The progressive farmer. [volume] (Winston, N.C.) 1886-1904, 1902-09-23
THE BEST SEASON OF ALL THE YEAR.

week, if there had been storms and cyclones play
ing havoc in the land, The Progressive Farmer,
like all the other papers, would have had some
thing to say about it. Why then should we not
say a word about the gloriously charming days
and nights that we had this week of the Harvest
Moon-such weather as Emerson speaks of when
he says:
"These are days y n y wherein the world
reaches its perfection; when the air, the heavenly
bodies, and the earth make a harmony, as if Ma
ture would indulge her offspring, when X x y
everything that has life gives signs of satisfac-
ton, and the cattle that lie on the ground seem to
have great and tranquil thoughts. X X y The
air is full of birds, and sweet with the breath of
pine, the balm-of-G ileads, and the new hays.
Night brings no gloom to the heart with it's well
come shade. Through the transparent darkness
the stars pour their almost spiritual rays. Man
under them seems a young child, and his huge
globe a toy. The cool night bathes the world as
with a river, and prepares his eyes again for the
crimson dawn"
And it is at this season of the year, we suppose,
that every country-bred person shut up in town
realizes most keenly his loss in being away from
the fields and forests-and feels most like saying
a hearty "amen!" to the exclamation which we-fnd
in an exchange credited to Carlyle (and if he
didn't say it, he ought toy:
Calm, sweet landscapes bring me calm and de-
light, too; the bright green pastures, the soft
flowing river, the purple pine-covered mountains
with the clouds Pickering around them-O Lord!
how much better it is than riding in the park and
going to dinner at eight o'clock!'
Even more beautifully and no less forcibly was
this truth expressed by. Rev. Charles H. Spur
geon:
"He who forgets the humming of the bees
among the heather, the cooling of the wood pig
cons in the forest, the song of birds in the woods,
the ripping of rills among the rushes, and the
signing of the wind among the pines, need not
wonder if his heart forgets to sing and his soul
grows heavy. A days breathing of fresh air upon
the hills, or a few hours ramble in the beech
woods outrageous calm, would sweep the cobwebs
out of the brain of scores of toiling men who are
now but half alive"
And this is as true as it is poetic. 1t is always
invigorating and inspiring to get back to Nature,
and especially so, we think, in the autumn season.
So if there is now in the mind of the country
bred townsman an echoing of the Carlyle-Spur-
geon sentiment, let him leave the crowded town
and go back to Gods country-back among the
cotton fields white with bursting bolls, and the
corn fields dotted with yellow pumpkins, and the
apple trees red with mellow fruit; let him hunt
the wild grapes and the muscadine once more,
feed the horses and the pigs, watch the glories of
the dawn and the sunset unobscured by towns
peoples houses, and, if he can, let him go 'possum
hunting at night. There's nothing like it for real
enjoyment, and it is a great pity that so few of
the city people who go to the country in the sum-
mer know anything of its autumn glories. Nor
is 1t less a pity that the average man must be
cooped up in the town, shut out from these pleas
ure-giving privileges, in order to get to appre-
ciate them properly. So, while this article is
seemingly aimed at the few townspeople who read