Prescott journal. [volume] (Prescott, Wis.) 1861-1871, 1861-09-18
Written for the JOURNAL.
Thoughts of the Summer.

sunshine have seemed to pass away so
swiftly that we can scarce believe that
months have come and gone since we
hung with such delight over the first pale
flowerets of the spring. We cannot re-
alize that summer is gone; as we refuse
TO take into our hearts the cruel truth
that one we love is dead-though we
have witnessed the changes of nature
that should have prepared us for the end.
The violets faded, and roses doomed, as
fresh and sweet as if they were newly
created, and had not come every June
upon this old earth, so torn by strife and
revolution. But the roses are gone, and
we miss many other flowers from bluff
and prairie.
We saw on yonder gently sloping hill
side the tender green of young grain
when it first shot up above the ground ;
and we rested our ewes there when it
stood in its midsummer glory, waving in
long undulating lines, with combinations
of light and shade beautiful beyond de.
scription.
One can sit on sunny afternoon,
watching those fitting shadows-give
free scope to fancy, and wander in day
dreams away from the everyday world
into realms of fairy where everything is
bright and fair.
A perfect picture was this field of wa
wing grain, and we liked it none the less
when delicate tinge of golden brown
stole over it, growing darker and darker
day by day, until one morning we saw
Il e harvesters busy there; and it had the
charm of richer suggestiveness when the
field was dotted with brown sheayes.
This short summer was yet long e.
nough to bring abundant reward to the
farmers toil-and, alas; while the sun
was ripening the golden harvest to feed
the nations it shone on other fields wet
with blood, where grim and terrible
Reaper with flashing sickle gathered to
his garner youth and manhood, hope and
| pride.
The summer hours have been filled
with mourning and still the same voice
is heard on Northern hills and in homes
Of the South, for pressing the cold sod,
are many brows upon which every lock
was known to some loving fingers, MANLY
forms upon which tender eyes looked
proudly not long ago, and hands that
were wont to win bread for little ones
now orphaned.
And still the bright waters ripple in
the sunlight, still the joyous birds chirp
and twitter in their fragrant cups in every
nook of the glad green earth. No look
of pity in the smiling sky, no sigh of sor-
| row among the whispering trees, no
knell for the departed from the pendulous
harebells that swing in every breeze.
Nature perfects her work though the
children of earth are perishing; and we
rejoice that her great plan cannot be dis
tnrbed by the deeds of men. To those
| who mourn, it sometimes seems pitiless
mockery that summer should smile, and
the soft air be glad with the music of my
riads of tiny creatures, when faces that
were the light of life are vanished from
mortal sight; that flowers should bloom
and leaves dance, when eyes that loved
to look on them are closed forever upon
earthly beauty; yet who weuld have the
brightness of June dimmed by shadow
| of human sorrows. Nature woes all with
| a thousand voices to her haunts of glad
ness: she speaks of holy things to hearts
that are free from care, and she has a
priceless balm for grief. Who ofus, that
have wept, and have gone forth and yiel-
ded ourselves to her mysterious inhuen-
ces, and listened for spirit-whispers from
boughs or waves, have not found half the
bitterness of our tears taken awaya
De Quincy, that subtle analyzer Of g.
motions, says that the thought of death is
more profoundly affecting in summer than
in any other season; and speaks of the
antagonsim between the exuberance of
life in this holiday time of the year and
the wintry sterility of the grave-the glo-
ry around us, and the darkness within us;
Yet if one we love must die may it be in
summer. May roses give their sweetness
to the couch, and may the looks ofthe dy-
ing one behold the highest loneliness Of
the lower world e'er the spirit passes to
its happier home.
We are glad that they were the winds
of summer that waited to us, across the
Atlantic the sorrowful tidings of thedeath
of Mrs. Browning-glad that her last
glance upon the land Of her love and her
sdoption saw it in its fairest garb--glad
that all who have been thrille! by her
lofty words may read now of white flow
ers strown upon her new made grave;
thay who love her in her native England
where they mourn her as in Italy; which
weeps for her whose heart was in its cause,
no less than for the great statesman they
have lately lost; and in America. which
paws heartfelt tributes to her genius, tho
# is vet echoing the laments of our own
honored Ellsworth, and our gallant Win
throp.
The summer that has left us saw
some mournful things-death, battle, and
bloodshed; yet the days have floated
brightly by, ieavingwith us pleasant mem
ories. and enduring pictures. We rejoice
in the summer, and are glad to think thst
it will come again in its time. Some
who greeted it's last coming will be miss
ing then; yet it will be welcomed joyous
w. Snowy clouds will sail over land
scapes rich with harvest fields, leafy
branches will nod at each other, ani but