Orleans County monitor. [volume] (Barton, Vt.) 1872-1953, 1877-10-01
THE FLIGHT OF SUMMER.

The Summer breezes have given their
last kiss of farewell. After an exist
ence as rich in its beauty as glorious in
apparel, the Summer passes away and
the season of poesy, pathos and song
takes its place. The songsters who but
a little while since made the air vocal
with their music have departed. 1t was
seemingly but yesterday that the June
of cowslip fields and woodbine clusters,
was given US. But they, too, have
come and gone, and the fruition of the
Summer is the promise of the Autumn.
And now downy seeds are flying in the
meadows, sowing themselves for the
next years resurrection the soft breezes
of September blow in the faded gardens,
while the whistle of the quail is heard
among the stubbled corn, the partridge
is already drumming in the forest, and
spiders wave at night their filmy laces.
Already the clustered grapes are turn
ing to royal purple, and the pollen
endusted bees are searching for the hon.
ey-drops which linger in the last bios
SONS of September. Who that has drunk
in all these inimitable sights and sounds
of Nature but is almost tempted to ex-
claim. so fairest Summer, stay!" But
the promise of seed time and harvest is
not more rich in assurance.
If it be true that all great joys are
serious, it is also true that in the pa
thos of the Autumn season there lie
power, a beauty and majesty unrivalled.
Not alone in its ripening fruit and
grain, its leaves burning in crimson and
gold, its pomp, pageant and feast does
the Autumn season come home to us.
But there comes to the hearts Of thought
full Christians the monition, 1--WE, too,
have our Autumns - and Tennyson has
given voice to the feeling in his lyric,
"Tears, Idle Tears" AS our eyes gaze
on the Autumn fields, the white billows
of buckwheat, the tasselIed ranks of the
corn, the brown burrows ready for the
grain, the vines thick clustering with
the grape, the meadows waiting for the
reaper's scythe to NOW the aftermath,
there steals over US something as s'from
the depths of some divine despair,
A telling of sadness and longing
That is not akin to pain.
And resembles sorrow only
An the mist resembles the rain.
These crystal cleaning mornings;
these superb Moons these slumberous,
tranquil afternoons, and these holy
nights, on which the stars look down in
their eternal youth,-how swiftly they
are going from US Yet We hear no
dirge in the drone of the cricket, in the
rhythm of the katydid, nor in the organ
peal of the wind as it sweeps over the
forests. Summer is gone-the bounti-
full, and grand, the maternal Summer
who has held US to her bosom, caressed
US into health and happiness. and rock
ed US to sleep in her arms. If we have
used Summer Alright We may smile at
her departure, and wait with cheerful
anticipation the days of naked branches
and driving snow. The sweetness she
has put in our hearts and the vitality
she has impaired to thought and purpose
can no more go out than the light Of
stars, which are throned above all vicis-
situdes of the changing seasons.-C Chris
tian at Work
Don't live single hour of your life
without doing exactly what ought to be
done in it, and going straight through
it from beginning to end.