The record-union. [volume] (Sacramento, Calif.) 1891-1903, 1897-09-06
SOME RAMBLING THOUGHTS.
BY Memo"


chill in the morning mist. the changed
color of an occasional leaf before it
flutters to the ground, the silencing Of
the birds, the odor of the evening air
these signs unite, with numberless 9TH
ers to announce that summer is near
ing it's end, and with it is vanishing the
opportunity for raising further crops.
Good or bad, well-tended or neglected,
the results will soon be estimated and
the farmer know whether profit or loss
is the reslt of his labors. The wise
farmer finds the autumn at hand IN Its
due season; the WaStful, idle one is as
tonished that it is here so soon after
the spring days when the sun summon
ed vegetation TO life. But gone is the
summer and no voice is so loud or so
imploring as to be able to call 1t back.
One more seed time and harvest IS
gathered into the eternal and irreVoca-
bic past and the Fastening days move
us away from the time of crop growth
forward to the time when the storms
without are defied by reason of the
stores within, or the wailings without
accentuated by the want within
Up-gather earth's glories while we may,
Fol winter shall sweep their souls away ;
And the ashes SILVER pale and wan;
When the afterglow of November fades,
And the winds are the walls Of shroud-
less shades.
For September days bring warning
Which tells that the hour of death is
near,
And the years strong manhood startled
halts,
AT the primal chill from the opening
vaults,
And knows that its voice shall be
And its laughter lulled-till spring is
come.
The slackening step, the occasional
feeling of Impotence at the frantic and
| unreasonable joy of children; the gray
hair here and there, the brevity of the
years-these are signs that the sum-
mer time of your life is passing too.
You rub your eyes to see if you do but
| dream the message of lessening time
| that ever buzzes in your ears. The
| shvering sense of protest gainst the
desperate hurry of Time is the counter
part of that hollow, soughing sound that
seems now to creep through the woods:
That shuddering breath, which tells that
fire
Is placed to the seasons funeral pyre.
LIE llUe O1 opportunity ~ PeiSSlAlS
the time of garnering draws near. Into
| that full crop of accomplishments and
of deeds, which some of you will re-
| joice over, are woven the works done
when you are weary, but done neverthe-
| less because time was never known to
return. In your harvest of plenty are
| treasured the duties done because they
needed to be done and not because they
| were easy and pleasant. Such works
are there-every one of them; none are
| lost And you with wisps from your
own neglected fields of life, and hands
full of gleanings for mothers bounty
| the ghosts of neglected chances are I'M
palpable in your grasp, but they are
there. Indolent turning over on fioWery
beds of ease hath it's reward, and you
| begin to see it in vision-an autumn OF
regret, a winter of cherries emptiness
with nothing of honest pride Whereon
to feed self-respect.
Does the sun make any audible noise
as it peeps over the hill-tops in the
morning? Does it summon the farmer
to duty with persistent calls and shak-
| ings? No! the day comes silently; 81
lertly does it grow and wane, and ST.
| lently does it pass and without protest,
even if unimproved. The farmers util-
| ization of time does not originate from
| any compelling force in the power OF
| daylight, but from q purpose within his
heart to make the most of his farm in
the days that the passing seasons give
him. Combining his powers with the
powers of nature that he can control,
the barren place can be made to flour
ish, and out of the parched grounds
come forth food. While the idle farmer
frets and fumes and grumbles about
rains or whatnot, the days hurry by
that are giving his neighbor good re-
turns for effort expended. This is so
generally true as to be practically &C
curate
And thus is it with the opportunities
of life. They do not troop up to US with
the blare of trumpets. AS silently as the
sun do they pass us by and as supreme
| ly Indifferent to neglect do they sink out
| of sight. Invisible to the eye of the
savage is the modern warship buried in
a bed of iron ore. Just so invisible are
most opportunities except TO the eyes
| of compelling faith. The iron-clad is
| there, the opportunities are here, all
round us free as air and discoverable by
every man with full faculties, who will
take of his time freely, mingle it with
strength of purpose and direct his OPP
/ erations with intelligence. He it is who
| makes highways across trackless des-
| erts: who dares out on deepS even If
| alone; who. ever dissatisfied with those
| things whereunto our race has attained,
moves us forward along new lines, drag
ging us to betterment by his own
forces. He it is who is ever harassed
| by the indolent who will not act, and
| the faithless who will not believe in
opportunity until it materializes before
! their very eyes But what of the har-
vest? To such a man, no matter how
| barren his life may first promise to be,
there is a creditable career, not perhaps
of money-grubbing, but, at any rate of
| honest. upright living and kindly be-
nevolence And to the others? They
see in themselves when buffetings come
and difficulties. special objects Of per-
| sonal spite on the part of the Almighty:
they crawl off to escape the hardships:
and, when they come to themselves. as
| life is waning. see nothing worthy of a
race that has suffered, and sweated and
travelled for every single inch it has
gained in morals or in materials. They
have enjoyed some of its gains, but they
have added naught to its store. Their
hearts s tarve and their memories perish.
| Cease then to curse the bitter blows of
fate,
No goal is easy whose reward is great.
Each barrier won will heart and strength
renew.
Each step assembled gives a wider view.
Iknowpeop1ew whose lives seem one long
experience of meeting with barbados