- The Lucky Stone - Lexile® Find a Book | MetaMetrics Inc.
- The Lucky Stone (Yearling Book)
- Lucky stone
Frances Phillips introduces Lucille Clifton, who introduces then reads "homage to my hips. She discusses how she writes and reads for children, then reads an excerpt from her children's book, The Lucky Stone. She talks about her father and the things he'd say to her, and tells the story of her lineage from a slave, Caroline Donald, to her grandfather, then reads a section of her book Generations: A Memoir beginning, "Yes, Lord, he was born with a withered arm Tags: african american hair , african american poets , atlantic ocean , atlantic slave trade , baptist church , black women poets , black women writers , boa editions , buddha , california , cayuga , children , children's books , dahomey , history , human body , internment , lucille clifton , native americans , santa cruz, california , siddhartha , slavery , sons , the four tops , the middle passage , university of massachusetts press , women poets , women writers Added to Poetry Center Digital Archive on August 22, Dungy and Javier Zamora: September 28, There are not yet any comments on this bundle.
Be the first to comment! The east bank of the road shelved suddenly.
It dropped below him twenty feet to a spring. The bank was dense with magnolia and loblolly bay, sweet gum and gray-barked ash. He went down to the spring in the cool darkness of their shadows. A sharp pleasure came over him. This was a secret and a lovely place. A spring as clear as well water bubbled up from nowhere in the sand. It was as though the banks cupped green leafy hands to hold it. There was a whirlpool where the water rose from the earth.
The Lucky Stone - Lexile® Find a Book | MetaMetrics Inc.
Grains of sand boiled in it. Beyond the bank, the parent spring bubbled up at a higher level, cut itself a channel through white limestone and began to run rapidly down-hill to make a creek. John's River, the great river flowed northward and into the sea. It excited Jody to watch the beginning of the ocean. There were other beginnings, true, but this one was his own. He liked to think that no one came here but himself and the wild animals and the thirsty birds.
He was warm from his jaunt. The dusky glen laid cool hands on him. He rolled up the hems of his blue denim breeches and stepped with bare dirty feet into the shallow spring. His toes sank into the sand. It oozed softly between them and over his bony ankles.
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The water was so cold that for a moment it burned his skin. Then it made a rippling sound, flowing past his pipe-stem legs, and was entirely delicious. He walked up and down, digging his big toe experimentally under smooth rocks he encountered. A school of minnows flashed ahead of him down the growing branch. He chased them through the shallows. They were suddenly out of sight as though they had never existed. He crouched under a bared and overhanging live-oak root where a pool was deep, thinking they might reappear, but only a spring frog wriggled from under the mud, stared at him, and dove under the tree root in a spasmodic terror.
He laughed. A breeze parted the canopied limbs over him. The sun dropped through and lay on his head and shoulders.
The Lucky Stone (Yearling Book)
It was good to be warm at his head while his hard calloused feet were cold. The breeze died away; the sun no longer reached him. He waded across to the opposite bank where the growth was more open. A low palmetto brushed him. It reminded him that his knife was snug in his pocket; that he had planned as long ago as Christmas, to make himself a flutter-mill.
He had never built one alone. Grandma Hutto's son Oliver had always made one for him whenever he was home from sea.
He went to work intently, frowning as he tried to recall the exact angle necessary to make the mill-wheel turn smoothly. He cut two forked twigs and trimmed them into two Y's of the same size. Oliver had been very particular to have the cross-bar round and smooth, he remembered. A wild cherry grew half-way up the bank. He climbed it and cut a twig as even as a polished pencil.
He selected a palm frond and cut two strips of the tough fiber, an inch wide and four inches long. He cut a slit lengthwise in the center of each of them, wide enough to insert the cherry twig. The strips of palm frond must be at angles, like the arms of a windmill. He adjusted them carefully. He separated the Y-shaped twigs by nearly the length of the cherry cross-bar and pushed them deep into the sand of the branch bed a few yards below the spring. The water was only a few inches deep but it ran strongly, with a firm current.
The palm-frond mill-wheel must just brush the water's surface. He experimented with depth until he was satisfied, then laid the cherry bar between the twigs. It hung motionless. He twisted it a moment, anxiously, helping it to fit itself into its forked grooves. The bar began to rotate. The current caught the flexible tip of one bit of palm frond. By the time it lifted clear, the rotation of the bar brought the angled tip of the second into contact with the stream. The small leafy paddles swung over and over, up and down.
The little wheel was turning. The flutter-mill was at work. It turned with the easy rhythm of the great water-mill at Lynne that ground corn into meal.
Jody drew a deep breath. He threw himself on the weedy sand close to the water and abandoned himself to the magic of motion. Up, over, down, up, over, down—the flutter-mill was enchanting. The bubbling spring would rise forever from the earth, the thin current was endless.
The spring was the beginning of waters sliding to the sea. Unless leaves fell, or squirrels cut sweet bay twigs to drop and block the fragile wheel, the flutter-mill might turn forever. When he was an old man, as old as his father, there seemed no reason why this rippling movement might not continue as he had begun it.