The Brunswick times. [volume] (Brunswick, Ga.) 188?-1900, 1897-10-28
FALL TIME FANCIES.
THE DYING YEAR CELEBRATED IN
PROSE AND VERSE.


the Weird Grandeur of 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 a 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 its abode in the can, the
home of the salmon. The popcorn is
popping over the rudy blaze, and the
scar and yellow dog is barking symbol
in color of 3he 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 garnet. The partridge plays
his drum solo on the fallen tree, and
later becomes a 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
A clatterS, ChattRrg
In frenzy Of delight,
Der the butternut that skaters
All his blooming appetite.
IN the silent aisles of the forest, where
the erstwhile Comanche painted himself
until ne became p multivermillionaire,
the acorn patters ON the dry leaves and
discourses a sort Of solo that lifts the
poet from his rosiest reverie, even as
successfully as cculd sonnet's worth
Of pork and beans in the wistful pulse
OF twilight, when a 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 the
gale, and our griefet's full of music,
while the piggy twists his tail, and
the circus has departed and the sumach's
glowing red Tor the cider mill is run
ming and the soda fountains dead. The
baseball still flies down over the CEN
tertield 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 ballP' 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 a roarl
There is a rare pathos in the falling
leaf, whose dainty embroideries make
it seem too delicate a 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 lis subtlest and most
consummate skill, and when the goat
eats it his spirit is filed with joyous
beauty, a symphony of vibrant color
that lights his soul I'D manifests its
mystic presence when he mods idly to
and fro while the vagrant zephyr strays
through his askew whiskers and makes
him murmur in languid ecstasy, "Alas,
alack. we'll dayp'
The Gamma no longer puts forth its
great leaves in the bed behind the avia-
ry, and the vines of the honeysuckle
tremble in petulant unrest, while the
professional grass. cutter wrings his
knuckles in anguish and means, "Woe
is me, Albania, " or words to that effect,
while he crouches in the wood shed and
homes the snow shovel with a heart full
of hope and a rattail file. His tears drip
from his patriarchal beard like IS carat
diamonds, and he is picture of despair
fit to hang on the walls of the Vatican
Oh. the lilys petered out
Marguerite
And the straw hats up the spout,
Marguerite,
And the robins swiftly fly
Down the cloud bedappled sky
To avoid the pigeon pie,
Margueritei
And now at the head of the grand au.
tumnal pageant the golden pancake
bursts forth in an avalanche of glory,
warranted not to fade or crumble, but
to increase in beauty and velocity and
fill the heart with the reminiscent joys
Of childhood, while defying the teeth
Of time, and sing in the wild refrain that
the hand that makes the batter is the
hand that rules the world
Oh, the russell leaf is curling,
And the thistle down is whirling,
And the gay and festive piglet
In the pen performs jiglet,
And the plaintive, pip!ng cricket
sings and dances In the thicket,
While the Pawnee
Jumps sky high
Ger the tawny
Pumpkin piel
Oh the apple ripe and red
Falls and hits you the head,
AS the orchard way you tread
Roundabout,
And the sportsman's gun you hear
In the crystal atmosphere
When he knocks the rabbit clear