Show something to think about ay B F A WALKER LIKE BROWN LEAVES HOSE high resolves resolve which we T THOSE made only yesterday are toda today y neu crying hither ond and thither ilk like e blown leaves in a november pale twenty four hours houra ago we were very serious loua this morning in anticipation of a days pleasure plea suro we are decidedly frivolous we do not care to spoil the day with sober thoughts we are young and the years lie before us we can settle down to the steady motion odthe of the treadmill when we find wo we have to do it but not now while the horizon Is unsullied by a cloua cloud and nil all the surround bags about us are bright and inviting callin ing us to quaff from the golden goblet the wine of pleasure thus speak the thoughtless doomed in later years to bo be blown about like dried leaves that have been bitten by the alio frost and torn tom from the lashing boughs of their mother treo tree by iha gales we cannot always cling to the moth er breast or sleep beneath the roof brou trou of our father some day we must face the cold winter inter alone possibly a no condition to adapt ourselves to the change rudely awakened perhaps to lo find the merciless storms beating about us ua whipping and driving un im nt at will like withered leaves to be trodden under toot foot so ao naw while we are young lot let oa as store our minds with useful knowledge and strengthen our bodies by taking good care of them let us look upon the beads hen pa and clusters t rs of the blown leaves of humanity in the parka of the great cities along the wharves la in the drab alleys being swept along by the passing winds knowing not where they are going or what shall be their end notice their rags and woebegone faces in the springtime they were clin clinging ging to their mother breast breas t and sleeping 9 until late into in tho morning beneath the rooftree roof tree of their father now they are alone the rigor of 0 winter Is too much for them to endure they shiver in the snow abow and stabbing cold they are untrained unskilled their minds are empty the passing throngs shun them leaving them alone with their own bitter reflections blown leaves useless and forsaken Q by mcclure newspaper New paper syndicate |