The Bolivar bulletin. [volume] (Bolivar, Hardeman County, Tenn.) 1865-1888, 1879-10-02
The First Fire.


Nobody ever feels that summer is quite
long enough, that it is quite time for it
when the early dark draws down and
cuts short the once long day; and when
the cool autumn dusk appears, most of
US sympathize with those who speak of
heaven under no other name than that
of the Summer Land. For whatever
pleasures of its own there may be in the
coming imprisonment of winter, they
are still, in strong measure, the pleas
ures of imprisonment, while summer, on
the other hand, is one long freedom.
One hardly tires of the large outdoor
life in its infinite variety, the going and
coming at will, the liberty of costume,
the abounding verdure and bloom, the
unrestricted enjoyment of breeze and
bird and stars of the warm neaFness
and friendliness of the moon in OppOsi-
ton to its wintTy cold remoteness; of
the water life in skiffs and yachts, in the
surf and on lily pOnds-of all the prodi-
gality of air and sunshine. And who, in
all the myriads of human beings, has
ever pictured heaven as any place of
rugs and lamps and fires, or as any thing
but land of everlasting summer?
We make the most of winter; we are
happy in it; we see an immensely of
OCtuby us flNlu ttobo VI
snow and azure, its web-like traceTy of
bare boughs and purple sprays, its frost
ferns on the frozen pane, its ice blocks
riven by restless tides, its white whirl of
storms, and we think of the round earth
then as winged dazzle among the stars.
But when we have admired our most,
we can never make any idealizatiOn of
it into heavenly state, but the majority
of us, on the contrary, agree with
Dante's ideas in making ice and snow
and freezing blasts the inner circle and
pivotal point of the last place of punish
ment.
Yet, for all that, what a singular
charm there is about the first fire of
wood laid on the hearth, herald as it is
of the cold Imprisonment, laid there not
any more for its heat than for its necro-
mantle power of dispelling gloom when
the weather begins to shiyer, and its de-
preston begins to overcome ourselves.
How we welcome it, as if it were an old
friend long gone and just returned!
How we gather about it, and rejoice in
it, How late we inger about it, how we
open our hearts over it, as if thoughts
and feelings were thawed out by its
genial spell! and how heedlessly we as
sist, as its sacrificial flames wallOw up
the chimney, at the funeral rites of sum-
mer!
Still, after all, that first fire, tumbling
wave over wave up and out into the up
per darkness, is the concentrated essence
of the spice and sweetness of what count
less summers! What years of sunshine
and dew have gone to the growth of the
wood whose embers cTumble from the
andirons as we bend over them! The
spirit and being of how many mornings
of brightness are condensed there in
stem and branch! of what mOOn-lighted
evenings What red sunrises have glis-
tened in the dark dew that fed it What
bird-song has measured the rhythm of
its increase! what gentle evening winds
nave swayed it! what lovers have leaned
against it! what storms have bowed and
bent it, And as it burns before us, and
drops away into white ashes, what COM
prehensiOn and memory of all this
sparkle in every fresh burst of the flame,
in every dying coal, and diffUse them
selves about us, and make that first lit
tie autumn fire to US the expression and
ideal embodiment of perpetual summer!
.-HaTDer'S BGzdr.