Fireside Musings.

FALL!

fall.

How eloquent the word! The flowers fall in the gardens, the fruits fall in the orchards, the nuts fall in the woods, 'the stars' fall in the sky, the rains fall from the clouds, the mercury falls in the tubes, the leaves fall every where, and FALL it is.

The wind is sighing round the corners, moaning over the thresholds, singing at the windows, roaring over the chimney-tops, and harping through the forests.

The gray clouds look angry and sullen. The great, heavy drops come driving against the window-panes; the cattle stand in the fields, with the wind astern; the sheep gather under the lee of the barn. They 'banked up' the house, yesterday; put the cabbages in the cellar, the day before; will cover the potatoes

to-morrow. MACK and PORT call for their mittens the blue and white mittens-the immemorial mittens, tethered with a string.

The black-birds, a rabble rout, hold high council of flight, on a dry elm in the meadow; there is a twitter, and a flutter, and a great acclamation. Up go the swallows in a cloud; away ride the sparrows on the billowy air. The robin and his wife hear the sound of wings in the thicket, and go too. The owl looks out from his hollow tree, and gathers still closer, his russet muffler about his ears.

The ridged and tawny fields look like corduroy ; their rustling and golden glories have departed. The corn stands shivering in long lines, wrapped in rusty overalls, like a regiment of

'Old Continentals in their ragged regimentals;'

The pumpkins lie in great heaps, here and there, liko cannon-shot.

Little flurries' of snow whirl doubtfully through the cloudy air, and sift over the dark, old fallow. The sun goes down with a bounce; it is dark before night.

The asparagus is bundled out of the fire-place, the old andirons are wheeled into line, the hearth is a