domestic hearths, during the festival of Christmas, is chiefly remarkable for the peculiarity of its growth-being always found adhering to, and deriving its nourishment from the juice of some tree, and never attached to the earth. It flowers early in the year, but its berries do not make their appearance till December. They are eagerly fed on by the thrushes, fieldfares, redwings, and birds of this family. The plant is principally found attached to the apple-tree, but infests many of the inhabitants of the British forests. It is least frequently found on the oak-on which its occurrence is so rare as to be reckoned a curiosity by botanists. The mistletoe seems to be confined to certain localities. It abounds in the orchards of Hereford, Worcester, and Gloucester, is rarely found in the north of England, and in Scotland is said to be confined to one locality only.

During the severity of the frost, little work can be done out of doors by the husbandman. As soon as it sets in, he takes the opportunity of the hardness of the ground to draw manure to his fields. He lops and cuts timber, and mends thorn hedges. When the roads become smooth from the frozen snow, he takes his team and carries hay

and corn to market, or brings coals for himself and neighbours. The barn resounds with the flail, by the use of which the labourer is enabled to defy the cold weather.

In towns the poor are pinched for fuel and food, and charity is peculiarly called for at this comfortless time of the year. Many trades are at a stand during the severity of the frost. Rivers and canals being frozen up, watermen and bargemen are without employment. The harbours in this island, however, are never locked up by the ice, as they are for many months in the northern parts of Europe.

Occasionally, however, we enjoy, even in January, days which we, for the moment, regard as of exceeding beauty because, perhaps, of the contrast between them and seasonable weather amidst which they occur. The sun shines bright and warm, the gnat is tempted forth from its secret dormitory, and we are apt to forget that the winter is not yet "past and gone." The morrow recals us to a full sense of our position in the scale of the seasons-the sky is black and threatening, or a pelting storm of snow and sleet so alters the fair face of nature, that we are glad

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once more to take refuge from her frowns, amid the delights of the social hearth.

The lover of nature, however, will not be altogether deterred from seeking amusement out of doors, even by the inclemency of the season. As a pleasing and observant writer has remarked-the man is infinitely mistaken who supposes that there is nothing worth seeing in winter time, out of doors, because the sun is not warm, and the streets are muddy. Let him, by dint of good exercise, get out of the streets, and he will find enough. In the warm neighbourhood of towns he may still watch the fieldfares, thrushes, and blackbirds; the tit-mouse seeking its food through the straw thatch; the redwings, fieldfares, skylarks, and titlarks upon the same errand, over the wet meadows; the sparrows, yellow-hammers, and chaffinches still beautiful, though mute, gleaning from the straw and chaff in farmyards; and the ring-dove, always poetical, coming from her meal on the ivy-berries. About rapid streams he may see the various habits and movements of herons, woodcocks, wild ducks, and other water-fowl, which are obliged to quit the frozen marshes to seek their food there: and in his walks he will be

gratified by the cheerful movements, and, perhaps, charmed by the song of the redbreast flitting about the cottage door.

The amusements of sliding, skating, and other pastimes on the ice, give life to this dreary season; but our frosts are not continued and steady enough to afford us such a share of these diversions as some other nations enjoy.

The opening and the close of the year each affords topics and occasions for mournful meditation. One of the most distinguished female writers of our time has some fine reflections appertaining to the season, in a poem entitled "Stanzas on the New Year."

I stood between the meeting years,
The coming and the past;

And I ask'd of the future one

Wilt thou be like the last?

The same in many a sleepless night,

In many an anxious day?
Thank Heaven! I have no Prophet's eye,

To look upon thy way!

For sorrow like a phantom sits,

Upon the last year's close:

How much of grief, how much of ill,

In its dark breast repose!

Shadows of faded hopes flit by,

And ghosts of pleasures fled :

How have they chang'd from what they were! Cold, colourless, and dead.

I think on many a wasted hour,

And sicken o'er the void;
And many darker are behind,
On worse than nought employ'd.

Oh, vanity! alas, my heart!
How widely hast thou stray'd;
And misused every golden gift,
For better purpose made!

I think on many a once-loved friend,
As nothing to me now;

And what can mark the lapse of time
As does an alter'd brow?

Perhaps 'twas but a careless word

That sever'd friendship's chain;
And angry pride stands by each gap,
Lest they unite again.

Less sad, albeit more terrible,
To think upon the dead,
Who, quiet in the lonely grave,
Lay down their weary head.

For faith, and hope, and peace, and trust,
Are with their happier lot;

Though broken is their bond of love,
At least we broke it not.