A little garden brimming over with flowers should mark 

 the days and weeks and months with bud and blossom, 

 and the worst injuries of time be fallen leaves/' 



DOUGLAS JERROLD. 



NOVEMBER 



" CT. MARTIN'S Summer" is over, with its welcome after- 

 math of sun, blue skies and flowers, although this year 

 the delightful Autumnal period, with its Spring-laden breezes, 

 was spared to us for a much longer time than many remember. 

 Yet we may safely, yet sorrowfully, say that it is over; at 

 least, more than half that goes towards it, the golden leaves, 

 the late flowers these have all but vanished. 



All thro' the night the wind holds havoc in the garden, 



A short while since to bloom woo'd by wind-kisses light ; 

 Hark to the prelude played ere enter frosts that harden 

 All thro' the night. 



The garden, now a piteous desolation, greets our sight ; 



Stands the north wind at its dewed gates for chiefest warden, 

 Beneath a sky of cloud, obscuring starshine bright. 



The pearly mists their steadfast gaze keep guard on 



Its ways made dull withal by Nature's weakened might ; 

 The last leaves fall to earth laid like to jewels of sard on 

 All thro' the night. 



(A NOVEMBER GARDEN.) 



Pitiful is the appearance of every garden, and how com- 

 plete the ruin ! They seem so vastly different from the 

 gardens of April, when drenched with the year's youthful 

 tears they shone silvery green, filled with the promise of what 

 the happy year would bring, that has brought, and but lately 

 passed away. The most prominent item in the November 



landscape is the ever-prevailing mists that hang around its 



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