the branches of trees and shrubs, and the smallest cannot escape them, as there is no British bird that has so diminutive a bill. The golden-crested wren, though a smaller bird, has a much longer mandible than the parus caudatus. Their nest is as singular in its construction as the bird is in its habits; it is made of a considerable size, to contain a numerous family, shaped somewhat like a bag, externally formed of herbaceous lichens, collected from the blackthorn and the maple, and lined with such a profusion of feathers, that the young ones appear almost smothered in a feather bed. (See our last volume, p. 289.)

The foggy mornings of November are favourable to the growth and appearance of mushrooms; and to range the reeking meadows in search of them, at an early hour in the morning, is the occupation of many of the village children. The fungi or mushroom tribe are very numerous, and of singular construction'.

A successful attempt to facilitate the study of the British fungi has lately been made by Mr. PURTON, in his very interesting Supplement to the MIDLAND FLORA, which has been noticed at p. 183 of the present volume. In this Appendix the fungi are particularly numerous, and are illustrated with peculiar accuracy and scientific skill; and there are twentytwo beautifully coloured plates, well executed, of many new and rare species.

The Virginia-planter (hedera quinque-folia) has now a very rich and beautiful appearance.

The stock-dove (columba anas), one of the latest winter birds of passage, arrives from more northern regions, towards the end of this month. Moles now make their nests, in which they lodge during the winter, and which are ready for depositing their young in the spring.

'See T. T. for 1820, p. 36; 1821, pp. 261, 282; 1822, p. 290; and p. 302 of the present volume.

The woodman repairs to the woodlands to fell coppices, underwood, and timber.

The farmer usually finishes his ploughing this month. Cattle and horses are taken into the farmyard; sheep are sent to the turnip-field; ant-hills are destroyed; and bees are put under shelter. The gardener sows peas and beans in a warm situation for an early crop, if happily they may survive the frosts of winter.

Violent storms of wind may generally be expected in November.

'Tis night; the loud wind through the forest wakes,
With sound like ocean's roaring, wild and deep,
And in yon gloomy pines strange music makes,
Like symphonies unearthly, heard in sleep;
The sobbing waters dash their waves, and weep;
Where moans the blast its dreary path along,
The bending firs a mournful cadence keep;
And mountain rocks re-echo to the song,
As fitful raves the storm the hills and woods among.

Yamoyden.

Such is the picture of a wild, autumnal night in America, by a native poet-and which is well adapted to the northern and mountainous parts of England. How often, alas! in this dreary, chilling month, do we picture to ourselves while comfortably housed and warmed, and bidding defiance to the pelting of the storm, the havock of the ocean-tempest:Fancy amid the storm then takes her seat, Where big, tumultuous billows beat Around the dreary, howling cave, When no life-boat the crew can save; While deaf'ning winds and foamy surge On shelving rocks the vessel urge, There sees the sailor climb the mast, A look of anguish round him castAnd quit his grasp, and fall.

REV. J. BLACK.

But, let us turn from such soul-harrowing scenes, too often witnessed by our fashionable visitants to the rock-encircled coast of Albion, to those of a milder, more pleasing character; to an English home,

with all its endearing attractions. And we think we cannot better conclude this month's lucubrations than with some beautiful lines transmitted to us by our kind Glocestrian correspondent, whose valuable communications we shall be always proud to receive, and, we trust, ever gratefully acknowledge.

The following poem has never yet met the public eye, and has been read only in that domestic circle which it so exquisitely describes :

DOMESTIC HAPPINESS-Addressed to a Lady.

"Tis not for you, whose golden-winged hours
In joys half-tasted ever are employed,
Who seek gay pleasure in her sweetest bowers,
And still untasted leave her half enjoyed:
"Tis not for you who dread the painful thought,
Who laugh thro' life so negligently gay,
Whose bliss, however mean, is dearly bought,
'Tis not for you I tune this simple lay.

The Muses' joy more pure, tho' more confined,
Those prospects heighten which ye strive to miss ;
She seeks at home for pleasures more refined,
That HOME ye hate comprises all her bliss.
She seeks not vainly thro' the lengthened night,
Midst the gay haunts of indolence and pride,
Resplendent scenes, that pall whilst they invite,
With wand'ring dissipation for her guide.
She will not follow ev'ry transient glance
Of vagrant folly, ever on the wing;
She cannot mingle in the frolic dance,
Or list to hear the trifling syren sing.

She sees thro' all the laboured pomp of art

The mask of pleasure hides the face of woe;
She spurns such joys as spring not from the heart,
And pines for bliss they have not to bestow.
Pensive, she turns the eye from folly's train,
And sighs to see the heedless mortals stray,
To seek for happiness, and seek in vain,

Where, if she deigs to call, she cannot stay.
The friendly Muse to you, ye thinking few,
Shall lend her aid to sweeten ev'ry hour,

Shall open richer prospects to your view,

And guide you HOMEWARD to her social bow'r.

On HOME, thou only seat of ev'ry joy
The heart can relish or the judgment taste,
Estranged from thee, the soul finds no employ,
Nor feels the present, nor enjoys the past.
Oh, let me seek thee with thy calm delights,
The look of welcome, and the friendly kiss,
Thy peaceful mornings, and thy cheerful nights,
With all a husband's, all a father's bliss.
How sweet to pour thy sorrows to a heart,

That feels, yet strives to check the rising sigh!
How sweet thy better prospects to impart,

And kiss the tear of transport from her eye!
How sweet the task to trace with glad surprise
The young idea, shooting unconfined,
With fost❜ring care to cherish, as they rise,
The seeds of virtue in the infant mind;
To bend the pliant soul to wisdom's lore,
Firm honour's steady precepts to infuse,
The fav'rite bent of genius to explore,

And guide luxuriant fancy to its use !

The sullen apathy, the cloistered pride,

That deems those heart-felt joys beneath the care; The candid muse will pity, not deride,

But welcome home the bliss they cannot share.
Let me with rapture view those pleasing cares
Which fright the boasted sons of liberty;
The heart that no domestic fondness shares,
Foregoes its dearest blessings to be free.
Is freedom, then, but room to wander wide,
And hardly snatch at pleasures ere they're past,

To seek for ever for some path untried,

And find it cold and cheerless as the last?

The solitary bark of winds the sport

Which thro' the vast Atlantic winds its way, Without a haven or a destined port,

Feels this sad liberty, as well as they.

Is bondage, then, to wear those silken bands
Uniting hearts that cannot wish to rove?
To grant that care the infant smile demands,
And pays with sweet returns of filial love?
How painful to a sympathizing mind

To stray this life unseeking, and unsought,
One cheerless, barren wilderness to find,
Without an object worth a second thought!

Wilt thou (for well thou canst) supply
The tender cares of mother and of wife,
And, tutored by divine philanthropy,

Fill the sweet duties of domestic life?
And wilt thou turn to lend a patient ear,

When suff'ring merit makes its sorrows known?
And shall thy hand wipe off the orphan's tear,
And, lending others bliss, secure thine own?
Thus shall contentment bless our humble seat,
And ev'ry gliding year new comforts raise;
So shall calm conscience make our slumbers sweet,
Whilst, tho' obscure, not useless pass our days.
Oh, hapless they, of these mild joys debarred!
For them, time ling'ring plies with heavy wings:
'Tis sad experience speaks, and trust the bard
Whose heart but feels too strongly what he sings.

DECEMBER.

Remarkable Days

In DECEMBER 1823.

*5. 1821.-JAMES PERRY DIED, ÆT. 65, For many years Editor and Proprietor of the Morning Chronicle.' To Mr. Perry belongs the honour of having raised the character of the daily press in respectability, giving to it an influence it did not before possess. He also considerably improved the whole system and routine of newspapers, rendering them a much more prompt channel of intelligence than formerly. Independently of his immediate professional studies, he possessed a general taste for elegant literature, of which there is sufficient proof in a very extensive and valuable collection of books which he had formed, and which have, since his death, been disposed of by public auction. 6. SAINT NICHOLAS.

Nicholas was Bishop of Myra, in Lycia, and died about the year 392. He was of so charitable a disposition, that he portioned three young women, who