Goldsboro weekly argus. [volume] (Goldsboro, N.C.) 1885-1909, 1899-02-02
JUST O COPY
Some Reflections Not In Apropos for the
Day. but Published Only to Annihn-
ate Space That Must be Filled.
Daily Argus of Tuesdav.

What a gloomy day 1t Is fOT
the news gatherer! How the
clouds Deepen, and the, rain
pours, and the "beautiful snow
melts into mud-so like so many
of our hopes and ambitions, and
not ours personally alone, but
those of all who walk the world.
It is a day for reflections, be-
l~cause we can't do much else; and,
besides, it is an anniversary-it
is the last day of the first month
of the year. It is the eve of the
fiscal year for many of us, who
have bills to pay on the morrow.
And the rain rains 10 the
just and the uniust-on those
with bank accounts sufficient for
the morrow's demands and on
those with none.
But, too, the sun shines on us
all. Saint and sinner, pauper and
princely gentleman, they all of
them bask in a sunlight which
some of them comprehend not
and for which the others glorify
the Oliver of all the good things
of this life. So runs the world.
AS we have said, it is an an
niversary. Indeed, it nay arrest
the thoughts of many-that word
anniversary: The anniversaries
of life mark our progress from
JOY to sorrow, from sorrow TO Joy,
aud they are the milestones along
the beaten highway to that vale
whereon the sunshine never rests.
This day perhaps recalls to the
thought of many of Us the grief
or gladness of a year ago, ten
years ago. or some other year of
our stored past. It may be the
anniversary of a day memorable
in many a human life-perhaps
in your life Or ny own, beloved
fellowtraveler to that bourne
from which no traveller has eyer
yet come back. Turning the
pages of our poor little calendars,
we each of US come to one stains
ed with tears or perfumed with
JOYS that sped, mayhap, at the in
slant of salutation, and returned
not at all. Possibly it were best
that we turn back to no date, as
It certainly is best that we turn
no: forward to any date out of it's
due time; but to many of US in
the world this privilege is all that
is left to us. The fires burn out;
the ashes lie cold and grey upon
The hearthstone, whilst the flame
in the breast burns and consumes
the heart and transforms our
mortal frames to the Deaths
head and the crossoones of hopes
that have proved delusive.
But we, most of US, have some
glad anniversaries. In love, Or in
more material things-orin both,
perhaps-we baYe had our sue
cesses, and these are blazing bea~
cons that illumiue the shadows
behind.
"Oh, waiting long. oh, waiting late,
Is a sweet-faced girl at the garden gate;
Over the mountains, down by the sea,
A sweet-faced girl is waiting for me-"
This may not be true now. but
there was a time when, In it's
essence, it was true, and when
you spun your cap upon the
winds. as you thought of her
swinging on the gate, shyly
watching for you far down the
way. She may be waiting for you
now by your own freside, and
your children and hers may he
playing about her; or she may
await the coming of another,
preferred to you at the altar.
But still ia some sense you have
a claim upon her, born of respect
full esteem and thoughtful con-
sideration. You cannot be robbed
of that thOught-would not be;
ard whether as bride at the altar
or matron of maturer years,
you have a claim upon her given
to you by your own sense of
reverence and the memory of
those days when she was all the
world to you. This does pot apply
to youth, for youth runs largely
to folly. Middle age and those
few years which precede it con-
stitute the ripe time of reflection.
Regret is. uuavailing then. Re-
greet is forever unavailing. So,
with some sense OF longing and
some degree of complacency, we
accept things as they are, and
with as much patience as we may
We pursue the journey Ito grey
hairs and the grave. It is better
so; perhaps.-What? Enough
copy? Well, lock up the forms