This morning we woke to see a cold, heavy dew sparkling on yard and roof and tree. There was a chill in the air and a sort of wide, sad hush over everything. The grain fields were bare; the first cosmos were in bloom (that gallant foreteller of coming cold, that stands till the frost strikes again and again): the asparagus row was a luxuriant mass with the berries just beginning to glint red; the melon vines were beginning to wither, feeding their gorgeous vitality into their offspring. Truly late August is the middle-age of the year. Every where is the premonition of fall; the ending of one generation's work; the sacrifice of foliage and exuberance for the sake of the fruit; the hint of approaching winter and rest.
So goes the cycle of the seasons and of life. Soon the babies will be school children: then college students: then full grown men and women. And we, like the vines and the tress and the rest of nature, will sink gently into rest, having drawn sustenance from the elements only to give it to these our fruit, so that they might be strong and rich and in their turn grow and sustain life, and having spent their beauty pass along.
These are the sad thoughts that first signs of autumn bring to use. But a little later, when we have adjusted ourselves to the new order, we will find invigoration in the tang of fall; we will have more zest when the air is crisp and cold; even, if we make the most of opportunity, grow richer, more colorful and handsome in the autumn season, as the trees do. And as Faith put it, "Grow lovely, going old."