When autumn leaves fell round us, the autumn nuts grew brown,
We and the squirrels gathered them as they came rattling down.
O, merry was our harvest time—we made the woods ring out,
Through all the long, bright autumn day, with our gay, careless shout;
And then we sold our nuts, and thus have the pleasure still,
Of seeing Robert Merry in our home upon the hill.
M. T. B.
Lowell, Jan. 4.
THE LITTLE SOLDIER.