We speak of the merry month of May, and why not of the merry month of December? Well, there is an answer to that question; but, before I give it, I will consider what may be said on the bright side. True it is, that many of nature’s processes are now veiled from human sight; but not less true is it that they are secretly progressing. The seed-corn is garnered in the earth; the earth itself in many spots is sweetening; the leafless trees are preparing to burst into verdure next spring; and, had we power to observe what is going on in their secret vessels, how much should we find to delight and surprise us! what multitudes of contrivances of which we have no knowledge, and even too delicate and complex to be comprehended! Meanwhile, many of the trees, when unlopped, have forms so beautiful as to present a delicate tracery, reminding one of black lace (though that is a miserable comparison), when seen in the distance against the clear, grey sky. There is little to do in the field; but the flail resounds noisily within the barn; and the horses and cattle enjoy the comfortable warmth of the straw-yard. Then, within-doors, how snug and sociable is the fire-side! How the solitary enjoy the book, and the domestic party the long talks they had no leisure for in the summer! Christmas is coming; and is not that season proverbially merry, save where there is some sad domestic bereavement or affliction? How gay the shops are! with winter fabrics, and warm furs, and brilliant ribbons; with jolly sirloins, plump poultry, heaps of golden oranges, rosy apples, and all kinds of winter fruit! How gladly we think that the young folks will soon come home for the holidays! “I call to mind,” says the genial Southey, “The schoolboy days, when, in the falling leaves I saw, with eager hope, the pleasant sign Of coming Christmas; when at morn I took My wooden calendar, and counting up Once more its often-told account, smoothed off Each day, with more delight, the daily notch.”