The Republican., 1920-12-09
WE ALL DO FADE AS A LEAF

Every day of our lives this sad les
son is impressed on our minds. Every
season of the year has something that
calls this to our minds, but none that
so emphatically impresses US with our
mortality as the Autumn. In moments
of sadness we bewail our sins and ut
ter this truth, and this melancholy
strain becomes the dirge of all nature
when the summer is past and the lin
gering sun drags himself little later
each day above the eastern horizon
and hastens earlier to his place in the
west. As summer closes, we gaze on
its lingering roses, reluctant to give
them up for few brief months. The
brilliant hues of Autumn flame out on
every hillside; the vine yields her rich
clusters and casts aside its heavy
green robe as if it required the sacri-
flee of its life to give its fruit to cheer
the heart of man.
The woods are painted gorgeously,
the sky is kindled and valleys are
frightened with a glance of Autumn's
eye. Rich fruits have been lavishly
scattered; golden corn is being gath
cred, for he wrests the verdant robes
of earth and summons the flowers
away. The joyous song of the bird no
longer fills the depths of the grove-it
has sought another cline, for the
quavering drapery of overshadowing
branches are tossed in the air.
Summer days are gone, for Au-
tumn's chill blast touches the young
and tender, which withers and dies,
showing us that nothing is too young
or lovely to die.
The cawing of the crow is hushed,
but the frisky squirrels chatter at SUM-
rise and gnaw at the full grown nut.
The ash is crimson in color; the twigs
of the birches are tinged with yellow;
the maple exchanges it's silvery foli-
age for orange scarlet, and the sturdy
oak, yielding to strong winds-as
youths pride does to the duties of
manhood-strews the ground with the
glories of summer strength and feeds
the earth with the remnant of its
glory.
Every time Autumn visits US we are
warned by thousand voices to be
ready for such a peaceful departure.
Everything about US urges US to put
on immortal beauty and to lay up our
treasures in heaven. The decayed foil
age about us now will be succeeded by
the verdure of spring. This years de-
cay will nourish next years vegeta-
tion. So if we do Gods will He will
take US from these transient joys and
fading beauties of earth, only to give
US the endurable riches and the ex-
ceeding great weight of glory.
The leaf has it's mission in life. The
raindrop falls on it and sunbeams
shine upon it. 1t is kissed by the
breezes of heaven and famed by the
gentle zephyrs and it daily grows
with its delicate fibers and inhales
warmth from the sunbeam and mois-
ture from the dewdrop. While flow
ers wither and die, they leave their
fruitful seed behind. Apple blossoms
though scattered to the winds, leave
the tiny germ which ripens into fruit
but the leaf may be carried by the
storm to a heap of withered ones at
the foot of the tree and seemingly do
no good. 1t does not refreshen the
dropping flowers nor bring light and
warmth to the world, yet its mission is
to guard the fruit from the scorching
rays of the summer sun or the icy
touches of the frost king, and when
the ripened fruit is able to dispense
with it's protecting care, it puts on its
holiday garb of russet and gold and
crimson and is borne away to rest
with its seer companions in the hollow
of the grove. Each of US, like the
leaf. has his mission in life.
1t may not be grand and noble, as
the world rates it, or sublime, yet it is
a mission. We cannot do everything
but we can do something. Yes, the
leaves of the forest pass away, but
as they go they send shadow over
US reminding US that we, toe, shall
soon fade beneath the chilly blasts
and whitening frosts of the Autumn
of life and sink into the narrow house
appointed for all living.
How rapidly they are going! They,
too, fulfilled their mission and passed
on into the great unknown from which
no traveller returns. Our beloved dead.
They slipped away from us as quietly
as the leaves of the trees about US.
We laid them in the grave maybe
years ago, and now we are reminded
of those sad scenes of the past.
We see prattling childhood busy
with its toys and engrossed in its
pleasures. When the destroying an
gel as he passes by, touches one, the
voice is hushed, the bright eye is
closed, sadness fills the house, for the
blossom is faded, the light is gone out,
tile lltIle Duu is IfdilSpidlleu W UlOS-
som in the fertile soil of heaven.
Wasting fever smote its victim and
quickly sapped the life-current of
young and vigorous manhood that
gave promise of bright future. The
hectic flush, the pale cheek, the hollow
cough tells the story too well-life' s
current is ebbing Away, and in little
while we must lay him to rest with
others in the Lords garden. Some
are already hoary with the frosts of
three score and ten years and are al
most ripe for the reaper's sickle. They
remain like the last leaf on the tree
but one of these nights there'll come
a heavier frost and the morning light
will find them quietly slumbering with
the rest Some in the monday of life
are sinking in the race. When their
fondest expectations are about to be
realized, they suddenly fall. The heart
strings are severed, and like Autumn
leaves they fade and fall. One of the
characteristics of the present is that
we seem to be departing from the old
way of life and that way as described
by Dryden two hundred years ago, is
becoming more phenomenal
"Of no distemper, of no blast he died,
P,1t falI 1ilo f,.,,,+ +Io4 al