Martinsburg herald. [volume] (Martinsburg, W. Va.) 1881-1920, 1890-09-13
Bunker Hill correspondence.


Sitting under the wild trees or wan
Iering over the fields last Sunday, l
ook in the first flush of the years
opening. The height of summer is
last and the mean extreme between
he hot days of July and the early
ints of Autumn remind us of the
coming winter. The heat, dust-laden,
'alls upon the yellow stubble of the
grain and the dew cannot moisten the
lead white stalks of the clover-held.
The corn rustles in rich greennesss
but its upward look is but hasty
greeting to the coming partridge call
and the flight of the timid rabbit,
amid the whitened grass by the
withered shocks. The trees are still
green but they turn their silken leaves
half YEARLY to the MONDAY sun
the birds fly on languid wing and
have lost their CHEEKY MARBLE Of the
spring notes the grass-hopper chirps
its mournful note by the dead stocks
in the neighboring field /; great stacks
of hay and grain speak of the reaper
and the full NOW sweet-scented utters
that the harvest is past and gone the
love of robin and raven is old practic-
ally and without any emotion or feel
ing the clouds seem to sail in joyless-
ness and the sitting sun blinks in
dusty red upon the grass by the way
side; the forest has a silent air and the
fall of the nut from the nimble NOV
ing squirrel is clear and solemn. The
night wind signs over the stubble and
the cooler air OF the dark hours greets
ball of sunny flame in the morning.
It is all nature in another mood and
her endless variety is charm, though
tinged with sadness. Sad symbols are
the scythe on its hook and the reaper
in its cover. But it all calls for the
pillow of the Autumn and the sowing
the seed for another resurrection. The
heat of the summer fades into the
dreary haze of Autumn, but it bears
on every low whispering breeze the
promise of old songs to be resung in
the coming time. Old mother earth
from whom we sprang and to whose
eternal bosom the heaviest laden of
us all return at last, let US love thee
ever while our eyes see and hearts feel
for thou art beautiful in all thy ways
and eloquent are all thy lessons.
Many of us have often asked why
people are amused at this or that
thing. 1t IS simply because they see
more and are quicker in drawing re-
semblances. The humorist in his de-
scriptions does not stick to bold facts
but entwines the real and imaginary
in such fashion that you think it is all
present or should have been. There
are certain writers that annoy US as
much as they please the annoyance
consists in the fact that they have put
INTO readable shape what we have
half thought of or vaguely seen. We
exclaiIn, have seen or felt that and
never put my observation or feelings
into words. So we are half angry at
ourselves. But the one who half sees
is better than the one who never sees
at all. The majority of men are not
observers at all and so lose a great
deal of pleasure and wisdom as they
pass through this world.
Well, old boy, the political pot is
beginning to boil !; candidates are
looking up their interest and the man
who gets left will wish he had never
made the attempt, but who ever you
are don't get angry because you did
not get slice IF the fat I; be true to
your principles, act the part of man,
don't rush in print las some l read of
thinking you are doing right or right.
ing IA great wrong in your magma
ton for there's many man before
you who has been left in the same
boat it don't do any good to show
the people that you are brave by
rushing into print and head your arti-
Gle in large letters, Truth without
Fear, cut and slash your party right
and left, tell what you had done and
by the time you are ready to close the
Truth or Fear or perhaps both have
completely vanished from you so far
that you will hide yourself behind
nom de plume. Be man at all times
and don't show the littleness of being
sick over that which you did not get.
By following the golden rule, life will
be the purity of true gentleman.
Here let us end the chapter you are
weary and so am /. The late night
zephyrs blow and the stiffness Of to-
night is startled by the timid cricket's
cry as it chirps its mournful note DER
sleeping man to find the uncertain
rest of morning. AS you are sitting
and listening to viewless wing and
mellow but timid cries, thinking of
hushed hopes and voices now growing
weary and perhaps soon to be silent
forever, let me pull the blinds and
gently whisper GOOD NIGHT.
Sept. l1.-'90. OLD NICK.