Litchfield enquirer., 1853-10-13
Misceiiapg..
FAREWELL TO THE COUNTRY.
 BY HENRY WARD BEEcHER.
SALISBURY, Conn, Sept. l6, l

BY HEkRt WAkD BEEChEHs
 a.. sss. SALISBURY, Conn, Sept. l6, 1853 During two summers we have found home in this hill,country. We have explored it's localities in every direction. The outlines of it's horizon. it's peaks and headlands. its mountains and gorges. iss streams and valleys. have become familiar to US. IL is a sad feeling that we have in going away. Nature makes so many oreriurcs to those who love her. and stamps so many reme embrances of herself aupuasiheir affections. and draws forth to her bosom so much of our very self, that. at length. the fields, the hills, the trees. and the various waters. became a journal of our life. In riding over from Mile ton to Salisbury (six miles. for the last time. probably. for years. we could not but remark what a hold the face of the coun- try had got upon us. This round hill on the left, as we draw near the lakes. it Is our hill Hundreds of times we have greeted it. and been greeted we have bounded over 1t in imagination we have built under those trees. and welcomed friends to our air-cottage: we have sat at un-set. and looked forth, north. east. south and west, and harvested from each direction great stores of beauty and joy. As we wound around it's base. three quarters moon shining full and bright. the two lakes began to appear in silver spots through tie trees, until we reached the summit of. the road. and then they opened in full. and glimmered and shone as ws skirted their border. More benu iiful sheets of water. snd more beautiful hills from which to look at them one may search far without finding.
 During . few days absence, the first frost has fallen. The Reaper then has come! And this is the sharp sickle whose unwheiled edge will cut all before 1t l We had noticed the blood red dogwood in the forests, and few vines that blnshed at full length, with here and there ma pie, in swamp lands, that were prema- turely taking bright colors. But now ell things will hasten. Two weeks, and less, will bring October. That is the painted month. Every green thing loves .o di' | in bright colors. The vegetable cohorts march out Of the year in glowing. flaming dresses. as if to leave the earth were 2 triumph and not q sadness. lt is no nature ever that is sad but only we. ll,a dare not look back on lhe past. and thai have not her psophecy of the future iI our bosoms. Men sill sit down beneath the shower of golden leaves that every puff of wind sill soon cast down in 6eld and forest. and remember the days ol first summer. and the vigor of young lsayes--wilI mark the bougbs growing bare. and the increasing spots aniong the thickest trees. through which the heavens every day do more and more appeaf, as their leaves grow fewer and none spring again to repaif the waste, and sigh that the summer passeth and the winter com. eth. How many suggestions of his oun life and decay. will one fnd s3s s8ss But there is as mnch life in autumn as death, and as much creation and gsowth as passing away. Every 6over has left iis honse fuIl Of seeds. No leaf haf dropped unlil . bud vas born 10 it, Already another year is hidden along the houghs: another snmmeF is secure among the declining Aopers. Along che hanka the green heart-shaped leaves of the \ violet tell me that t is nll well ~ the sooi, and in turning tke soiI I lind those spring lbsauliss Ghat died. so ha only sleeping. HsesA taBs eouEagsi What shs hsAf'