Other little birds at rest Have not yet begun to sing; Every one is in its nest, With its head behind its wing; Little lark, then tell me why You’re so early in the sky? You look no bigger than a bee, In the middle of the blue, Up above the poplar tree, I can hardly look at you. Little lark, do tell me why You are mounted up so high? ’Tis to watch the silver star Sinking slowly in the skies, And beyond the mountain far, See the glorious sun arise. Little lady, this is why I am mounted up so high. ’Tis to sing a merry song To the pleasant morning light; Why stay in my nest so long When the sun is shining bright? Little lady, this is why I sing so early in the sky. To the little birds below I do sing a merry tune; And I let the ploughman know He must come to labor soon. Little lady, this is why I am singing in the sky. MERRY’S MUSEUM. Vol. VIII. OCTOBER, 1844. No. 4. [Illustration: October] It is October. The “sere and yellow leaf” is in the forest; the birds, one by one, have departed, and stillness begins to settle over the scenes where the ceaseless minstrelsy of the feathered tribes had prevailed. Yet the landscape is still beautiful: the woods have put on their “coat of many colors;” the nuts are beginning to fall, and the squirrels have to dispute with the boys and girls the possession of their first fruits. Every season has its appropriate work to perform in the great household of nature: the winds of October and November disseminate the seeds which have been matured during the summer. The thistle down is now seen emigrating on its noiseless wing, bearing its little seed to some place where it may “settle.” A thousand other seeds are scattered by the winds and the waters, and thus the face of nature is covered with its variegated garments of vegetation. We cannot do better than to close our notice of October, with an old piece of wit, which, however common, will bear repeating. ECHO GIVES A LESSON. It is October; the winds have left the forest and the field; the busy birds have ceased their labors, and have either departed, or sit songless upon the trees. Stillness settles at noon-day over the landscape. Step over into the valley, and see how your voice will be repeated to the hills. I suppose you to speak in the character of a glutton. _Glutton._ My joy is a feast, my wish is wine! _Echo_ replies,--catching the last sound,--swine!!! Do you not feel rebuked? But go on with the dialogue. _Glutton._ We epicures are happy truly. _Echo._ You lie. _Glutton._ Will it hurt me if I drink too much? _Echo._ Much. _Glutton._ Thou mockest me! I’ll not believe it. _Echo._ Believe it. _Glutton._ Is it drink that brings infirmities? _Echo._ It is.