Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, 1881-11-13
AUTUMN Thoughts.
Laramie 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 billowy bronzed and
velvet azure of the skies above the royal
robes of oak and maple, bespeak the clos
ing hours of natures teeming 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 fare
we'll benefit to autumn, the sad eyed poet
steals swiftly away to the neighboring
clothes line, ard in the hour of natures
of his friend out of respect for the hectic
flush of the dying y ear.
Leaves have their time to fall, and so
has the price of coal. And yet how sadly
at variance 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 winter isupon US. These
wonderful colors that flash across. the
softened sky of Indian summer like the
CORY banner of a royal conqueror, come
to warn us that in a few short weeks the
water pipe will be burst 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 honeysuckle and pumpkin bios
SONS, and stealing 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 us, and we crouch beneath the
wintry blast and hump our spinal col
umn up into the crisp air like Texas
steer that has thoughtlessly swallowed a
raw cactus.
Life is one continued round of alter
nate joys and sorrows. To-day we are
on the top wave of prosperity and warm
ing 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 us, and Its frozen tears begin to fall
The little birds have hushed their little
lay. So has the fatigued hen. Only a
little while and the yawning chasm in the
cold, calm feature of the Thanksgiving
turkey will be filled with voluptuous
stuffing and then sewed up. The ford
features of the polygamous gobbler will
be wrapped in sadness, and cranberry pie
will be q burden, for the veal outlet goeth
to its long home, and the ice cream freez-
er is broken in the woodhouse.
Oh, time! thou bald headed pelican
with the venerable corn cutter and the
second hand hourglass, 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 signal
hangs sadly through the lattice work OF
his pants, knows that time, who waits
for no man., will one day, if he strug-
giles heroically on, give him knowledge
and suspenders, and solid girl, and ex-
perience, and soft, white mustache, and
eventually low grave in the valley be-
meath 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.