THE BATTALION
9
Descending to the stream we may find it a great waring,
muddy torrent, swollen by recent rains, or else a quiet little
stream that swells and purls in the deep, clear pool, then
dashing out over the limestone pebbles, whirling and swirling,
producing that gentle murmur that makes us tire of the dal
lying perch and minnow and sink into a delightful repose.
As summer approaches, the green of the prairies become
more rank and ragged, the corn fields have grown into a dark
green expanse, and spots that were before, black and bare,
now glisten in the dark, glossy green of the cotton. Our
wheat fields grow yellow and wave as a great golden rippling
sea, until the monotonous click and whirr of the steel binder
commands,—being guided and directed by the microcosm,
man; when it is gathered together into walls and stands obe
dient to our will. The stream may have dried up until only
a few shallow pools here and there dot its bed. The long
lanes have become, in many places, almost enclosed on either
side by gigantic cockle burrs and sun flowers, and now these
gray ribbons of commerce send forth great clouds of dust at
each blow from the messengers of trade.
As summer advances, the shrill whistle and the clouds
of smoke and dust mark the presence of numerous steam
threshers, and then the heavy wagons go threading their way
to the nearest station, and one act of busy life is completed.
Autumn comes and O! hot! dusty! and dry! chills and
fever, and in many localities not infrequently that dreaded
disease, Typhoid fever, harass the inhabitants of this other
wise happy land. The great white laden cotton fields are
duty picked, hauled to the gin and pays homage to the sing
ing saws, and thence to market and away on the wings of
trade. The foliage of the trees of the nearby creek go through
all the various colors, and finalty finds a last resting, as with
all other living things, on the bosom of mother earth. The
prairie becomes gray and uninteresting, the fields, naked and
bare. Indian tummer settles down, the blue mist frequently
enveloping the very soul of man, making him a sour, sordid
creature whose companionship is sought by none.
The cycle of seasons is closed by grim old Winter, who,