November. 
Lie dozing along the kitchen floor, 
There are feet of air 
On every stair, 
Through every hall! 
Through each gusty door 
There’s a jostle and bustle, 
With a silken rustle, 
Like the meeting of guests at a festival. 
Alow and aloof 
Over the roof 
How the stormy tempests swell! 
And make the vane 
On the spire complain : 
They heave at the steeple with might and main, 
And burst and sweep 
Into the belfry on the bell! 
They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well, 
That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep, 
And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell! 
T. B. Read. 
WINTER SONG. 
Summer joys are o’er ; 
Flowerets bloom no more ; 
Wintry winds are sweeping ; 
Through the snow-drifts, peeping, 
Cheerful evergreen 
Rarely now is seen. 
