Kenosha tribune & telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1856-1859, 1858-02-25
sa4sk From the Chicago Journal.
H0M MADE CHIPS.
By B. F. TAYLOR.

j \ Feffsy Hf5ft f5Itsa5s -tts
j Great grief is not chime nor yet i
it sweet bells iingled out of tune : 1t i
4 generally dumb, or, if not dnmb, thel
4 the next hing thereto-it is monosyl
{ liable. 342 Es1est esai's
] The plough, the press, and the Van
kee are bound to go together around The
4 world. When the last makes "a claim
/ he begins by guiding the first, and set
| ting up the second, and straightwaybe
j comes State. s45ix581 aae1,5 i
4 1T is wonderful how songs forgotten
by the world, viii sometimes rise again
like the swelling tones of Eolian harps
beneath the fingers of the waking wind;
fhow they will rise again, and lay melo-
dious claim to immortality.
They who are much with nature any
where, viii catch its spirit and utter its
language; and if that Nature be kindly
and close under the sun, thought and
heart viii share its sky, the sparkle OF
its sea and the enamelled beauty of its
sail. ar,a BIG
Can you tell why it is that the tho't
of anything lovely and departed, sug-
gests the music of bells?, Why their mel
odyis articulate with passing away
passing away" Why they ring back, a
way back in the years that are gone.a-
way off in the dear dim yesterdays ofthe
soul |? t.9A
There have been few men who
Were a pendulum stwixt smile and a
tear where sunshine and rain were ev-
er. making an April in the soul, and
binding the clouds like sheaves ofgrain,
with bright bands of the rainbow: men
| for whom and with whom, one hardly
knows whether to smile or to sigh. q
A very beautiful provision of Nature
| is it, when Death has done his worst
with us, and sealed lips that shall never
more be parted; when the summer winds
have borne away upon their wanton
wings the dust we have so often clasped,
and fanciedi to be ourselves; when Time
has turned to sand and sifted through
his hour-glass, the mansions we have
builded; ssand tho't would last till dooms.
day." a very beautiful provision it is,
we say, that sometimes that second i'm
mortalityswe longed to leave, is confded
to a NAME. 9qae M eF Nn rE
1t is little humiliating, perhaps, that
a syllable, a ripple in the air, should
bear our memory on to other days
should be all that is left of us; but, so,
indeed it often is, and this idle word,
this empty name, alone floats away in
to the future, like little fleece of clouds
betokening all the tempest Of life that
has passed, its great clouds gorgeous
with hopes, or gold and crimson in the
sun. 9H.f3 t4lt"
- : ttt-ti-t1 s., 49, zIsi q pa.
b Its very pleasant and proper thing
is the man who can indulge in the lux
ury, now and then, of having none at
all who can give over, at intervals, the
steeple-ehase of the world, and have
heart holiday; pass his hand across his
brow and wipe out the wrinkles, and
so reverse life's engine and be boy a.
gain.
1t would be like wandering out in
beautiful day without knowing where
one was going. Shall it be the stream,
the hill, the wood? Shall we lie here
in the shade, or creep there in the straw
berry meadow !? And then, the delight
Of thinking, no matter which, and oflet-
ting our feet waneer as they will, and
finding ourselves after all, watching the
bumble-bees among the thistle blossoms
by the-road side.