_AUTUMN;_
OR,
_THE DREAMS OF MANHOOD._
_DREAMS OF MANHOOD._
_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 plenty. The staggering
stalks of the buckwheat grow red with ripeness, and tip their tops with
clustering tricornered 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 fulness
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.
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