The fifth day of August is noticed in England for two reasons: it is the birthday of Saint James, and oysters on this day come into use. They are not allowed to be eaten, by order of parliament, till this time, as they are deemed unwholesome during the summer. The event is thus celebrated by the rhymester: Green groves rise at dawn of sun, August fifth! come, haste away! To Billingsgate the thousands run; ’Tis oyster day!--’tis oyster day! Now, at the corner of the street, With oysters fine the tent is filled; The cockney stops to have a treat, Prepared by one in opening skilled. Shake off the beard--as quick as thought The pointed knife divides the flesh;-- What plates are laden, loads are brought, And eaten raw, and cold, and fresh! The tenth of August is the festival of St. Lawrence. He suffered martyrdom at Rome, being roasted to death on a red-hot grate of iron. The church of St. Lawrence in London is dedicated to him, and has a gridiron on the steeple for a vane. The fifteenth of this month is what is called _Assumpsion day_ by the Catholics. It is a great festival with them, and is designed to commemorate the assumption, or taking up of the Virgin Mary into heaven. It is one of the most famous of the Romish festivals, and is celebrated in France, Italy, and other Catholic countries, with processions, songs, ceremonies, and every variety of religious pageantry. If we may be permitted to say a word to the farmers, we would advise them to declare a war of extermination on the thistles in and about their premises. It is said by some correct cultivators, that if the Canada thistle is cut in August, before its seed is ripe, it will die in an accommodating manner; because the stalk, which is hollow, will fill with water and destroy the root. It is also said, if you cut bushes in the old of the moon in August, you will destroy them root and branch. We doubt if the moon will interfere in the matter; but August is the best time for cutting bushes, because vegetation having come to a close for the season, the bushes will not so readily sprout again from the roots. Bill and the Boys. DIRK HELDRIVER. I recollect, one winter evening, when Bill and myself, with three or four young companions, were assembled around the fire of the “Cock and Bull,” it chanced to be Bill’s turn to tell a story. It was a wild night, for the wind blew, and the sleet rattled against the windows, as the heavy gusts swept round the corner of the old tavern. When Bill was about to begin his story, I could see that his cheek was a little pale, and his eye glistened as if there were something extraordinary in his mind. At length, he began, and related the following story, as nearly as I can recollect it.