The nielaneholy days have coine, Which Mr. Bryant Pings, Of wailiug winde and naked woods. And otlier cheerfiil things. The robín froin the glen has flown, And there Matilda J. Nowroanis in quest of autuuin leacs To press aud pxit away. Theee in the sere, to sehool-girls dear, Are found where'er one looks, On bilí, in vule, in wood, in field, But mostïy in my booka. If I iake tip niy Unabridged fSonie curiouB word to scan, ltare leaveB are sped of groen and red, Or inaybo black and tan. The book of books- niy Bible- now I scarcely dare to touch, L?st it bring grief to some rare leaf Of inaple, oak, or gnch. And if npon tho lounge I lie To read while I repose, The arid leavee in dïisty sheaves Siftdown upon niy clotlit-w. Thus bnried, I migUt pose, perhttpis, For Children in the Wood, Thongh my bcbavior in Lhe grave Is scarcely quite as good.' O autumn leaves, rare autumn lcaves, So lovely out of dooi, Sirew the wild wood (you could or should), .But niuss not Christian floors ! No more I Bwear in eïapty air, But straight invoke a brooin, And soou St. Bridget comea and sweeps The rubbish from the romo Tor now I know a Sülemn truih 1 did suapect before : These leaves that autumii branches ear Are au autumnal bofe, ■Harper's Bazar.