The weekly north Iowa times. [volume] (McGregor, Iowa) 1857-1867, 1863-06-24

AACSc a. uHc 1Dayss
The days of our lives arc set like the flo.
ures on a clock face--in a circ,e-and VIC
are the minute hands that keep coming
round to them. We preserve the great
error of Ptolcmy when we say of day,
"it has come again." for there is nothing
clearer than that we go to the dav, and
the day does not return. In childhood
we mark the honrs; in manhood the
minutes, and in age the seconds; we creep
in the morning; we run at noon; we fly
at night. ......
To one riding rapidly in a railroad car
the objects at the verge of the horizon
seem slowly coming round to meet him at
some Station on beyond; but turning his
eyes upon the white mile posts nearer home,
he discovers that he is leaving the world
every instant behind HIM theirs is the
apparent motion, but his is the real. SO
it is with the days Of our lives.
Soon we will reach the close of June
once more, despite the clouds and rains, and
keen north winds by the way.
The year has come glorouSly on; the
groves are Frightening into beauty the
meadows have kept on growing steadily
green; the annual clock is OH the stroke of
twelve and, we aoish we might add, the
world is, AL WELL !"
Talk as we will of leadcn footed Spring,
June comes earlier every year, and makes
an angels larry. Why have they set LIES
flowery stations nearer than of old, that now
they glitter by, as il the Winters were a
rowwhite .rellis they were passing; the
Summers, but leaf and vine between?
"Rained,' has il? 1t is time, one would
think, that people learned such phenomena
are not matters Of chance-tha, Heaven
does not spring leak, like a fishing smack
by accident. The moisture that goes up
there, must come down sOmeUhere-pcr-
haps here, may be yonder. The winds
drift aerial cargoes this way and that until,
by and by, there is an equitable distribution
Of the crystal element, and it blesses US all,
even as does the light. .....
We have grumbled and found fault all
along, and it is about time we began to he
ashamed of it.
''But, then, the wheat looks badly here
and there" 1t dces-does? Well, it is a
marvel that we erer have any such thing as
wheat at all; that the little grass we call
wheat should ever be the staff that life leans
upon and grows strong; reared upon a
slender stem, and clothed in the filmy armor
OF "A husk, it springs and ripens in a hostile
world. The eager air; the tattered, beg.
garry winter, with its keen demands the
beetles long nosed cousin, the wcevl !;
rust" that dims the grains fine gold ran
that beats it down into matted bed of rich,
luxuriant death; with these, and more, for
foes, how rank and green it grows from
year to year, quickcns the merry play of
HaflS fEn M. ,-s
The grateful throbb:ng of unnu.nbered
hearts. - 81
And what we make of 1.-THE little ioaves
that grace our tables was deemed worthy
place in that petition Of the LORD Of
Glory, for every best thing that is worth. a
prayer, and against every evil that deserves
fear, i've us this day our daily bread"
and though least Of all the grains of the earth
furnishes forth the tables of more than half
the world!
Summer is in sight. In few days, this
vii! be true picture: close by the wall
rustles rose-tree blushing with bursting
buds; the apple trees upon the glossy slope,
like SO many Aliases, bear whole conste!-
lations of green plants the rank clover
sprinkled thick with red blossoms, waves
like sea in the wind; the ranks of corn
salute the day with their graceful blades,
and glitter in the sun the bees go to and
fro, with murmuiing sound of joy, and
float in clouds about their humble cottages :;
a flock of sheep is coming up the bank of
the lily covered lake, white from the wash.
ing; the plough is going in the dark rich
field; the robins are calling TO each other
in the orchard the sparrow is warblng its
little soLg, as sweet as pleasant memory :;
the swallows lwitter in and out at the
diamond light in The old gray barn, for
every generous barn wears such jewel !;
the nest of the Orioln swings like ham
mock from the pensle elm; the blue bird
has filled its wicker cup with song, that
shall proclaim to some glad ear another
Spring, and fill an Angels place; the soft
sweet note of the goldfnch floats from it's
lcaly covert, where between the riffs of
green Won see q alyam of cold