The Birmingham age-herald. [volume] (Birmingham, Ala.) 1902-1950, 1908-02-02

sharp blast of wind slapped me in the
face and then leaped up and struck an
overhanging bough until the bough creak
ed and groaned with pain. Then. seeing
the uselessness of trying to break the
backbone of the old forest monarch, the
wind ruthlessly disrobed the tree of its
elories, scattering the leaves far and
wide, and seemed to sport and laugh as
ii tossed one to my feet And as I SAT
there, watching the.Jaser little leaf bleed
ing and dying, with its arteries slit by tina
sharp teeth of the blast, it told me this
tragic story Il was born. of bud. At
my nativity the gentle spring breathed
life into me. The refreshing showers nur-
tured me. The sunbeams soothed me and
coaxed me into smiles. The birds warbled
and told me their secrets The summer
breezes rocked me to sleep. The rising
sun Kissed away my dewy tears. Life was
such continual happiness that throbbed
with gladness and tried to awaken the
weary traveller as he hid from the noon
tide sun under my SHADOW. But then
commenced to grow old. Something told
me I had to die, and, though | nestled
closer to the branch and tried to shake off
the cold, yet on every hand the life blood
flowed. Every morning when l awoke
saw hundreds of leaves drop, covered
with the white shroud of frost, and now
as I lie there, incarnadined with my life's
blood, you admire my beauty and my col
orings, but | am dying. My sun has set.
1t is eventide and time for me to sleep
the last great sleep. And you, too, 0
man, must die! Younger men will jostle
you. You must some day become a back
number Your heirs may now be getting
ready to squabbe over your will 1T
is appointed unto men once to die, but
after that the Judgment" Does the dy-
ing leaf preach that message to you to-
day?
Lives of the Leaves.
Our lives are like the lives of the leaves.
Some OF us have just budded into boy
hood and girlhood. 1t is springtime. End
less life scenes to be stretching out be-
fore our eyes. The edge of the horizon
where our graves shall be dug seems to
recede as we advance. oh, how happy Is
Mayi Sorrow has not yet stabbed at the
heart and persecution has not yet snapped
at the heels The hardest work the boy
or girl has to do is to get up in time for
breakfast. Some OF us have left the old
homestead and set up housekeeping for
ourselves. 1t Is summer. We have all
the worriments and Vexations of life.
From a selfish standpoint 1t does not
pay. But God itever meant you to live
for yourself alone so one morning you
awoke to find a babe sleeping in the
cradle at your side. Now you sit at one
end of the table and your wife sits at
the other end of the table, while between
you is growing up family of whom any
man might be proud. oh, how happy is
the SUMMER We may have our days of
rain as we'll as of sunshine, but every
rainstorm during the strength of strong
manhood has a bright rainbow to arch it,
and every hard days work has it's sweet
home coming after the heat of the day.
Oh how happy Is summer!
Some of us are near our journeys end.
Your joints have stiffened with the long
journey. Now all you can do is to hob
BILE and stumble along. painting and puff
ing, all out of breath. 1t is autumn. Once
you romped and leaped from the haymow,
and ran to take your fathers hand, your
ourls flying in the wind and with red
roses a-blooming In your cheek. Now you
feel tired and herveess. Though you
may make an effort to deceive your
friends, you ara not deceiving yourself.
No, the almanac does not lie. 1t Is au-
| tumn Soon a procession will be started
| and YOU will or carried at the head of
| n 1he bsu Nil toll when the hearse en-
| tiers the cemetery The stiffness of the lit
tle company in your family plot will be