Year: 1870

/ think the old fellow has hitherto
had 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
were never frosty but kindly too; as if
iU had no reverend graces of its own
as good in their way as the noisy i'm
pertinence 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 is the
sleep of the year, what then! L take
it upon me to say that his dreams are
finer than the best reality OF his walk
ing rivals.


"sleeg, Silence, child, the falher of soft


Rest"


is a very agreeable acquaintance, and
most of US are better employed in his
company than anywhere else. For
my part, think winter a pretty wide
awake old boy, and his bluff sincerity
and hearty ways are more cOnSenial
to my mood, and more wholesome to
me, than any charms of which his ri
walls are capable.


Spring is a tickle mistress, who Ell
ther does not know her own mind, or
is so long making it up, whether you
shall have her or not have her, that
one gets tired of her pretty mitfs and
recOnciliatiOns. You 90 To her to be
cheered np a bit, and ten to one you
catch her in the sulks, expecting you
to find good humOr enough 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 friend
ship; but she has lost that delicious
aroma of maidenhOOd, and what was
delicately rounded grace i'm the girl,
gives more than 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; bat il is nothing more than a few
hectic leaves, when all is done. He
is but a sentimentalista after all; kind
of Iamartine whining along the an
cestraI avenues he has made bare tim
Der of, and begging a contribution of
spirits from your own savings TO Keep
him in countenance.


But Winter has his delicate Sensi-
bilities too, only he does not make
them as good as indelicate by thrust
ing them forever in your face. He is
a better poet than Autumn, when he
has a mind, but, like truly great
one. as he is, he brings you down to
your bare manhood, and bids you un-
derstand him out Of that, with no adj
ventitious help of association, or he
will none of you. He does not touch
those melancholy chords OH which
Autumn is as great 4 master - Heine.
Well, is there no such thingas thTIUm-
ming on them and maundering over
them till they get out Of tune, and
YOU wish some manly hand would
crash through them and leave them
dangling brokenly forever.


Take winter as you find him, and
he turns out to be Il thoroughly honest
fellow, with no nonsense in him, and
tOlerating none in you, which is
great comfort in the long run. He Is
not what they call genial critic; but
bring a real man along with YOU, and
YOU will find there is a Grabbed curl
Osity about the old cynic that you
would not exchange for all the crea-
my concessions Of Autumn. ''Sea-
sons of mists and mellow fruitful
ness" quOtha ? That's just it; Win
ter soon blows your head clear of fog
and makes you see things as they are;
/ thank him for it.


The truth is, between ourselves L
have a very good opinion Ofthe whole
family, who always welcome me
without makiug me feel as if | We're
too much of a poor relation: There
ought to be some kind of distance,
never so little, you know, to give the
true relish. They are as good cOmpa=
ny, the worst of them, as any know,
and | am not z little fiattered by a