Some unhappy critic has said that the "icicle that hangs on Diana's temple" is not colder than other icicles. We pity him, and would like to try the comparison to-day. We have already tried "thinking on the frosty Caucasus," and quite agree with Claudio--was it, or Romeo, or who?--that this is of no service in case of fire. Delicious music for to-day--the tinkling of ice in the pitcher, as Susan, slowly and carefully, brings up-stairs the water we wait for. It were really a loss to have the way shorter, or the servant a harum-scarum thing who would dash in with her precious burden before one knew it was coming. We might try, to-day, the latest novelty in cookery, a ball of solid ice wrapped in puff-paste, and baked so adroitly that the paste shall be brown while the ice remains unmelted. Akin to this, is an antique achievement culinary, as old as Mrs. Glasse, at least--the roasting of a pound of butter, an operation not unlike the very work we are engaged in at this moment--indeed so like it, that the remembrance has occurred several times. Your pound of butter is to be thoroughly crusted in bread-crumbs to begin with, and then put upon the spit and turned before a very hot fire; the unhappy cook standing by to dredge on crumbs continually, to prevent the slippery article from running away. When the crumbs (and cook) are quite roasted, the thing is done. And so should we be, but that here comes a thunder storm, fit conclusion for an intense day, and very like the sudden and terrific blowings up which terminate the most ferocious kind of friendships. Thick clouds, shaped like piles of cannon balls, have slowly peered up from behind the horizon, and rolled themselves hither and thither, spreading and gathering as they went. Now and then a thunder-whisper is heard, so faint, that if we were conversing, we should not notice it; and an occasional flash of lightning seems, in the sun's glare, like the waving of a curtain by the fitful breeze that begins to touch the pool here and there. The cloud masses gather fresh and fresh accession as they move on, like revolutionary armies marching up to battle. Looking overhead, there seems a field-day in heaven; great bodies of artillery in motion, forming themselves into solid phalanx, and giving more and more dreadful notes of preparation. Volleys tell when divisions join, and the light that announces them is as if the adamantine arch were riven, disclosing dread splendors unspeakable Most grand, most beautiful storm! New music--that of the delicious rain, and in such abundance that it washes away the very memory of the parched and burning day. No wild commotion, no terror! Sublime order and an awe which is like peace. One more proof of the unfailing, tender love of our heavenly Father. NO SONGS IN WINTER. BY T. B. ALDRICH. I The robin and the oriole, The linnet and the wren-- When shall I see their fairyships, And hear their songs again? II.