Morris tribune., 1881-12-01
THE DYING YEAR.

Autumn Thoughts on the Solemn Hush of
Nature by the Sad-Eyed Poet of Wyoming.
From the Lamarie Boomerang.
There can be nothing sadder than the
solemn hush of nature that proceeds the
autumn with the pillowy bronze and velvet
oak and maple, bespeak the closing hours
of natures teeming life and the silent fare
we'll to humanitys gauze underwear.
Thus while nature dons her regal robes
of scarlet and gold in honor Of the fare
we'll benefit to autumn, the sad-eyed poet
steals swiftly away to the neighboring
clothes line, and in honor of natures grand
blowout dons the flaming f1annels of his
friend out Of respect for the hectic flush of
the dying year.
Leaves have their time to fall, and so
has the price of coal. And yet how sadly
at variance with decsying nature is the 70.
bust coal market.
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
conquer come but to warn US that in few
short weeks the water-pipe will be busted
in the kitchen and the decorated wash
bowl will be broken.
We fit through the dreamy hours Of
summer like swift-winged humble bees
amid the honeys1ckle and pumpkin BIOS
SONS, storing away perhaps little glucose
honey and buckwheat pancakes for the
future; but all at once, Ikea newspaper
thief in the night, the king of frost and
ripe, mellow chilblains is upon us, and we
crouch beneath the wintry blast and hump
our spinal column up to the crisp air like
Texas steer that has thoughtlessly swallow
ed raw cactus.
Life is one continued round Of alternate
joys and sorrows. To-day, we are on the
top wave of prosperity and warming our
selves in the glad sunlight of plenty, and
to morrow we are cast down financially, land
have to stand up the washerwoman for our
clean shirt or stay at home from the opera.
The October sky already frowns down
upon US, and its frozen tears begin to fall.
The little birds have hushed their little lay.
So has the fatigued hen. Only little
while and the yawning chasm in the cold,
calm features Of the Thanksgiving turkey
will be filed with voluptuous stufing and
then sewed up. The horid features of the
polygamous gobler will be wrapped in sad
ness, and cranberry pie will be burden,
for the veal outlet goeth to his long home,
and the ice- cream freezer is broken in the
woodhouse.
Oh. Time! thou bald-h headed pelican
with the venerable corn cutter and the Sec
ond hand hour glass, thou piaycst strange
pranks upon the children Of men. No one
would think to look at thy bilious counter
ance and store teeth, that in thy bony bos-
ON lurked such eccentric schemes.
The chubby boy, whose danger signal
hangs sadly through the lattice work of his
pants, knows that time, who wants for no
man, will one day, If he struggles heroical-
ly on, give him knowledge and suspeenderss,
and solid girl, and experience and soft
white moustache, and eventually low
grave in the valley beneath the, signing
elms and the weeping willows, where, in
the misty twilight of the year, noiselessly
upon his breast shall fall the dead leaf while
the silent tear of the autunnal sky will
come and sink into the yellow grass above
his head