A _cat_ I sing of famous memory, Though _cat_achrestical my song may be: In a small garden _cat_acomb she lies, And _cat_aclysms fill her comrades’ eyes; Borne on the air, the _cat_acoustic song Swells with her virtues’ _cat_alogue along; No _cat_aplasm could lengthen out her years, Though mourning friends shed _cat_aracts of tears. Once loud and strong her _cat_echist-like voice. It dwindled to a _cat_call’s squeaking noise; Most _cat_egorical her virtues shone, By _cat_enation joined each one to one;— But a vile _cat_chpoll dog, with cruel bite, Like _cat_ling’s cut, her strength disabled quite; Her _cat_erwauling pierced the heavy air, As _cat_aphracts their arms through legions bear; ’Tis vain! as _cat_erpillars drag away Their lengths, like _cat_tle after busy day, She lingering died, nor left in kit _kat_ the Embodiment of this _cat_astrophe. NOVEMBER. (The humorous lines of Hood are only applicable to the English climate, where the closing month of autumn is synonymous with fogs, long visages, and suicides.) No sun—no moon! No morn—no noon— No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day— No sky—no earthly view— No distance looking blue— No roads—no streets—no t’other side the way— No end to any row— No indication where the crescents go— No tops to any steeple— No recognition of familiar people— No courtesies for showing ’em— No knowing ’em— No travellers at all—no locomotion— No inkling of the way—no motion— ‘No go’ by land or ocean— No mail—no post— No news from any foreign coast— No park—no ring—no afternoon gentility— No company—no nobility— No warmth—no cheerfulness—no healthful ease— No comfortable feel in any member— No shade—no shine—no butterflies—no bees— No fruits—no flowers—no leaves—no birds— §No-vember§! * * * * * The name of that monster of brutality, _Caliban_, in Shakspeare’s Tempest, is supposed to be anagrammatic of _Canibal_, the old mode of spelling Cannibal. A SWARM OF BEES.