Feathery clouds are few and fair,

Thistledown is on the air;

Rippling sunshine on the lake,

Wild grapes scent the sunny brake;

Dizzy songs the crickets sing,

Wild bees wander murmuring;

Butterflies float in a dream,

Over all the swallows gleam;

Here and yonder, high and low,

Golden-rod and sunflowers glow;

Here and there a maple flushes,

Sumach reddens, woodbine blushes;

Purple asters bloom and thrive,

I am glad to be alive!

Lafayette Monthly.Pretty as this little sonnet is, we question whether its author has, in the last line, expressed the real feeling that comes over one in this autumn weather. It seems as if it were not simple enjoyment of existence, so much as a "dreamy" sadness, that can hardly be called such, it is so pleasing. Even the clear north-wind, bracing as it is, reminds one of the passing of the year, as it blows the red leaves to the ground, and makes one regret the departure of flowers and birds, while it bids us enjoy still more the few days that are left to us.