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ther the mornings are, occasionally, sharp, but the hoarfrost is soon dissipated by the Sun, and a fine open day follows.

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The trees are now stripped of their foliage. The separation of the leaves from their branches is termed the fall; and, in North America, the season in which this takes place is universally known by that name. The fall of the leaf can be considered only as a sloughing or casting off diseased or worn-out parts,' whether the injury to their constitution may arise from external causes or from an exhaustion of their vital powers. Hence a separation takes place, either in the footstalk, or more usually at its base, and the dying part quits the vigorous one, which is promoted by the weight of the leaf itself, or by the action of autumnal winds upon its expanded form. Sometimes, as in the hornbeam, the beech, and some oaks, the swelling of the buds for the ensuing season is necessary to accomplish the total separation of the old stalks from the insertions.

La FEUILLE.

De la tige détachée

Pauvre feuille dessechée
Ou vas-tu ?-je n'en sais rien;
L'orage a frappé le chéne
Qui seul etait mon soutien ;
De son inconstante haleine,
Le Zephyr et l'Aquilon,
Depuis ce jour me promène
De la foret à la plaine,
De la montagne au vallon;
Je vais ou le vent me mène
Sans me plaindre ou n'effrayer
Je vais ou va toute chose,
Ou va la feuille de rose,

Et la feuille de laurier.

To the English reader, the following very literal transcript of the original, for which we are indebted to a friend, may prove acceptable :

The LEAF.

Parted from thy parent bough,
Withered leaf, where wanderest thou?
Alas! I know not, reck not where :
The oak, beneath whose fostering care
I flourished, tempests have laid low:
Since when, th' uncertain winds, that blow
Hither and thither in their sport,
Have borne me on.-I neither court
Nor heed their faithless breath-but stray
From the forest's gloomy way,
To the bare and open plain;
Rest there a moment-and again
From the valley to the hill
Wander, at their fickle will.

I go where all things earthly tend-
Where all must have one common end;
As well the gay and flaunting rose,
As the sad laurel, weeping o'er its woes.

P.

Leaves undergo very considerable changes before they fall; ceasing to grow for a long time previous to their decay, they become gradually more rigid and less juicy, often parting with their pubescence, and always changing their healthy green colour to more or less of a yellow, sometimes a reddish hue. • One of the first trees that becomes naked is the walnut; the mulberry', horse-chesnut, sycamore, lime, and ash, follow. The elm preserves its verdure for some time longer the beech and ash are the latest deciduous forest trees in dropping their leaves. All lopped trees, while their heads are young, carry their leaves a long while. Apple-trees and peaches remain green very late, often till the end of November: young beeches never cast their leaves till spring, when the new leaves sprout, and push them off: in the autumn, the beechen leaves turn of a yellow deep chesnut colour.'

The mulberry waits for a sharp frost, and then almost all the leaves fall at once. The mulberry is generally stripped in one night, or the morning after a frost, as soon as the sun begins to have power to thaw it.

2 Sometimes in September.

The decay and fall of leaves have been favourite themes with poets and philosophers. The first they furnish with beautiful descriptions; the latter with solemn contemplations and pathetic moral sentiment. There is something, indeed, extremely melancholy in that gradual process by which the trees are stripped of all their beauty, and left so many monuments of decay and desolation. Homer, the venerable father of poetry, has deduced from this succession of springing and falling leaves, a very apposite comparison for the transitory generations of

men :

Like leaves on trees the race of man is found,
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground.
Another race the following spring supplies

They fall successive, and successive rise ;
So generations in their course decay,

So flourish these when those are past away1.

POPE,

par

The Virginia creeper (hedera quinque-folia) is ticularly rich and beautiful in the autumnal months, with its leaves of every hue, from a bright to a dark green and deep crimson.

That highly-esteemed fish, the salmon, now ascends rivers to deposit its spawn in their gravelly beds, at a great distance from their mouths. The stock-dove (columba oenas), one of the latest winter birds of passage, arrives from more northern regions, towards the end of this month. The females and young of the brown or Norway rat now leave their holes at the sides of ponds and rivers, to which they had betaken themselves in the spring, and repair to barns, out-houses, corn-stacks, and dwellings.-See our last volume, p. 338.

See more on this subject in T. T. for 1817, p. 333, and in the Naturalist's Diary, for October and November, in our former volumes. A popular description of Forest Trees, alphabetically arranged, at the close of the different months, will be found in T, T, for 1816,

The woodman now repairs to the woodlands to fell coppices, underwood, and timber. Some particulars of forest scenery, in this month, are thus noticed by Mr. GISBORNE :

Now chiller evenings, and the near approach
Of winter, from the anxious cottage draw
Yon group
in search of fuel. Youthful hands
Gather the scattered sticks; or wield the pole
Armed with light sickle, and the mouldering bough
Pluck down with tiptoe efforts oft renewed:
While the dead stump that sturdy peasant hews;
Or, looking watchful round lest prying eyes
Observe him, from the oak by tempest torn
Rends off the shivered ruin with its load
Of leafy spray. Backward he throws his weight,
And tugs with iron grasp : in vain the branch
Recoils with start elastic, and in vain

Still by tough splinters to the trunk adheres.
And lo, yon boy in wanton mischief tears
The ivy twisted in contortions rude

Round the tall maple, and the stem divides
With stroke malicious. Soon the verdant mass,
Robbed of its wonted nutriment, shall fade.
Yet shall the lifeless tendrils still maintain
Their grasp; and, deaf to Spring's reviving call,
To May's bright greens a dusky foil oppose.

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.

One of the greatest improvements in modern agriculture is the growing of what are called green crops for the live stock, great part of which used formerly to be killed off at this time. Those fields which once exhibited a barren aspect at this season, now wear a green and cheerful appearance with turnips', the numerous tribes of cabbages and kale, mangel wurzel, carrots, potatoes, &c.

Bat-fowling, for the purpose of catching sparrows,

This is particularly the case in Norfolk and Suffolk, where there is but little pasture land, and great quantities of turnips are grown for the winter food of cattle.

is often practised by the farmer at this season. Birds are also frequently caught in a barn at night, by placing a lanthorn with only a small opening in it in one corner of the barn, and beating about to disturb the birds, when they fly to the light, and may be taken by hand.

For a poetical bouquet of wild flowers, an acceptable present in the gloomy month of November, our readers may turn to our last year's volume, p. 339.

DECEMBER.

DECEMBER was called winter-monat by the Saxons, but after they were converted to Christianity it received the name of heligh-monat, or holy month.

Remarkable Days

In DECEMBER 1818.

*1. 1521.-LEO X DIED.

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WHEN Leo ascended the throne, the arts were at their meridian. He found greater talents than he employed, and greater works commenced than he completed. Leonardo da Vinci, Michel Angelo, and Raffaello, performed their greatest works before the accession of Leo X; Bramante, the architect of St. Peter's, died in the second year of his pontificate; and Da Vinci and Michel Angelo shared none of his favours. It appears, therefore, that the glorious age of Leo,' so much spoken of, was not created by his patronage, but rather the consequence of the state of the arts when he ascended the throne. Yet this pontiff must not be deprived of the merit that justly belongs to him. He drew together the learned men of his time, and formed eminent schools, and he did much in promoting the art of printing, then of incalculable importance to literature. In these re

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