I am composed of twenty letters. My 12, 16 and 19, is part of the body. My 15, 4, 20, 9, 3 and 17, is in every house. My 10, 9, 6, 10, 8 and 18, has no particular home. My 5, 4, 16 and 7, is part of a factory. My 3, 15, 13 and 4, is a return. My 5, 16, 11, 6, 4 and 18, is a city in Europe. My 17, 8, 15, 4, 16 and 11, is an animal. My 7, 8, 20, 15 and 13, comes every spring. My 2, 8, 10 and is numbered. My 1, 14, 8 and 17, is to take a part. My whole is a part of the contents of Merry’s Museum. H. R. B. * * * * * The following letter will probably elicit the thanks of our readers, as it does ours. We shall certainly comply with the request, in our next number. _Natick, September 25th._ MR. MERRY: There is a great deal said about Texas in the newspapers, and both whigs and democrats are making a great many speeches about it. I should like, myself, to know more about it than I do; what sort of a country it is--how large--how many people there are--how they live--what the climate and productions are. If you could give us a short account of these things, I think it would be acceptable to your readers. Yours, N. C. November in London. 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 road--no street--no t’other side the way-- No end to any row-- No indications where the crescents go-- No top to any steeple-- No recognitions of familiar people-- No courtesies for showing ’em-- No knowing ’em! No travelling 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--November! The Moon. MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY GEORGE J. WEBB. [Illustration: Music] Who am I that shine so bright, With my pretty yellow light, Peeping through your curtains grey? Tell me, little child, I pray. When the sun is gone I rise In the very silent skies; And a cloud or two doth skim Round about my silver rim. All the little stars do seem Hidden by my brighter beam, And among them I do ride, Like a queen in all her pride.