The Portland daily press., 1881-11-18
Autumn Thoughts.
Laramie Boomerang.]


There can be nothing sadder than the SOL
emn hush that precedes the death of the year.
The golden glory of Autumn, with the bill
lowy bronzed and velvet azure of the skies
above the royal robes of oak and maple bespeak
the closing hours of natures teemiug life and
the silent farewell to humanity's gauze under
wear.
Thus while nature dons her regal robes of
scarlet and gold in honor of the farewell bene-
fit to Autumn, the sad eyed poet steals swiftly
away to the neighboring clothes line. and in
the hour of natures grand blow out, dons the
flaming fannels for his friend o1t 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 va
rance with decaying nature is the robust coal
market.
Another glorious Summer with its wealth of
pleasant memories is stored away among the
archives of our history. Another gloomy Win
ter is upon us. These wonderful colors that
flame across the softened sky of Indian Sum-
mer like glory banner of q royal conqHeror,
come but to warn us that in few short weeks
the water pipe will be burst in the kitchen and
We fit through the dreamy hours of Sum-
ner like swift winged humble bees amid the
honeysuckle and pumpkin blossoms, storing
away little glucose honey and buckwheat
cakes for the future, but all at once like
newspaper thief in the night, the king of frost
aud ripe, mellow ehilblains is upon us, and we
crouch beneath the wintry blast and hump our
spinal column to the crisp wintry air like
Texas steer that has thoughtlessly swallowed
raw cactus.
Life is one continual round of alternate joys
and sorrows. To-day we are on the top wave
Of prosperity and warming ourselves in the
glad sunlight of plenty, and tomorrow we are
cast down and depressed financially, and have
TO stand up the washerwoman for our clean
shirt or stay at home from the opera.
The October sky already frowns down upon
MS, and Its frozen tears begin to fall. The lit
tie 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 filled with vo-
luptuous stufing and then sewed up. The
horid features of the polygamous gobbler will
be wrapped In sadness, and cranberry pie will
be burden, for the veal outlet goeth to its
long home, and the ice cream freezer is broken
In the woodhouse.
Oh, timel 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 your bilious countenance and store
teeth that in thy bosom lurked such eccentric
sch mes.
The chubby boy, whose danger signal hangs
sadly through the lattice work of his pants,
knows that time, who waits for no man, will
one day, il he struggles heroically on, give him
knowledge and suspenders, and a solid girl,
and experience, and a soft, white moustache,
and eventually low grave in the valley be-
meath the signing elms and the weeping will
low, 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.