“AUTUMN.
And in the heavens the signs of death are hung;
For o’er the earth’s brown breast stalks pale decay,
And ’mong the lowering clouds the wild winds wail,
And sighing sadly, shout the solemn dirge
O’er Summer’s fairest flowers, all faded now.
The Winter God, descending from the skies,
Has reached the mountain tops, and decked their brows
With glittering frosty crowns, and breathed his breath
Among the trumpet pines, that herald forth
His coming.
The mountain oak bows down his hoary head,
And flings his withered locks to the rough gales
That fiercely roar among his branches bare,
Uplifted to the dark, unpitying heavens.
The skies have put their mourning garments on,
And hung their funeral drapery on the clouds.
Dead Nature soon will wear her shroud of snow,
And lie entombed in Winter’s icy grave!
The joys of youth—bright beauties of the Spring—
Grow dim and faded, and the long, dark night
Of death’s chill winter comes. But as the Spring
Rebuilds the ruined wrecks of Winter’s waste,
And cheers the gloomy earth with joyous light,
So o’er the tomb the star of hope shall rise,
And usher in an ever-during day.”
“Garfield, what are you going to do with yourself this vacation?” inquired Bolter, just as the fall term was closing.
“I am considering that question now. How should I make it teaching penmanship, do you think?”
“You would do well at it; and the vacation is long enough for you to teach about ten lessons.”
James was a good penman for that day, and he had taken charge of a writing-class in school for a time. The style of his penmanship would not be regarded with favour now by teachers in that department; nevertheless, it was a broad, clear, business style, that country people, at least, were then pleased with.
“Think I could readily get a class?” continued James.
“No doubt of it. Strike right out into the country, almost anywhere, and you will find the way open.”
“I am quite inclined to take a trip into New Hampshire, to see what I can do. I have some distant relatives there: my mother was born there.”
“Well, if you go where your mother was born, you will not be likely to get into bad company, though there is enough of it in New Hampshire.”
“Acquainted there?”
“As much as I want to be. There is too much of the pro-slavery democracy there for me; but they need to improve their penmanship awfully, Garfield. It won’t interfere with your business.”
The conversation proceeded in a kind of semi-jovial way until the bell rang for recitation. The upshot was that James opened a writing-school in Pownal, Vermont, instead of in New Hampshire. He met with some party who directed his steps to this small town, where he taught a large class in penmanship, in the village schoolhouse. It proved a profitable venture to him, both financially and socially. He added quite a little sum to his private treasury, besides making many warm friends and enlarging the sphere of his observation and experience.
As he spent the next winter vacation in New York State, we may relate the circumstances here. He went to Poestenkill, a country village about six miles from Troy, N.Y., where there was a Disciples’ Church, over which a preacher by the name of Streeter was settled. Here he opened a school of penmanship, thereby earning a few dollars in addition to paying his expenses. His efforts in the religious conference meeting were so marked that the pastor invited him to occupy his pulpit on the Sabbath; and the invitation
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