AUTUMN LEAVES by Clara Edna Rosencrans

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Nov 2, 1915

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 42, No. 43.

AUTUMN LEAVES

By Clara Edna Rosencrans

Why Should Autumn Bring Sadness? — Should Plant in Spring, and Cultivate in Summer, if We Would Have Joy at Autumn Time

By CLARA EDNA ROSENCRANS

NATURE radiant with amber and gold and royal purple; the hillsides a wealth of glowing beauty in ever varying tints, running the gamut of color from deepest red to palest and most elusive shades of pink and gold; such skies as bend only over autumn woods, glowing with a more intense blue, flecked with whiter clouds, than summer days ever know. Tall spikes of sumac holding up flaming torches on all the hillsides. Even the poison ivy, dreaded by all country dwellers, has put on its livery of ruddy crimson, to gladden the eye and win some measure of approval, although it be but short-lived.

How I love these autumn days! How their beauty fills me with a rapture even deeper than that evoked by spring or summer! The old, turned out fields are prodigal of color; thistle blossoms enough to decorate a thousand holy roads; and gold enough, if minted, to enrich every pauper in the world; all thrown together in a pattern that would outvie the most aesthetic of Eastern weavers; pictures that cannot be reproduced upon canvas; odors that Persia, Arabia, or the islands of the sea cannot equal. All this feast every twelvemonth, so rich, so full, that it should last us all through the cold, hard winter, and make our hearts glad even amid the frost.

WHY SAD?

“Autumn always seems to give me a sad feeling.” Nadine uttered this not very original remark as she threw herself upon the couch in her auntie's cozy sitting room. Somehow Nadine had a way with her that made even trite sayings interesting. It was one of those golden days that come only in late autumn. A faint purple haze hung over the distant hills, while the rich odors of mature vegetation came to one's senses like drafts of new wine. Aunt Dorothea sat by the window, looking as sweet and peaceful as the autumn day itself. The busy, bustling activity of life was over with her, and she rested as quietly under the approving smile of heaven as did the broad harvested fields and the laden fruit boughs under the western sun.

“Yes,” said Aunt Dorothea, with a rising inflection; “but why?” Nadine arose, and coming across the room, dropped on a stool at her aunt's feet, and pillowed her brown head in the older woman's lap.

“Oh, I don't know! It seems as if the flowers all die, and everything stops, as soon as the frost comes,” she said, reaching up to stroke the soft hand that was smoothing her tumbled hair. “I feel a good deal the same about getting old.” Her aunt smiled at a remark so often heard upon the lips of the young.

HAVE RESULTS TO ENJOY

“What do we do in the spring and the summer, Nadine?”

“Oh, we plant things in the spring, and tend our crops in the summer.”

“And in the autumn?”

“Why, we gather in the crops,” said the girl. “Papa filled his barn with wheat and oats, and the cellar is just full of potatoes, pumpkins, and apples. Besides, mamma's fruit cupboard is running over with canned fruit and jelly.”

“And how we will enjoy it!” said her aunt. “But what does the earth do during the winter?”

“Why, it rests, I guess, or rather, goes to sleep.”

Aunt Dorothea looked out to where the hired man was burying a great heap of smooth brown potatoes, covering them up snug and warm against the freezing weather that was coming; and her heart read a parable, as we all may read it in the simplest things of nature if we but open our eyes to see.

“Well, let us come back to the beginning of our conversation. You say it makes you sad because it reminds you of approaching old age. Let me ask you another question: ‘Why should age be sad?’” Nadine suddenly sat up and looked into her aunt's kindly, sympathetic face.

SOMEHOW YOU ARE DIFFERENT

“You are not sad, auntie,” she said brightly, “but somehow you are different. Most old people seem to be left out of everything.”

Aunt Dorothea carefully counted the stitches in the dainty lace she was making, before she answered: “I know they are, and it is mostly their own fault. So many think they are getting old as soon as they find the first gray hair or the first crow's-foot makes its appearance, and shape their lives accordingly. Do you remember Mrs. Knight, who lives over by the falls?”

“What! That old woman who always goes around with her head swathed in black, and looks daggers at any one who laughs or smiles? I should say I do. She gives me nightmare even to look at her.”

SHE IS TO BE PITIED

“She is to be pitied, my dear, as she is a confirmed invalid; but I am going to use her as an illustration of the point I wish to make. Twenty years ago, she was one of the prettiest, brightest girls in the neighborhood. Educated at a fashionable boarding school, she was taught nothing except those accomplishments that would enable her to shine in polite society. She did not know how to cook a simple dish, or to mend her own clothes. When, shortly after a wealthy marriage, she lost both husband and fortune at one fell stroke, she was left utterly bankrupt, physically, mentally, and morally. Her knowledge of French, German, and music was entirely superficial, and not such that she could teach them. Of all else, she was more ignorant than a child of ten years should be. Destitute of anything to interest either herself or others, she sank, at the age of thirty, to the helpless nonentity you now see her, a misery to herself, and to the relatives of whose home she is an unwelcome inmate. She never tried to interest herself in others, and she simply would not try to learn anything useful. Even her music and German have been forgotten long ago, because she would not cultivate her mind.”

“Auntie, do you suppose I'll ever be like that?” said Nadine, shuddering.

“I trust not, dear, as you are well grounded in all the useful studies, and your mother's training has made you a thorough little housekeeper.”

WHAT SHE DID TO PREPARE FOR AUTUMN

Aunt Dorothea went to the bureau and opened a drawer. “Come here, Nadine,” she said. The girl came and knelt beside her aunt, putting one arm about the still trim, upright shoulders. In the drawers were neat boxes, each one labeled. The older woman took them out, and opened them one at a time. “These are samples of my mother's work from the time she was a wee tot up to the year before she died at the age of seventy.”

Nadine bent forward with a quick, in-drawn breath of delighted interest. There was the child's first tiny patchwork quilt, made and quilted by the little girl's small hands; the first knitted doll stocking; the first backstitching; a little hemstitched handkerchief yellowed by age, together with a sample of crochet work. These were the contents of the first box.

The next contained bits of the girl's work from the age of ten to fourteen years, the

first gushing schoolgirl composition, and the first poem.

Aunt Dorothea lifted a large box, and opening it, exhibited its contents to the wondering gaze of her niece—dainty embroideries, sheer, delicate ruffling, laces so filmy and soft they looked like cobwebs. The daughter's eyes filled with tears as she lifted one thing after another. Underneath was a book of poems, the work of mature years; oil paintings and water colors showing no small skill; and two or three scrapbooks, the accumulation of years of thought and study.

Always active in every good work, looking forward to a home beyond this earth, the close of her life was like the long, golden twilight after the sun has set.

“Your grandmother did a good deal of this work after she was my age,” said the aunt, a dreamy, far-away expression filling her brown eyes. “After father died, she came here to live with me; and I can see her now, sitting there by the window, busy with her embroidery or dainty sewing. She was one of the cheeriest companions I ever knew, and her faith and hope made her autumn time a joy to us all.”

HOW TO HAVE THE CROP FOR AUTUMN

Nadine drew a long breath; then leaning her smooth cheek against her aunt's wrinkled one, she said, “Thank you, auntie, for your lesson.”

“What is it, dear?”

“To tend my field in summer, that I may have a good crop for autumn,” said the girl softly, as the clock struck six, and she arose to prepare supper.

Aunt Dorothea smiled as she went back to her seat by the open window. The autumn sunlight fell with a loving glory upon the waves of her soft gray hair, as she sang to herself:

“The harvest home of God will come; And after toil and care, With joy untold, your sheaves of gold Will all be garnered there.”