So should the blessing of the fields and woods Be moulded into curses? think it not! Cold and unfeeling man's ingratitude, Who to the season gave back such a lot, To drink the cup gemmed with a poison flood, And bitter with the felon's loathsome blot; Oh deeply on our bosoms rests the stain That never years shall wash away again. The wail of autumn winds was on the air, That played with forest trunks as little things; The demons of the storm, each from his lair, Shot forth and hissed upon the tempest wings; Rent from the old man's head the scanty hair, Sung on the north wind as the cordage sings: Little they spared him in their giant course, The whirling winds that owed him all their force. Again 't is winter, to the sons of men Come forth the snow and wind and driving sleet-- Again the storm-cloud lowers o'er the glen. Again the branches shiver at our feet. Faint and uncovered, over moor and fen, The weary man has come his doom to meet, The storms of winter beat upon his head, The record of his failing time is read. Chill to his heart strikes in the northern blast, Ending the season as the year began; December hastens to his final rest, Friendless by the dark cruelty of man. E'en now, while to his death-couch he is prest, A wail rings round his head so pale and wan, And withered flowers are ready for his bier, That mock the dying with his past career. His course has been with manhood, and his end Is fitting for a type of humankind, Around whose heavy head the laggard friend The veil of useless pity comes to bind. The dirge of his departure shall ascend From those who scarce recalled his life to mind, The tide of life above his grave rolls on, And few remember he is dead and gone. December passes, in the opening sky Of the new year's first morning breaks a star, The record he has left us here shall lie Beside us when his form is borne afar. Bending above his last farewell, I sigh That he has left us, ingrate as we are, And turning to the New Year, I behold A new-born spirit throned upon the old. [Illustration: Overvboard in the Gulf] OVERBOARD IN THE GULF. BY CHARLES J. PETERSON, AUTHOR OF "CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR," ETC., ETC. [SEE ENGRAVING.] "A man overboard!" I heard the cry distinctly as the dark waters whirled me astern. "Who?--where?" "Heave over a coop!" "Can you see him?" "Clear away the quarter-boat!" These were the cries that followed each other in rapid succession, accompanied with the hurried tread of feet, which rose even over the sounds of the whistling hurricane and of the roaring water in which I was immersed.