Year: 1869

thshA Tie Olu iSilOW HAS DaU
scant justice done him in the main. We
make him the symbol Of old age or death, and
think We have settled the matter. As if old
age we're never frosty, but kindly too; as if
it had no reverend graces Of its own as good
IN their way as the noisy impertinence of
childhood, the elbowing self conceit of youth
or the pOmpous mediocrity of middle life
As If there were anything discreditable in
death, or nobody had ever longed for it.
Suppose We grant that winter rs the sleep of
the year. take i, upon me to say that bis
dreams are finer than the best reality of his
waking rivals


"Siesp, silence, child, the father of .oft rest"
Is very agreeable acquaintance, and most
OF US are better employed in his company
than anywhere else For my part I think
winter pretty wide awake old boy, and his
bluff sincerity and hearty ways are more
consenial to my mood, and more wholesome
for me, than any charms of which his rivals
are capable Spring is tickle mistress, who
either does not know her own mind, or is so
long in making it up, whether you shall
have her or not have her, that one gets tired
at last of her pretty miFs and reconciliations.
You go to her to be cheered up bit, and
ten to one catch her in the sulks, expecting
you to find enough good humor for both
After she has become Mrs Summer she
grows little more staid in her demeanor,
and her abundant table, where you are sure
to get the earliest fruits and vegetables Of
the season, is a good foundation for steady
frienship; but she has lost that delicious
aroma Of maidenhood, and what was deli
cately rounded grace in the girl, gives more
that hints of something like redundance in
the matron. Autumn is the poet of the
family. He gets you up splendor that
you would say was made out of real sun
set; but is nothing more than few hec.
tic leaves when all rs done He is but SEN
timentahst after all kind OF Lamartine,
whining along the ancestral avenues he has
made bare timber of, and begging a contri-
button of spirits from your own savings to
keep him in countenance. But winter has
his delicate scnsibiltics, too, only be does
not make them as good as Indeiicate by
thrusting them forever in your face He is
better poet than Autumn when be has
mind, but. ike truly great one as he is, he
brings you down to your bare manhood, and
bids you understand him out of that, with
no adyentitous helps of association, or he
will none of you. He does not tou IN those
melancholy chords on which Autumn is as
great master as Heine Well. is there no
such thing as drumming ON them and maun-
derinS over them till they get out of tune,
and you wish some manly hand would crash
through them and leave them dangling bro
ken forever?


Take Winter as you find him, and he turns
out to be thoroughly honest fellow, with
no nonse in lin, and tolersting none in you,
which is great comfort in the long run. He
is not what they call genial critic, but
bring real man along with you, and you
will find there is a grabbed generosity about
the old cynic that you would not exchange
for all the creamy concessions of Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, -
quoth? That just it; Winter soon blows
your head clear of fog and makes you see
things as they are; | thank him for it. The
truth is, between ourselves, have very
good opinion Of the whole family. who al
ways welcome me without making me feel as
if | were much of poor relation There
ought to be some kind of distance, never so
little you know, to give true relish. They
are as good company, the worst Of them, as
any know, and | am not little hattered
by condescension from any one of them,
but l happen to hold Winters retainer this
time, and, like an homes. advocate, ,am bound
to make as good a showing as | can for him,
even if it cost few slurs upon the rest of
the household. Moreover, Winter Is COM
ing, and one would like to get on the blind
sides of him. Russel LoaceH.