is the Strawberry as the BIRD, that, all day long, fans the cold, thin atmosphere, from Southern Winter into Northern Spring-from Lake to Lagoon, from Champlain to the Chesapeake. A great Pendulum is that Bird too, swinging twice a year over the Farm, with the flowers or the frosts glittering beneath and behind it.

The WHEAT, that has been waving, and nodding, and rustling, for many a day, they are rocking to sleep in cradles of fingers, and to-night will conclude the Lullaby of the Harvest. And the Wheat on its way down, meets the CORN and the GRASS going up, and the SILK rising; and the BEES, murmuring along to the woods and the clover, meet the Cows coming home to the milking, and the Robins en route for the cherries; the pears and the apples are coming on; the setting Bantams and Cochin Chinas are coming off; the milk is running over the pails; the share is running under the fallow; the Hops running round and round.

The ROSES, red, white, and variegated, have been going down, by the leaf, one after another, until now "the last rose of summer" is "left blooming alone." Who would not grieve more to have them die, were not-Roses among the few things of earth that are fra

grant when dead? Brindle," and " Red," and "old Mooly" have come in; the Honeysuckle and the Lilies have come out; and so it goes, and so they all go.

Domesticated, and always in sight of the house, are trees of about five-and-twenty different characters, colors, and capabilities; and queerly do they actsome of them-in the down-coming rain, as it twinkles on the little buds, clatters on the Plantains, patters on the Lilac bushes, flutters on the Peaches. The Butternut just quivers and quakes; the Lilac dodges this way and that, and the Roses fairly dance up and down. The Peaches, all of a flutter, seem just ready to fly; the chuckle-headed Apple-trees keep nodding like "silent members;" the Mulberry swings lazily to and fro, as if it didn't mind it much; while the heaped-up Grape Vine shakes itself like a thorough-bred Newfoundland, and the Oak just stands straight in the shower, and takes it as Oaks should. Down below, the White Clover twinkles, twinkles, like very dim stars very far off, and the little Mosses do nothing but look as green as they can. The Wheat bows and jostles, and turns this way and that, and breaks its neck-some of it-and betrays symptoms of a regular stampede, while the knightly Corn keeps

saluting" the shower with its broad, green blades : and so they "go through the motions" in all weathers; and so, as Market Reporters have it," we have movements to note."

A tree down in the corner-know it well enough "by sight"-stands shivering from aming till night; it is big enough to be braver; a pert little Quince by the south window is for ever "a nod, nod, nodding," no matter what is said, or who says it; while a Sweet Brier, that has snugged up to the north wall,

muses itself with 'Spiritual Rappings' upon the window-sill; a Maple, a little way off, rolls up in the wind its great billows of green, and looks, sometimes, as if it would toss itself into Heaven, and its glorious verdure be blent with the Blue of the Blest.

A great Tree, its one column rising solemnly out of the earth, and its branches flung up into the sky, is a noble piece of architecture, and none but God can build it. Such a tree stands on the other side of the road, and so, as I have said, do its great swells of foliage roll up in the blast. And when, sometimes, NOON, like a worn warrior in armor of gold, lies breathless upon the plain, there is a rustle still, a song and a cool breath still, amid its mighty recesses of shade. When they "lay the axe at its root," and

it shivers to its green coronal with the strokes, and it comes down with the rushing of a great banner, and the roaring of a great gun, one would almost think the blue air must retain the form that had filled it so beautifully and long; that its semblance in aerial outline should not pass for ever away. But

when I think it is not so,

a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist;

"A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not akin to pain,

But resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain."

Hendom.

DON'T be alarmed, unless you are a mouse, or a chicken, or some such tit-bit. I've turned OwL;Minerva's bird-I've made a descent upon the Henroost; I've pounced upon an idea, such as it is; an idea in feathers.

A Hen is a foolish thing-hasn't a grain of sense, for that's a grain not found in gizzards. Her head is pierced exactly through the middle for a couple of

eyes, and a small head at that, so there is no room for sense. As for the eyes, they must be excellent optical instruments, for she can discover "a hawk" where we couldn't distinguish it from a "handsaw ;" but then they have about the expression of a brace of brass buttons at a shilling a gross. There isn't much poetry about Hens; there isn't much romance in Hendom. Hens are speckled, grizzled, and gray; white, copper-colored, and blue—all blue in "the Jerseys ;" there are the old-fashioned hens and the Bantams; those heavenly hens, the Shanghais and Cochin Chinas; hens with no tails, short tails, and pretty much all tails; hens in feathered pantaloons-whew! and June too!-and hens with Camwood-colored pantalettes-the very kind for the table; hens with Hussar-caps; hens with huge back-combs, like our Grandmothers; hens with very delicate side-combs, like our Sweethearts.

The grand "Movement" in feminine humanity is by no means endemic, inasmuch as 'strong-minded' hens are far from being anomalies now-a-days. They quarrel, and crow, and act, as near as possible, like veritable Chanticleers; shouldn't be surprised to see a Bantam out in Bloomer any morning; some of them wear spurs already. Progressive Hens! Apropos