YOUR NEW READERS OF BATON ROUGE. We thank Pierce L. H. of Brooklyn, N. York, and our friend P., for their communications. Sarah C. F. is satisfied with our reasons why the eastern coast of America has a colder climate than the western coast of Europe, but wonders that Kamskatka is so much colder than Alaska--both being in the same latitude. She will find an explanation in the fact that the latter is a mere island, and the surrounding ocean moderates and equalizes the temperature. Kamskatka, it is true, is near the sea, but it is contiguous to Siberia, which is an extensive mass of unbroken land, which is always colder than the sea. * * * * * We thank H. L. P----, Jane S----r, M. A. K., and John P----e, for their several communications. We hope S---- will comply with his promise, and tell us about the salt works of Syracuse. * * * * * We are obliged to omit, this month, a wild story of Bill Keeler’s, called Dirk Heldriver; a tale by the Old Man in the Corner, and something about Inquisitive Jack. They shall come next time. Happiness. MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY GEO. J. WEBB. [Illustration: Music] 1. There is a spell in every flow’r, A sweetness in each spray, And every simple bird has pow’r To please me with his lay. And there is music on each breeze That sports along the glade; The crystal dew-drops on the trees Are gems, by Fancy made. There’s gladness too in everything, And beauty over all For everywhere comes on with spring A charm which cannot pall! And I!--my heart is full of joy, And gratitude is there, That He, who might my life destroy, Has yet vouchsafed to spare. MERRY’S MUSEUM. Vol. VIII. AUGUST, 1844. No. 2. [Illustration: August] August. This is the eighth month of the year, and derived its name from Augustus, emperor of Rome. In England it is the month of harvest, and the old Saxons used to call it arm-month, arm being the word for harvest. It is everywhere a busy season, and is thus noticed by an old poet: The ears are filled, the fields are white, The constant harvest-moon is bright; To grasp the bounty of the year, The reapers to the scene repair, With hook in hand and bottles slung, And dowlas scups beside them hung,-- The sickles stubble all the ground, And filful hasty laps go round; The meals are done, as soon as tasted, And neither time nor viands wasted.