When the moon is near the full, or new, people are more irritable than at other times, and headaches and diseases of various kinds are worse. Insanity at these times has its worst paroxysms, and hence the origin of the term lunacy. Timber cut in the last quarter of the moon is said to be much the most durable. About the time of full moon the weather is generally fair. The changes of the moon are supposed to bring changes of weather. Thus we have given a chapter upon signs, and, although they are not all to be relied upon, they may be worthy of notice. * * * * * “JOB PRINTING--JOB PRINTING!” exclaimed an old woman, the other day, as she peeped over her specs at the advertising page of a country paper--“Poor Job; they’ve kept him printing, week after week, ever since I first larnt to read, and if he wasn’t the most patientest man that ever was, he never could have stood it as long, nohow!” The Bird of Paradise. A SONG. WORDS BY MARY HOWITT. MUSIC BY G. J. WEBB. [Illustration: Music] 1. Oh lovely bird of Paradise, I’ll go where thou dost go! Rise higher yet, and higher yet, For a stormy wind doth blow, Rise higher yet, and higher yet, For a stormy wind doth blow. Now up above the tempest, We are sailing in the calm, Amid the golden sunshine, And where the air is balm. Oh gentle bird of Paradise, Thy happy lot I’ll share; And go where’er thou goest On through the sunny air. Whate’er the food thou eatest, Bird, I will eat it too; And ere it reach the stormy earth Will drink with thee the dew! Is thy nest made of the sunshine, And the fragrance of the spice, And cradled round with happiness, Sweet bird of Paradise? MERRY’S MUSEUM. Vol. VIII. DECEMBER, 1844. No. 6. [Illustration: December] The autumn is past, and winter is upon us. Come, boys, get your caps and mittens, your greatcoats and your thick shoes; come, girls, put on your wadded hoods and your warm shawls, and let us have a ramble. How changed is the aspect of everything around us! The trees have put off their garments; the flowers have perished; the green grass is withered and dead. How silent is the forest! Of all the merry songsters that made it ring with joyous music, not one remains behind. Even the partridge and the quail have retired to the thick woods, and left their wonted haunts alone and desolate. Even the squirrel now lies late in the morning, and retires early to bed, seeming to take little pleasure in scampering about the woods, now that he has them all to himself.