Tuesday, November 7th.
Well done, Mr. Saggitarius, thou hast brought us a fair gift, notwithstanding thy belligerent moods, and thy skill in archery! snow-flakes, falling as quietly as the slumbers of innocence. This is better than to pierce us with thy frosty arrows, or smite us with ague-fits.
The birds, however, are mightily discomposed. They convene in noisy Congress, clamoring for immediate emigration. Troops of orators mount the rostrum, vociferating, vanishing, and returning to the charge. Many more speakers than hearers, and no chairman to call them to order. How the black-birds chatter and gesticulate, and what throngs of swallows besiege yonder old church-steeple. My eloquent gentry, I counsel you forthwith to commence your journey; for, as the ancient proverb elegantly saith, "great cry, and little wool," so this babel-like discussion helpeth not forward your weary pilgrimage. Please remember us among the groves of the Bosphorus, or the gardens of the Nile, and come back with the spring-flowers,—and so, farewell.
The domestic fowls congregate under the fences, or hay-stacks, with a remarkable solemnity. Chicklings of the last summer, who have had no regular introduction to the snow, dip their bills in it and look grave. Perhaps, like chemists, they are essaying to analyze it. The young house-cat, having the antipathy of her race to wet feet, steps into the new element, and sud-
