The Rescue of an Old Place 



winter, the sheets of snow, the chains of 

 ice, that bind the earth until her re-awak- 

 ening. 



How swift the silent succession of the 

 '' months ! September seems to tread upon 

 the train of June, it is so quickly here, so 

 quickly gone. The Goldenrod is the first 

 plume of the year's hearse, yet when its 

 earliest yellow feathers wave we burn un- 

 der the hot breath of summer, but ere they 

 lose all their gold, the hand of death is 

 on the grass, and the brown leaves have 

 fallen. 



Autumn A cold rain patters on the gravel walk, 



and the branches of the trees are dripping 

 as they hang unstirred. The sky is gloomy 

 and leaden, one vast gray cloud sullenly 

 enwraps the heavens. There is no hope, 

 no outlook ; all is sad and drear, rain 

 over head, a wet earth under foot Sum- 

 mer has gone ; the chill of autumn is here. 

 But hark ! what is that murmur ? It is the 

 northwest wind blowing his distant horn, 

 and in a twinkling the leaden skies are 

 broken with windows of light. The gray 

 scud whisks up toward the zenith, the 

 wet trees shake off their burden, and wave 

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