of the linen fine; and then the suit of pepper-and-salt over all; and
you behold us welcoming, hailing, and blessing the return of day. Frost,
too, felt at the finger and toe tips--and in unequivocal true-blue at
the point, Pensive Public, of thy Grecian or Roman nose. Furs, at once,
are all the rage; the month of muffs has come; and round the neck of
Eve, and every one of all her daughters, is seen harmlessly coiling a
boa-constrictor. On their lovely cheeks the Christmas roses are already
in full blow, and the heart of Christopher North sings aloud for joy.
Furred, muffed, and boa'd, Mrs Gentle adventures abroad in the blast;
and, shouldering his Crutch, the rough, ready, and ruddy old man shows
how widows are won, whispers in that delicate ear of the publication of
bans, and points his gouty toe towards the hymeneal altar. In the
bracing air, his frame is strung like Paganini's fiddle, and he is felt
to be irresistible in the _piggicato_. "Lord of his presence, and small
land beside," what cares he even for a knight of the Guelphic order? On
his breast shines a star--may it never prove a cross--beyond bestowal by
king or kaisar; nor is Maga's self jealous or envious of these wedded
loves. And who knows but that ere another November snow sheets the
Shotts, a curious little Kit, with the word North distinctly traceable
in blue letters on the whites of his eyes, may not be playing antics on
his mother's knee, and with the true Tory face in miniature, smiling
upon the guardian of the merry fellow's own and his country's
constitution?

What kind of a Winter--we wonder--are we to have in the way of wind and
weather? We trust it will be severe. As summer set in with his usual
severity, Winter must not be behindhand with him; but after an
occasional week's rain of a commendably boisterous character, must come
out in full fig of frost. He has two suits which we greatly admire,
combining the splendour of a court-dress with the strength of a work-day
garb--we mean his garments of black and his garments of white frost. He
looks best in the former, we think, on to about Christmas--and the
latter become the old gentleman well from that festival season, on to
about the day sacred to a class of persons who will never read our
Recreations.

Of all the months of the year, November--in our climate--whether in town
or country, bears the worst character. He is almost universally thought
to be a sour, sulky, sullen, savage, dim, dull, d