 | Dream life |  |
Autumn.
THERE are those who shudder at the approach
of Autumn; and who feel a light grief stealing
over their spirits, like an October haze, as the evening
shadows slant sooner, and longer, over the face of an
ending August day.
But is not Autumn the Manhood of the year? Is
it not the ripest of the seasons? Do not proud flowers
blossom;—the golden rod, the orchis, the dahlia,
and the bloody cardinal of the swamp-lands?
The fruits too are golden, hanging heavy from the
tasked trees. The fields of maize show weeping
spindles, and broad rustling leaves, and ears, half
glowing with the crowded corn; the September wind
whistles over their thick-set ranks, with whispers of
red with ripeness; and tip their tops with clustering,
tri-cornered kernels.
The cattle loosed from the summer's yoke, grow
strong upon the meadows, new starting from the
scythe. The lambs of April, rounded into fullness
of limb, and gaining day by day their woolly cloak,
bite at the nodding clover-heads; or, with their noses
to the ground, they stand in solemn, circular conclave,
under the pasture oaks, while the noon sun beats with
the lingering passion of July.
The Bob-o'-Lincolns have come back from their
Southern rambles among the rice, all speckled with
gray; and—singing no longer as they did in Spring,—
they quietly feed upon the ripened reeds, that straggle
along the borders of the walls. The larks, with their
black and yellow breast-plates, and lifted heads, stand
tall upon the close-mown meadow; and at your
first motion of approach, spring up, and soar away,
and light again; and with their lifted heads, renew
the watch. The quails, in half-grown coveys, saunter
hidden, through the underbrush that skirts the wood;
and only when you are close upon them, whir away,
and drop scattered under the coverts of the forest.
The robins, long ago deserting the garden neighborhood,
feed at eventide, in flocks, upon the bloody
berries of the sumac; and the soft-eyed pigeons
at sun-rise, and gnaw off the full-grown burs of the
chesnuts. The lazy black-birds skip after the loitering
cow, watchful of the crickets, that her slow steps start
to danger. The crows, in companies, caw aloft;
and hang high over the carcase of some slaughtered
sheep, lying ragged upon the hills.
The ash trees grow crimson in color, and lose their
summer life in great gouts of blood. The birches touch
their frail spray with yellow; the chesnuts drop down
their leaves in brown, twirling showers. The beeches
crimped with the frost, guard their foliage, until each
leaf whistles white, in the November gales. The
bitter-sweet hangs its bare, and leaf-less tendrils from
rock to tree, and sways with the weight of its brazen
berries. The sturdy oaks, unyielding to the winds,
and to the frosts, struggle long against the approaches
of the winter; and in their struggles, wear faces of
orange, of scarlet, of crimson, and of brown; and
finally, yielding to swift winds,—as youth's pride yields
to manly duty,—strew the ground with the scattered
glories of their summer strength; and warm, and feed
the earth, with the debris of their leafy honors.
The maple, in the low-lands, turns suddenly its
silvery greenness into orange scarlet; and in the
coming chilliness of the Autumn eventide, seems to
catch the glories of the sunset; and to wear them—
of cloud, by day,—and of fire, by night.
And when all these are done;—and in the paved,
and noisy aisles of the city, the ailanthus, with all its
greenness gone,—lifts up its skeleton fingers to the
God of Autumn and of storms,—the dog-wood still
guards its crown; and the branches which stretched
their white canvass in April, now bear up a spire of
bloody tongues, that lie against the leafless woods, like
a tree on fire!
Autumn brings to the home, the cheerful glow
of `first fires.' It withdraws the thoughts from the
wide and joyous landscape of summer, and fixes them
upon those objects which bloom, and rejoice within
the household. The old hearth that has rioted the
summer through with boughs and blossoms, gives
up its withered tenantry. The fire-dogs gleam kindly
upon the evening hours; and the blaze wakens those
sweet hopes, and prayers, which cluster around the
fireside of home.
The wanton and the riot of the season gone, are
softened in memory, and supply joys to the season
to come;—just as youth's audacity and pride, give
a glow to the recollections of our manhood.
At mid-day, the air is mild and soft; a warm, blue
smoke lies in the mountain gaps; the tracery of distant
woods upon the upland, hangs in the haze, with
low with August drought; and frets upon the pebbly
bottom, with a soft, low murmur,—as of joyousness
gone by. The hemlocks of the river bank, rise in
tapering sheens, and tell tales of Spring.
As the sun sinks, doubling his disc in the October
smoke, the low, south wind creeps over the withered
tree-tops, and drips the leaves upon the land. The
windows that were wide open at noon, are closed;
and a bright blaze—to drive off the Eastern dampness,
that promises a storm,—flashes lightly, and kindly,
over the book-shelves and busts, upon my wall.
As the sun sinks lower, and lower, his red beams
die in a sea of great, gray clouds. Slowly, and quietly,
they creep up over the night-sky. Venus is shrouded.
The Western stars blink faintly,—then fade in the
mounting vapors. The vane points East of South.
The constellations in the Zenith, struggle to be seen;—
but presently give over, and hide their shining.
By late lamp-light, the sky is all gray and dark: the
vane has turned two points nearer east. The clouds
spit fine rain-drops, that you only feel, with your face
turned to the heavens. But soon, they grow thicker
and heavier; and, as I sit, watching the blaze, and—
dreaming—they patter thick and fast under the
driving wind, upon the window,—like the swift tread
of an army of Men!
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