Atlanta semi-weekly journal. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1898-1920, 1902-11-24

IA "a WSdAACAs
Wv remarked the secretary,
after he had settled
comfortably down in his chair and hac
thrown up a billowy fog o. smoke
about him.
This crisp, fall air makes a man
feel powerfully good. He takes new
interest in everything. He feels amoi-
tious and energetic, and he wants to
get out and take few good, deep
breaths and jump up and kick his heels
together The world seems happier
when IL is painted in the bright, clear
sunlight of autumn and the aid is full
of the old-fashioned, healthy smell OF
burning leaves. tell you, gentlemen,
love to see the fields and woods all
purple and golden and feel the snappy
Jingle of the cool air on my cheeks.
THE fall takes me back" remarked
the janitor, wistfully. Ito those good
old days. when / was little boy in
new boots. wading and kicking in the
clean, dry leaves Of the woods. l al
ways used TO go nutting about this
time of the year"
You used to go howr' asked the
secretary, who was somewhat OF
wag.
when I went in the hickory tree
groves for she'll banks and hazel nuts"
responded the janitor, oblivious Of the
secretarys vulgar attempt to be hui
morous. "Ah, those were bully old
days."
The members smoked in silence for
some minutes. Presently, a faraway
light came into the chairman's eyes.
Fall always makes me blue" he
said, musingly. There's a kind OF
something in the air that makes me
feel solemn and depressed-lilxe. have
the same feeling every year and l
s'pose III always have ii If 1 live to
be as old as Methusalum. It's not an
unhappy feeling-just a kind of mourn
full, blue feeling. like going out OF the
bright, warm sunlight into the gray
shadows,
There's something in the air that
always reminds me of the time when
was a little boy and had to start to
school. / tell you, those were days OF
gloom and sorrow for me. When the
summer waned and here and there
leaf began to fall, I'd begin TO count
the days until school would begin. One
week-six days-five days. and so on,
getting more depressed every day.
think it must be pretty much the same
when a man is to be hanged and he
ing him closer and closer to ,he end,
and yet nothing in the world that he
can do can stop that pitiless march of
time He is simply helpless He can
howl and rave and shake the bars, but
the minutes go trooping by and the
day of execution comes slowly and
grimly nearer.
That's the way 1 used to feel, gen.
tlemen, about the beginning OF school.
They were days Of great sadness for
me- The world looked drear and cheer
less. And at last there came the
dreaded day when could see the final
preparations-when my mother got my
little tin bucket down from the shelf
and fetched my slate and books out OF
the bureau drawer.
That's a gloomy morning that first
Monday was, ] can still see the kitch-
en- and the stove and the wash boiler
bubbling away above the flames
can still smell the wash day atmos-
phere and see the white bleached piece
of broomstick with which my mother
used to stir the boiling clothes"
II can remember the sinking feeling
that came over me. Would. nothing
happen to delay the evil moment? /
can remember how earnestly dag
nosed myself for some friendly symp-
toms of disease. Sometimes IL thought
real hard. could fancy that felt a
vague, uncertain, heeting pain down
around my stomach and then, oh. how
i encouraged and r''-sed it! 1t would
leave me IL / dil4l,t constantly think
of it, so had to try very hard to keep
my hand on IL. 1t was a sort OF Chris
tian Science reversed, for in this case
had to create pain where there was
none. Something told me that there
was no. actual suffering. but still
didn't despair. In the meantime. the
old clock had tolled the solemn hour of
eight like a funeral dirge. The death
march would soon begin unless the
kind Providence that. looks out for
drunken men and little children would
strike me low with some dread malady