Winter.
December has come! Winter is here! These are common-place words, but they mean more, perhaps, than we are apt to consider.
Winter, then, means that the myriad leaves of the forest are shrivelled and torn from the trees, and scattered in the valley: it means that the sap of the trees has ceased to flow, and that these giants of the vegetable world have passed into a state of stupor, in which they must remain till spring again returns.
Winter means that the myriad races of annual weeds and plants are dead, to revive again no more; that myriads of blossoms have faded forever from the view; that the verdure of the forest has passed away; that the gemmed garment of the meadow is exchanged for the thin, brown mantle of leanness and poverty; that the velvet of the lawn has given place to the scanty covering of dried and faded grass.
Winter means that the minstrelsy of the birds is gone, and that the field and forest, so lately cheered by a thousand forms and sounds of happy existence are now silent, or rendered more dreary and desolate by the moaning winds. It means that the birds are gone to their southern retreats; that the myriad races of insects are dead; that the whole generation of butterflies has perished; that the grasshoppers have sung their last song; that even the pensive cricket has gone to his long home. It means that death has breathed on our portion of the world, and that nature herself, as if weary of her efforts, has fallen into a cold and fearful slumber.
Winter means all these melancholy things; but it also means something more. It means that the granary of the farmer is full; that his barn is supplied; that there is good and ample store for the beasts that look to man for support, and for man himself. It means, too, that the comfortable fire will be kindled, around which the family will assemble, and where, secure from the bitter blast without, there will still be peace, comfort, and content. It means, too, that there is such a thing as poverty, shivering, without fire, without food—perhaps, without sufficient shelter; and it means that charity should seek and save those who are suffering in such a condition.
And winter means something more than all this: it means, by its examples of decay and death, to teach us that we, too, must pass away; and that it is well for us to make preparation for the great event. Winter also brings us to the end of the year, and suggests a serious self-inquiry, and self-examination. It would ask us if the last year has been one of profit or loss? Are we better, and wiser, than when it began? Are we more kind, more just, more patient, more faithful, more fond of truth?—Summer is the season for the harvest of the field; winter is the season for the moral harvest of the heart. Let it not pass with any of us as a barren and unproductive season, in which we neither sow nor reap the fruits of wisdom and peace.