"The flowers are dying one by one, the leaves are falling fast,
Oak, elm, and beech trees howl aloud amid the sobbing blast,
And every bronzed thicket copse in its expiring dyes-
Stirred by the wailing winds, gives out a requiem of sighs;
The maple hath the hectic flush of some consumptive thing,
That looketh ever beautiful amid its withering;

The wrecks of all that once was fair are strewn on every side,
And withered bloom and shrivelled leaf are scattered far and wide."
MARTIN. INTELLECTUAL READING Book.
Y

HE summer is indeed gone-the autumn is failing fast. The birds are all silent, save the "household bird," who

earns his title by haunting the thresholds and window sills and casting side-long glances in at doors, as if to reconnoitre the positions of all within, before the pinching frost force him to lay aside his fears, and flit in and out silently like a

winged spirit. All are now silent except him, but he, as he sits on the painted railings beside the doorway, or on the topmost twig of the little blackthorn that has been left growing in the otherwise closely-clipped hedge, pipes plaintive ditties with a low inward voice-like that of a melancholy maiden, as she sits apart from her companions, and sings soft melodies to herself almost without knowing it.

Some of the other small birds that winter with us, but have hitherto kept aloof from our dwellings now approach them, and mope about among the house sparrows on the bare branches, wondering what has

become of all the spare leaves, and not knowing one tree from another. Of these the chief are the hedge sparrow, the blue titmouse, and the linnet. These, also, with the goldfinch, thrush, blackbird, &c., may be still rifling the high and low-grown hedges of their scanty fruit. Almost all, however, even of those singing birds that do not migrate, except the redbreast, wren, hedge sparrow, and

titmouse disappear shortly after the commencement of this month, and go no one knows whither. But the pert house sparrow keeps possession of the garden and court-yard all the winter; and the different species of wagtails may be seen busily haunting the clear, cold, spring heads, and wading into the unfrozen water in search of their delicate food, consisting of insects in their aurelia state.

Now the farmer finishes all his out-of-door work before the frost sets in, and lays by his implements till the awakening of spring calls him to hard labour again.

Now, the sheep, all their other more natural food failing, begin to to be penned on patches of the turnip fields, where they first devour the green tops joyfully, and then gradually hollow out the juicy root,

holding it firm with their feet till nothing is left but the dry brown husk.

Now, the herds stand all day long, hanging their disconsolate heads beside the leafless hedges, and waiting as anxiously, but as patiently too, to be called home to the hay-fed stall as they do in summer to be driven to a field.

Now, cold rains come deluging down, till the drenching ground,

the dripping leaves, and the torn, ragged-skirted clouds, seemingly dragged down slantways by the threads of dusky rain that descended from them, are all mingled together in blind confusion, while the

few cattle that are left in the open pastures, forgetful of their, till now, interminable business of feeding, turn their backs upon the besieging storm and hanging down their heads till their noses almost