Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1881-11-12
The Dying Year.

AUTUMN THOUGHTS ON THE SOLEMN HUSH OF
NATURE BY THE SAD-EYED POET OF wYOM-
ING.
From the Lamarie Boomerang.
There can be nothing sadder than the solemn
hush Of nature that precedes the death of the
year. The golden glory of autumn with the
bllOwy bronze and velvet azure of the skies
above the royal robes of oak and maple, be-
speak the closing hours of natures teemng
life and the silent farewell to humanity's gauze
underwear.
Thus while nature dOns her regal robes of
scarlet and gold in honor of the farewell bene-
MT to autumn, the sad-eyed poet steals Witty
away to the n eighbOrng clothes line and in
honor of natures grand blowout dons the
flaming f1annels Of his friend ont of respect for
the hectic flush of the dying year.
Leaves have their time to fall. and 80 has the
price Of coal. And yet how sadly at variance
with decaying nature is the robust coal marx et.
Another glorious summer with its wealth of
pleasant memories is stored away among the
archives Of our history. Another gloomy winter
is upon Us. These wonderful cOlors that flame
across the sOftened sky Of Indian summer like
the CORY banner Of a royal cOnquerer come but
to warn US that in few short weeks the water
pipe will be busted in the kitchen and the deco
rated wash-bowl will be broken.
We fit through the dreamy hours Of summer
like swift-winged humble bees amid the hOnev-
suckle and pumpkin blossoms. storing away
perhaps little glucose honey and buckwheat
pancakes for the future; but all at once, like q
newspaper thief in the night, the king of frost
and ripe. mellow chilblains is upon u.s. and we
crouch beneath the wintry blast and hump our
spinal column up into the crisp air like Texas
steer that has thOughtlessy swallowed a raw
cactus.
Life is one continued round Of alternate Joys
and SORROWS. To-day, We are on the top wave
of prosperity and warming ourselves in the
cast down and depressed financially, and have
to stand up the washerwOman for our clean
shirt or stay at home from tina opera.
The October sky already frOwns down upon
MS, and its frozen tears begin to fall The little
birds have hushedthe little lay So has the
fatigued hen. Only little while and the
yawning chasm in the cold, cain features of the
Thanksgiving turkey will be filed with vOlup-
tuOus stufling and then sewed up. The flOrid
features of the polygamous gobbler will be
wrapped in sadness, and cranberry pie will be q
burden, for the veal outlet gOeth to his long
home. and the ice-cream freezer is broken in the
wOOdhOuse.
Oh, Time! thou bald-headed pelican with the
venerable cOrn-cutter and the second hand hour
glass, thou playest strange pranks upon the
children of men. No one would think. to look
at thy bilious cOuntenance and store teeth. that
in thy bOny bosom lurked such eccentric
schemes.
The chubby boy whose danger signals hangs
sadly through the iattice-wOrk of his pants.
knows that Time, who waits for no man, will
one day. If he struggles herOically on, give him
knowledge and suspenders and q solid girl and
experience and a soft white moustache, and
eventually a low grave in the valley beneath the
signing elms and the weeping willow, where,
in the misty twilight of the year, noiselessly
upon his breast shall fall the dead leaf, while
the silent tear of the gray autumnal sky will
come and sink into the yellow grass above his
head