The Thought Of The Hour

The lusoious magnifictsnoe of suminer has passed away ; the wealth of bloom, the chorus of amber throated songsters, and the mellow warmth of the atmoaphere. The golden wbeat fields are shorn of their splendor, the orchards have blooined in their second glory, and dropped their crimaon and golden fruits into the waiting lap of humanity ; and now autumn has hung his scarlet ensign in the woods, and the white mist comes up damp and chilling from the marshes in the morning like some pale presence folding up its ghostly garments and stealing back to the land of shadows. Instead of merry bird songs, one hears but the sobbing of the wind through the forsaken branches; there seeins to be nothing left, not even our old merry salves, and we wander about looking vainly for some familiar token in nature, with dull eyes and heavy hearts. But while we are mourning over the departed days of beauty and brightnes?, the spirit of the vanished summer rises before us with its golden glory of floating mysteries, holding us under the spell of its radiant loveliness, and cheering us like a aweet promise. Deep in the forest glades the curling 1 streama gleam gilver bright ; above the skiea are deep calm blue, the sunaet'a gold, and the exquisite sorenity Hiid tranquil enjoyment are beyoud even the bright fitful hopes of spring. For this interval, coming justfrom thecotnuiencenient of decline, seein8 like a renewal of all that former seasons have proffered of fair and sweet. The very tokens of decay sre lovely ; and yet there ia a time of melancholy about everything ; asBryant says, " The mplancholy daya have come, the aaddest of the year." For thia is a farewell, and for that very reason the Ia8t lingering flowera, the brilliant leaves, the persevering ainging birda are even more prized than thoae which, in earlier months, came lessat present boon8 than as foretastes of the future. In a few short days, alas ! Indian Summer, that passing visión of past and future pleasurea, is huuted down before the ioy spears of Winter ; and Summer's blootn and aplendor is wrapped in its burial robes to await its Springtide reaurrection!