Santa Fe daily New Mexican., 1897-12-27
FALL TIME FANCIES.
THE DYING YEAR CELEBRATED IN
PROSE AND VERSE.

The Autumn Forests That Put to Shame
the Weird Grandeur of n Pay Day Dream
Painted With Circus Lemonade-Rare
Pathos In the Falling Leaf.
And now the leafet assumes the frag-
lie curl of the breakfast bacon when it
lies down with the liver Of the youthful
immature beeve. The forest is one
grand, undulating pavilion Of throbbing
color that puts to shame the weird
grandeur Of pay day dream painted
with circus lemonade. The corn has
evanished from the cob, much to the de-
light of the man who dreams fondly of
his front teeth that are no more and
has taken up it's abode in the can, the
home Of the salmon. The popcorn is
popping over the ruddy blaze, and the
scar and yellow dog isl barking symbol
in color Of the wistful, dreamy season
whose hazy fields stretch far away and
keep on stretching without break,
suffused with the glory Of the dying
day, and the bonfire in which the small
boy cooks sweet potatoes in the ruddy
flames of the old shoes and rubber boots
which he has gathered in the bosom of
the ancient garret. The partridge plays
his drum solo on the fallen tree, and
later becomes silent symphony when
he lies upon the dish, daintily filigreed
and arabesqued with water cress
Now the terra Gotta squirrel
Skips along the ashen rail-
For he knows that soon the bur'll
Spill the chestnuts in the gale.
And he chatters, chatters, chatters
In frenzy of delight,
Ger tho butternut that skaters
All his blooming appetite.
In the silent aisles of the forest, where
the erstwhile Comanche painted himself
until he became multiyermillionaire,
the acorn patters on the dry leaves and
discourses sort Of solo that lifts the
poet from his rosiest reverie, even as
successfully as could sonnet's worth
of pork and beans in the wistful pulse
of twilight, when purple curtain falls
and the spirit, sad and weary. turns to
thoughts Of Goldfish balls, when the
pumpkin brightly glimmers and the
porkers lush and ripe, and the Bob
White in the thicket plays upon his
meerschaum pipe Oh, the days are
still and purple, and the leaflet dots tho
gale, and our grief1et's full of music,
while the piggy twists his tail, and
the circus has departed and the sulnach's
glowing red, for the cider mill is run
ming and the soda fountain s dead. The
baseball still flies down over the cen
terfield fence, and the rooter regrets
that he can't take root and grow on the
bleachers and be on deck when the cry
to "Play ball!'' opens the next season,
and the umpire again becomes eligible
for the contumely of the ribald enthu-
siast and amenable to the unwritten
law which makes it proper for the null
titude to discourse mad fandangoes upon
his anatomy
Oh, the cozy
Garden rosy
Will the posy
Know no more,
And no rose cold
Makes the nose cold
When it blows cold
With roar
There is rare pathos in the falling
leaf, whose dainty embroideries mako
it seem too delicate creation of nature
to warrant the farmer in unduly cast.
ing it beneath the COW for bed. Jack
Frost has brought out its slender veins
Of beauty with his subtlest and most
consummate skill, and when the goat
eats it his spirit is filled with a joyous
beauty, symphony Of vibrant color