Montgomery County sentinel. [volume] (Rockville, Md.) 1855-1974, 1890-11-14

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great hearth, and the pine knots thrown at
intervals on the fire gave bold and cheer
tul light throughout that old kitchen. We re-
member how the Winter wind went glancing
over the house. top ,whirling and eddying and
moaning around the corners, Kissing under
the door and sending its cold breath in at
every crevice, and the windows ratified when
the blast came fiercest, and how the smoke
would sometime whirl down the chimney.
Cherished memories are these pleasant wis.,
ions, and they come to US often, vivid as
realities. But the dream vanishes, the Wis
ion fades away when we realize that many OF
the names have been chiseled upon the cold
marble that stands through the sunny Spring
time, the heat Of Summer, the Autumnal
days, and the storms and tempests of Win
ter over the graves Of the dead. Who does
not remember ?-alasl who can ever forget
them? New days, new hopes, new loves
arise, but pleasant yet mournful to the soul
is the memory of joys that are past"
AS we sat upon the roots of that aged and
leafess monarch which has been making
history for hundred years, our eyes feast
ing upon the beauties OF the breathing pano.
rama every where before US, we could but feel
that the year was Fastening onward to its
close.-onward through the voluptuous
forest to the bleak, crisp fields beyond, where
in the wall of the Wintry wind it shall ex-
pire; thus we queried: In its soft Spring
time and its lesfy Summer how have we
grown? What flowers and fruits have we
borne What precious harvests have we
garnered, that in the dark and wintry days
we may sit US down and rejoice? What
store have ye gathered--ye plodders in the
dusty streets OF trade-what besides your
gold, boarded to rust beneath the sweat of
your anxiety, or thriftlessly lavished in that
cold display which brushes into the dust the
hearts of the poor and unfortunate? Or ye
who have yawned out your ennui in the in
terregnum of "the seasons" signing for those
weeks of social mockery that came at last
at the watering places-what have we reap
ed for your exhausted bodies and collapsing
minds except WEAKNESS and bitter regrets
Why cannot man learn lesson from ma
turep Why does he suffer the Spring and
Summertime of his days to pass away with
out so laboring and toiing in that way and
manner which his moral sense will ever
dictate, that when his Autumn shall come
on, with its blighting frosts, it may bring
with it the fruits of a life well spent-ior
after all, what will our past life have been
worth if it sweetens not our last moments2
Everything around us-everything that
met the eye or sounded on the ear-every
tremulous little vista-every falling leaf
the fragrance of every dead and dying wild
fioweI-the voice of every forest chorister-
the murmurs of the streams--the palpita-
ting wreaths OF topaz mist that yelled the
dark lines of the more hidden parts of the
deep rayines, and hung and hoated along
every gorge-all had its own special sig
nifcance, and offered healthy and vigorous
food for the contempative mind.
We had hardly taken our seat when
large flock Of partridges flew past us and
we could but think what delightful time
the sportsman would soon enjoy. With him
this season is the prime favorite, not alone
because OF its invigorating air and grand
scenery, but also in that IL is the period of
field sports, of the chase and of shooting
birds. The bare meadows and the stubble
have for him an additional beauty, because
therein are the coverts of birds. Wherever
he rambles-and his tours undenably lead
him through the most enhancing of natural
scenery-the field sportsman, whether down
in the valley, in the woodlands, or on the
mountain side takes in an inspiration of
nature pure and undefiled, such as the city
exquisite or dandy never imagined, even in
his visions. The grand, the picturesque,
and the beautiful in natural scenery the
sportsman views at its best, untrammeled
by civilization and unmarried by the resist
less march of progress
Autumna. sport has been honored 10 ele-
CANT verse by the most llustrious disciples
of the muses., and by the ablest prose writers
from the days of Pliny down to the present
time. No more spirited and glowing de-
scriptions of the chase and the field sports
have been produced in modern times than
the delightful prose and poetry Of that gifted, ,
immortal sportsman bard, Sir Walter Scott.
His enthusiastic love for rural scenes and
pleasures seems to pervade all his writ ngs,
and his master mind has crowned with new
laurels the sports of field and flood, drawing
from the inexhaustibe tount of his bright
intellect those pen portraits Of sylvan scenes
which have charmed the world.
We have always thought that we would
like the excitement and change of field sport
1t has only been recently that we have read
for the fourth or fifth time, "Forty five years
of the life of a hunter" by the late venera-
BILE Mesbsck Browning, Of Garrett, then AL
legany county, written by himself, every
word OF which we have reason to believe is
correct A we fingered over his descrip-
tons of the more wild portions of those
immense forests where he hunted, we could
| but feel what vast and ndescribable soli-
tudes-what magnificent sunsets bathing
the ragged cliffs of the innumerable chains
and spurs of mountains in a food light
the gloomy grandeur of the deep shadows
creeping down the mountain sides like
death shades falling over an old mans
soul-the music of the streams as they went
dashing down the dark and almost i'm.
penetrable ravnes gathering in volume and
force all the way-the mighty roar Of the
winds with every storm bowling and hiss
ing through the forests like maddened de-
mons-tbe low murmurs Of the sinking
blasts, were his as he wandered solitary and
alone in that vast temple of nature, whose
architect is God-whose organ tones the
whispering breeze and the sounding storm.
Naturally restless, and with a burning
desire to see more Of the beauties of nature,
we fastened through the body of pine
woods we have already mentioned, and
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