Morris tribune., 1910-09-02

Now softened suns a mellow luster
shed,
The laden orchards glow with tempt
ing red;
On hazel boughs the clusters hang
embrowned,
And with the hunting horn the fields
resound.
Old September Poem.
Well we should say so, and the mel
low horn of Mr.. Morgan will awake
the mourn, bidding us garner for the
bins and cribs, in which we labor for
his royal nibs. The summer ended
and the blower on, the respite over
and the money gone, and Rockefeller
as we drill along, bowing and hoping
we are we'll and strong.
The seaside sojourner will quit the
shore, and the summer girl will line
up three or four conquests in puppy
love she has around, and choose the
one that is to go undroWned. The
which selection from the litter born
of summer madness she will then su-
born with things sufficient to unlock
it's eyes, and hurry homeward with
the gasping prize.
The busted tourist will return from
France with hotel stickers stuck upon
his pants, and tarred and postcarded
by his friends, will reap the penalty of
what he sends. They'll waltz him up
and down upon rail, and alternately
turn him head and tail, or howsoever
they may best enjoy the views in Ven
ice or the site of Troy.
The festive calf will bithely sniff and
snort and deftly tie up where the hair
is short, and in the quiet evening after
glow the quail will pipe his dulcet pic
colo. The bold insurgent will insurge
the more, and fill the planet with his
dreadful roar, and each one betting
he will not be last, the autumn candi-
dates will gallop past.
The new progressive and the Demo-
crat, the uninsurging that are stand
ing pat, and in the midst of them, un-
faint of heart, our Bryan on the water
cart. A mass of issues, and a mass of
men, and 10, a gaIlus busting now and
then, and not especially alarmed by it,
the trusts desisting till the swarm has
lit.
The man from EIba trying to come
back,
And the poor consumer in his cul-de-
sac
Unknowing if the quaking earth por-
tends
Death or the near approach, perhaps,
of friends.
But howsoever and be it as may,
the dread mosquito will have had it's
day, and joining Satan in its spectral
growth, have made it real hell there
for them both. The while the earthly
remnant of it swings upon the window
screen, and drying clings to that post
which, though wanting moral fire, it
still holds with its face against the
wire.
The sad first day of school will come
to pass,
And the barefoot boy will hide out in
the grass,
And by the time we've caught these
malcontents,
The Crippen chase will look like thirty
cents.
Milady Fashion in her hobble skirt
will stride the pavement with the men
alert to set her right side up again in
case she should in time turn turtle
any place. 1t does beat thunder what
the women wear, and how they stick
on other peoples hair, constrict their
middles and constrain their toes and
what Importance they attach to
But bless US, are they after
all to blame, or had they been in these
things quite the same if Mother Ewes
first thought, as we suppose, had not
been necessarily of clothes? Was it
to be expected in her case that with |
man somewhere upon the place she !,
ever thought of anything at all but !
gowns. slipovers, or perhaps shawl? |
But anyhow, the crawfish will have !
holed,
And the pumpkin shown the faintest
trace of gold.
The sassafras will don redder dress.
And the gods will crowd around the
cider press. +
Or prohibition or v hatever will.
here is fountain that shall serve us
still, a place of resting and a steal
away out of the desert and the heat