California Agriculturist and Live Stock journal. 



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^ Autumn of Life- 



^^["^LIXG down the faded blossoms of the Spring, 

 Nor clasp the rost b with regretful hftnd; 

 The joy of Summer is a vanished thing; 

 ^- -y- Let it depart, and learn to understand 

 ^GV The gladness of great calm — the Autumn's rest, 

 T* A^ The peace— of human joys the latest and the beat! 



Ah! I remember how in early days 



The primrose and the wild-flower grew beside 

 My tangled forest paths, whose devious ways 



Filled me with joys of mysteries untried, 

 And terror that was more than half delight. 

 And sense of budding life, and longings infinite. 



And now I remember how, in Life's ho* noon. 



Around my i)ath the lavish roses shed 

 Color and fragrance, and the air of June 



Breathed rupture — now these Summer days are fled; 

 Days of sweet peril, when the sepent lay 

 Lurked in every turn of life's enchanted way. 



The light of Spring, the Summer glow, are o'er, 



And 1 rejoice in knowing that for me 

 The woodbine and the roses bloom no more. 



The tender green is gone from field aud tree; 

 Brown barren sprays stand clear against the blue. 

 And leaves fall fast, and let the truthful sunlight 

 through. 



For me the hooded herbs of Autumn grow. 

 Square-stemmed and sober, mint and sage, 



Horehound and balm — such plants as healers know; 

 And the decline of life's long pilgrimage 



Is soft and sweet with marjoram and thyme, 



Bright with pure evening dew, not serpent's glittering 

 slime . 



And round my path the aromatic air 



Breathes health and perfume, and the turfy ground 

 Is soft for weary feet, and smooth and fair 



With little thomless blossoms that abound 

 In safe dry places, where the mountain side 

 Lies to the setting sun, and no ill beast can hide. 



What is there to regret ? ^Vhy should I mourn 

 To leave the forest and the marsh behind, 



Or towards the rank, low meadows sadly turn? 

 Since here another loneliness I find. 



Safer and not Ites beautiful— and blest 



With glimpses, faint and far, of the loug-wished-for 

 Rest. 



And BO I drop the roses from my hand. 

 And let the thorn-priclis heal, and take my way 



Down hill, across a fair and peaceful land 

 Lapped in the golden calm of dying day ; 



Glad that the night is near, and glad to know 



That, rough or smooth the way. I have not far to go. 



Nature's Nobleman. 



Away with false fashion, so calm and so chill. 



Where ])leasure itself cann(.it please; 



Away witli cold breedings that faithlessly still 



Aflfects to be quite at its ease; 



For the deepest in feeling is highest in rank, 



The freest is first in the band, 



And nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank 



Is a man with his heart in his hand." 



Feerless in hunesiy, gentle, yet just, 



He warmly can love, and can hate. 



Nor will he bow down with his face in the dust 



To Fashion's intolerant state: 



For best in good-breeding and highest in rank. 



Though lowly or poor in' the land. 



Is nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank— 



The man with his heart in his hand. 



His fashion is passion sincere and intense, 



His impulses simple and true. 



'Tis tempered by judgment and taught by good sense, 



And cordial with me and with you; 



For the finest in manners as highest in rank, 



It is you, man! or you, man, who stand 



Nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank— 



A man with his heart in his hand! 



Out From the River, 



Cluse her eyes tenderly, do not despise her— 

 Gone is the spirit for judgment above; 



She was doetitute— none to advise her, 

 She was so beautiful— true to her love. 



Homeless and penniless, he who adored her 

 Stricken in youth by the cold hand of death; 



"one was all comfort the world could aftbrd her; 

 Soon she grew weary, and sickened to death. 



She was a stranger to shame, but the tempter 

 Plied her pour soul with his subtlest arts, 



Bravely she conquered— but God will exempt her. 

 Some said that she with dishonor had part. 



It was false; but the slanders filled her with sadness 



1 (uute.l the finger of scorn at her head! 

 She ill wiM agnoy, driven to madness, 



Rushi'd tn the river: and here she lies dead. 

 Clns. her eyes tenderly, thou who art wiser, 



PeucefuUy fold the poor hands on her breast- 

 Do nut be merciless, do not despise her. 



Pity her loneliness— lay her to rest. 



The Apple Bee. 



Twenty years and threo! .\h me! Twenty years and 



three. 

 And there we sit— a basket of apples on my knee; 

 Busy fingers pare and slice, but busy thoughts will go 

 Beak to a happy, blissful time, twenty-three y'rs ago. 



The scent of the fragi'ant apple, the scraping sound of 



the knife 

 Take m.ickck o'er a lapse of time to a scene in earlier 



life: 

 Take me back to a country home, a home I no more 



may kn"w. 

 Back tu a rustic apple-bee, twenty-three y'rs ago. 



Back to a farmer's kitchen, in Autumn eventide, 



The basket of apples ig on my knee, and the dear one 



at my side; 

 Happy, smiling girls and boys as thick as they can 



stow. 

 Paring and slicing apples, twenty-three years ago. 



I live again those golden hours, I see again that happy 



throng 

 I listen again to the sound of mirth or the loug-for- 



goten song: 

 Blushing apples and blushing cheeks, like visions 



come and go. 

 And I steal a glance at those bright eyes, twonty-three 



years ago. 



Do you remember, dearest, the words we whispered 

 then? 



And does the spell of the golden hours come back in 

 dreams again? 



Do you remember those apple peels we o'er our beads 

 did throw, 



Anb the letters they made on the sanded floor, twenty- 

 three years ago? 



I wonder if the boys and girls keep up those gather- 

 ings yet. 



Those good old-fashioned apple-bees they surely don't 

 forget; 



I wonder, wife, if our bonny boys will ever, ever 

 know 



The joys of that rustic apple-bee, twenty-three years 

 ago! 



Fallen Leaves. 



The wint-y breeze disrobes the trees 

 And leaves them sad and cheerless, 



Whose open arms dread no alarms, 

 Like giants hold and fearless. 



The withering blast comes rushing past 

 And grasps the leaves in cold embrace, 



Till on the ground their glow is found — 

 Their beauty perished in its place. 



The Summer flew and Autumn too. 



Then chilly night and morning 

 Came down amain, with ice. cold rain, 



And smote them withuut warning. 



They trembling pass across the grass, 



Or on the path of gravel, — 

 Making a bed soft to the tread. 



Where children like to revel. 



The rustling noise delights the boys, 



Who are in but life's dawning. 

 While from the trees by slow degrees. 



Comes signs of death-like warning. 



Like fiocks of quail, away they sail, 



A whirring, golden column, 

 Leaving all pale to meet the gale 



The maples bare and solemn. 



They pile the gi-ound in heaps around; 



I hear in walking through them. 

 A wrestling voice, as if they called 



To one who loved and knew them. 



—The Hartford Times. 



Work. 



BY ALICE CAKY. 



Down and up, and up and down, 

 Over and over and over; 



Turn in the little seed, dry and brown- 

 Turn out the bright red clover. 



Work, and the suii your work will share. 

 And the rain in its time will fall; 



For nature, she worketh everywhere. 

 And the grace of God through all. 



With hand on the spade, and hearts in the sky. 



Dress the ground and till it; 

 Tviru in the little seed, brown and dry; 



Turn out the golden millet. 

 Work, and your house shall be duly fed; 



Work, and rest shall be duly won; 

 I hold that a man had better be dead 



Than alive when his work is done! 



Down and up, and up and down, 



On the hill-top, low in the valley; 

 Turn in the little seed, dry and brown. 



Turn out the rose and lily. 

 Work with a plan, or without a plan. 



And your ends they shall be shaped true; 

 Work and learn at first-hand like a man — 



The best way to know is to do, 



Down and up till life shall close, 



Ceasing not your praises. 

 Turn in the wild, white Winter snows; 



Turn out the sweet Spring daisies, 

 Work, and the sun your work will share, 



And the rain in its timi will fall; 

 For nature, she worketh everywhere. 



And the grace of God through all.J 



Song of the Seasons. 



Gaunt Winter flinging flakes of snow, 

 Deep burdening field and wood and hill; 

 Dim days, dark nights, slow trailing fogs. 

 And bleakened nir severe aad chill. 

 And swift the seasons circling run — 

 And still they change till all is done. 



Young Spring with promise in her eyes. 

 And fragrant breath from dewy mouth. 

 And magic touches from the nooks 

 Of budding flowers when wind is south. 

 And swift th»^ seasons circling run— 

 And so they chauge till all is done. 



Then Hummer stands erect and tall. 

 With early sunrise for ihe lawn, 

 Thick foliaged woods und glittering seas, 

 And loud bird chirpings in the dawn. 

 And swift the seasouK circling run — 

 And so they chauge till all is done. 



Brown Autunm, quiet with ripe fruits, 

 And haggards stacked with harvest gold. 

 And fiery flushes for the leaves, 

 And Hil-nt cloud-skies soft outrolled. 

 And so the eeaeous circling run— 

 And still they change till all is done. 



Swift speeds our Life from less to more. 

 The child, the man. the work, the re«t, 

 The sobering mind, the ripening soul. 

 Till yonder all is bright and blest. 

 For so the seasons circling run — 

 And swift they chauge till all is done. 



Yes. yonder— if indeed the orb 



Of life revolves round central Light, 



For ever true to central force 



And steadfast, come the balm or blight. 

 And so indeed the seasons run — 

 And last is best when all is done. 



1775-1875. 



Looking back a hundred years, 



And comi)ai ing the now and then, 

 It Seems to me that in spite of fears 



The country has earnest men, 

 As willing to draw the sword lor right, 



As ready to wield the pen. 

 It seems tome that in faithful hearts 



The currents yet ebb and flow, 

 With a constant motiofl th:tt still imparts 



As steady and clear a glow 

 Of zeal for freedom's glorious arts, 



As a hundred years ago. 

 It seems to me that in field or forge. 



By river and by rill, 

 In fertile plain and mountain gorge, 



In city or hamlet, still 

 They live as they did in the days of King George, 



Of Concord and Bunker Hill. 

 I do not know that the hands are weak. 



Or the brain unused to plan; 

 That the tongue delays the truth to speak, 



Or the foot to march in the van; 

 But I know full will that we need not seek 



In vain for a Minute Man. 

 There are men to-day that would stand alone 



On the bridge Horatius kept; 

 There are men who would fight at Marathon. 



Who would battle with Stark of Bennington, 

 "When flashing from sabre and flint-lock gun 



The fires of Freedom lept. 



It is well to look back with pride and boast, 



It is better to look ahead; 

 The past tu all is a dream at most. 



The future is life instead; 

 And standing unmoved at your duty's post 



Is truthfully praisiug the dead. 



The Absurdity of It. 



It is all very well for the poets to teli. 



By way of their song adorning, 

 Of milkmaids who rouse to manipulate cows 



.\t five o'clock in the morning; 

 And of many young mowers who bundle out-doore — 



The charms of their straw-beds scorning — 

 Before break of ^\uy, tu make love and hay. 



At five o'clock in the moruine: — 



But. between you and me, it is all tuitrue— 



PeliL--ve not a word they utrer: 

 To no milkmaid alive does the finger of five 



Bring beaux— or even bring butter. 

 The poor sleepy cows, if tu!d to arouse, 



Wonld do so, perhaps in a homing; 

 But the sweet country girls, would they show their 

 curls 



At five o'clock in the morning? 



It may not be wrong for the man in the song — 



Or the moon— if anxious to settle, 

 To kneel in wet grass, and pop: but, alas! 



What if he popped on a nettle? 

 For how could he see wha: was under his knee. 



If, in spite of my friendly warning. 

 He went out of bcil and his house and his head, 



At five o'clock in the morning? 

 It is all very well for such stories to tell. 



But if I were a maid, all-forlom-ing. 

 And a lover should drop in the clover, to pop. 



At five o'clock in the uiomiug. 

 If I liked him. you see, I'd say, "Please call at three;*' 



If not. I'd turn on bim with scorning; 

 "Don't come here, you flat, with conundrums like 

 that, 



At five o'clock in the morning!" 



