Come gather round friends and I ll tell you a taleof when
the red iron pits ran a-plenty.
But the cardboard filled windows and old men on the benches
tell you now that the whole town is empty.
In the north end of town my own children are grownbut I
was raised on the other.
In the wee hours of youth my mother took sickand I was
brought up by my brother.
The iron ore poured as the years passed the doorthe drag
lines an the shovels they was a-humming.
Til one day my brother failed to come home the same as my
father before him.
Well a long winter s wait from the window I watched. My
friends they couldn t have been kinder.
And my schooling was cut as I quit in the spring to marry
John Thomasa miner.
Oh the years passed againand the givin was goodwith the
lunch bucket filled every season.
What with three babies bornthe work was cut down to a half
a day s shift with no reason.
Then the shaft was soon shutand more work was cutand the
fire in the airit felt frozen.
Til a man come to speakand he said in one week that
number eleven was closin .
They complained in the Eastthey are paying too high. They
say that your ore ain t worth digging.
That it s much cheaper down in the South American towns
where the miners work almost for nothing.
So the mining gates lockedand the red iron rottedand the
room smelled heavy from drinking.
Where the sadsilent song made the hour twice as long as I
waited for the sun to go sinking.
I lived by the window as he talked to himselfthis silence
of tongues it was building.
Then one morning s wakethe bed it was bareand I s left
alone with three children.
The summer is gonethe ground s turning coldthe stores
one by one they re a-foldin .
My children will go as soon as they grow. Wellthere ain t
nothing here now to hold them
Submitted by Stephen Sander
steve_sander@cacdsp.com
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