and clear
And it chases away all gloom.


The firetruck bell has a shrill sound
As it races and rings its alarm
It's the sound of valour and bravery
Protecting us all from harm.


The church bells vibrate and toll
Calling us to worship our God
Reminding us to be faithful and true
Before we're deep under the sod.


The doorbell chimes a welcome
To everyone who visits my home
Ding, ding, dong, dong it echoes
And that's the end of my poem.



© By Frannie (Frannie516@comcast.net)








Mrs. Bellwater was hanging
Out her wash on the clothes line
When that old Church bell began to
Chime time after time after time


The bell tower was in full swing
With the work of the bell ringer
Mrs. Bellwater wondered if
He would wear out the bell dinger


Finally those bells stopped chiming
But she still heard it in her ear
Then she noticed the cow bell ding
When her cow Bessie came near



© By Sharon (Sunyskys1943@aol.com)





The Senator and the Sheep



The bells rang out on their wedding day.
It was a lovely day on the farm no matter what the other sheep farmers had to say.



He was a Missouri senator that was in tune to the Missouri bellwether, just a coincidence that he owned a herd of sheep as well.
The other farmers were jealous due to his wealth, and when they heard of his marriage said, "Do tell".



Old Miss Totum was the bell ringer of the little village surrounded by farms as far as you could see.
I mean, she was a busybody that most people wanted to flee.



Oh, she was there every time the church bells would ring.
She always had a cutting remark that left a little sting.



There weren't any cow bells in the area, only sheep you know,
And the farmers only expected to reap what they did sow.



On the Senator's farm was a high bell tower that could be seen for miles.
A lot of the local folk used it for a landmark, And it brought a few smiles.



You see, it was painted a bright shade of purple with stripes of green.
Old Miss Totum thought it obscene.



The old ram of the farm was drawn to that tower and would lead the flock right to its door.
Inside was a large bedding area for the flock with nice straw on a dirt floor.



The Senator lived well with his new bride and sheep for many a year.
If you like this story, feel free to let out a cheer.
Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera



© By Phyllis Ann (Starbird55@comcast.net)








"Is that the doorbell? or is the phone ringing?"
Maybe the postman a package is bringing.
Could be the cats...or maybe wind chimes.
Or the clock that dings out the times.


Might be the car alarm from next door.
Ask not who the bells ring for...
All the noise of ringing things,
Stifles the canary, who no longer sings!



© By Swampetta (SWAMPETTA@aol.com)







Goodbye, Grandpa



How doleful the bells,
They rang well the sound
Of Largo, "Goin' Home."
To say "Goodbye."


To say "Goodbye,"
The mourners cried
For a little blind woman's
Lover.


‘Twas a lovely day,
Not far away, cried
The old Scotsman's
Granddaughter.


Too young was she
Thought the family,
In a car must wait.
She heard the bells.


She heard the bells,
She knew why.



© By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)








This title, Bells, has me remembering an experience I had when I was in the sixth grade, and living in rural WV. I had a girlfriend who lived down the road from the school, in a one-story house (with a loft ) on top of the hill. It was right before school was out for the summer and she invited me to go home with her and spend the night. She had an unusual name, I thought. Her name was Nondus.

Nondus had three older brothers, all single and still living at home. They were a farm family and grew their own food. They raised their own livestock and were pretty much self-sufficient.

Nondus's mother was a wonderful cook and she prepared a delicious meal that evening. I even remember what she put on the table: chicken and dumplings, mashed potatoes, gravy and string beans. The family was religious and the father asked the blessing before we ate. Plus, there was Bible reading and prayer that night before the family went to bed. They didn't have electricity, so everything was by lamplight.

This is the bell part. When supper was ready, Nondus's mother went out the back door to a post in the yard, and hanging on the post was a dinner bell. She clanged it a good while and it wasn't long until the sons and the father came in for supper. They had a wash room outside the kitchen and each one washed their face and arms before they came to the table.

As I wrote in the beginning, I was in the sixth grade. It was a long time ago, but that experience is still in my memory. I can still hear the dinner bell.


© By Marilyn (LaraOct7@aol.com)





 

 

 

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