THE AQUARIUM, JULY, 1896. 



57 



soon it will be choked by frost into a 

 subterraneaneous gurgle ; the moun- 

 tains are beautifying themselves before 

 they lay off their robes of beauty for a 

 season; even the sea, with its gentle 

 rise and fall, and swelling breast, is 

 telling how its line of beach will soon 

 be driven snow, and its sands no longer 

 warm. What is there in life or in Na- 

 ture that says farewell more punctually 



then she sends the rest away one by 

 one, lingering herself until the last, in 

 our memories of the bygone season. 



There are certain things in Xature in 

 which we can discern a human sym- 

 pathy, a veritable kinship ; and if we 

 dismiss these things by referring them 

 to a general fixed law, then the sym- 

 pathy and the friendship are merely 

 transferred to the law. How persist- 



and more sweetly than Nature herself. 

 In spring she sends the early flowers, her 

 children, to foretell her coming, and 

 in autumn, instead of merely dis- 

 appearing, she summons all her chil- 

 dren and all her works to stand in full 

 array and make their tender adieu. 

 The order of departure reverses that of 

 coming. As summer goes she makes 

 this presentation of herself and hers ; 



ently and ingeniously she thrusts her- 

 self iipon our senses, claiming our 

 notice and beseeching our sympathy. 

 There is nothing unsightly of all the 

 unsightly things in the world which 

 she does not try to cover with her fresh 

 growths; she greens over battle and 

 ruin, and wipes off the blackening of 

 fire. We do our best to shut her out 

 in our cities, but it is all in vain. She 



