There is something in the approach of autumn, the border land of summer, that is depressing, just as if the shadow of death were brooding over the future. There are dark clouds in the sky which cut off the sunshine; there is a gloom in the heart which darkens hope and makes life "scarcely worth living." The wind has a mournful cadence, and the trees saw as if the motion were a sigh of sorrow. Everything seems to harmonize with the prevailing spirit of sadness, and animate nature moans forth a dirge. Dew drops seem like tears, and the evening breeze is a sigh. The moon itself seems to wear a garb of grief and floats among the clouds, a tear-stained Diana. It is a season for men to grow mad, for anguish to gnaw at the heart, and for melancholy to usurp the throne of reason. The retina only receives dark impressions, the tympanum transmits none but doleful sounds. One is feasted on dismal thoughts on every hand until it becomes a regular symposium of sorrow. Those imps, the Blues, that feed one on dejection, are in their heyday, implacable as a Nemesis, persistent as a Devil. They revel in gloom and drag one down to the Slough of Despond. Work is performed mechanically, and what in its nature is amusement, is now a bore. One "sucks melancholy from a song as a weasel sucks eggs," and longs for night that he may seek forgetfulness in sleep—the twin-sister of Death. A miserable world this, when the year is falling "into the sear and yellow leaf;" and there is a lingering wish that the shadows which come from the West would bring that icy breath that gives forgetfulness and rest.
POEMS.
By WILFRID EARL CHASE, Madison.
Copyright, 1913, by the Author.
FAITH
Maze of antinomies and miracles!
Bewildered, purblind we are led along
This rock-strewn, flower-decked, mystic, wondrous way.
Whence came? What are we? Whither are we led?
Wherefore journey we? Why such fickle path?
And Nature's myriad answers, voiced in the storm's
Wild tumult, fringed on the gentian's azure cup,
Or limned on human brow, we would descry,—
And some we darkly guess, and some we almost know.
BOOK OF THE GREEN LAKE MANSE.
A SEQUEL TO THE RHYMED STORY OF WISCONSIN.
By J. N. DAVIDSON.
MY NEIGHBOR'S CHICKENS
(The following verses express no grievance of my own. I could not ask for more considerate neighbors. But all gardeners are not so fortunate, and it is for their sake and at the suggestions of one of them that these lines were written.)
Sometimes I say "The Dickens!
There are my neighbor's chickens!"
My neighbor I like well
But—let me grievance tell—
I do not like his chickens;—
Save when he bids me to a roast
And plays the part of kindly host.