Ashtabula telegraph. (Ashtabula, Ohio) 1874-1880, 1877-09-14
The Years Mutation,


The Years Mutation,
Already when the day begins 10
wane we feel the cool and grateful
breath of September waited through
the severing shreds of fiery and
dreaded August. Old Sol grows
fierce at noOn-day, fighting to main
tain his foothold up towards the ze-
NTH, but every morning he rises to
a shortened journey, and his path
way is further do gn the slope whose
glittering stairways lead to the foot
of the Southern Cross. He burns and
blazes at noon-day, flaming over in
his wrath, but his Indignation, fall
ing more and more aslant the blue
empyrean, carries less dismay than
when he lOrded it high over Capri
corn and smote the harvests with his
sceptre till they shone in the golden
garnlture OF perfect death.
1he evening winds that now come
up from the glowing portals of the
sunset blow the aerial cobwebs out
OF the azure vault, and the stars be-
GIN once more to shine with their
old-tlme splendOr, and dance their
sclntlllating measures to the high
cholred music of the universe. Stars
and consultations that were dimmed
or wholly hidden for months, once
more smile out of the eternal depths
of space, greeting US like old friends
or coming to us like the memories of
almost forgotten dreams. Already
at twilight the faint outlines of the
ZOdiacaI columns may be discerned,
stretching away from the purple and
orange of the joyous West until
their delicate tracery is lost in the
ashen-gray of the regretful East.
''Change" is written everywhere
from the green gray grasses of wold
and woodland to the planets and the
fixed stars. And with the change of
season the Summer tourists return,
only too happy too get back to the
scenes that erstwhile seemed so dull
and irksome, and sit beneath the
benehcent ministrations of the lares
and penates that guard the altar of
home, and whose plenteous hands
supply life's corn and wine. But
why should the Dleasure-seekers
come home now? or rather, whv
should they enter the Summers fur
mace In search of enjoyment? Now
is the season of Natures magnif-
cence, beyond the pale and smoke
grlmed and crime-infected cities.
Now is the time when she spreads
her table, filled with the wonders
that smote the vision of the dream
ing prophet when the angel COM
manded, "Arise and eat!" Already
we begin to behold the rounded full
ness of the year-the fulfllment of
the promise that has descended
through all the centuries and made
up the chorus, "when the morning
stars sang together" With one foot
upon the green carpet of the fading
Summer and the other upon the edge
of Winters rime-festooned grave,
Nature smiles as she bursts into the
magnifcence of her destined perfec-
tion. And there is enjoyment fol
poet and plodder everywhere in field
and valley and on hill and mountain
Soon the orchards will blush beneath
Autumn's fervid kisses, and already
the royal sumac has donned its Grim
son plumes, the chestnut has put Oh
its first spangles of gold and the ma.
pie rouged her dimpled cheeks with
carnation. The orchestra of all out
doOrsis in full tune at nightfall, with
the stately katy-did as maestro and
the giant beetle as violincelist.
Ere the Harvest satellite wanes tc
curved thread of silver and gives
place to the Hunters Moon, full.
hearted Autumn, "with her hail
afiame, " will De upon us, and we will
be in the midst of Natures perfec.
tion and enjoyment. Wise are they
who will then lay down the cares of
life and flee from dusty pave and
dingy wall into the outside world OF
wondrous beauty. A Summer trip
was but an illusion, a snare to the
feet of the unwary vino went forth
to swelter in fashionable society and
dawdle over ices that furnish forth
a Winters indigestion. An Autumn
jaunt is the only earthly foretaste of
Paradise, where the callow beauty
of Spring is set in the perennial per
lection of the finished year.
Spring is the time for experiment
tai love; Summer the season for rue
and lotus; but Autumn is the period
for perfect sentiment. Then one can
realize, as the countless beauties OF
the twilight gather, the inspiration
that seized the bard who wrote:
Move eastward, happy earth, and leave
Yon orange sunset waning slow;
From fringes of the faded eve,
Oh happy planet, eastward go;
Till over thy dark shoulder glow
= Thy silver sister-world, and rise
To glass herself in dewy eyes
That watch me from the glen below.
Let the unwise Summer tourists
come home. The wise ones will now