Mine was for March.

A mother sitting on a bench, with a bowl of possibly Lenten soup by her side, is reproving a fat little fellow for his gross appetite at this solemn season.

He is weeping, and on her other side a pet dog is pleading to be fed.

The rhyme explains the reason: The jovial days of feasting past, 'Tis pious prudence come at last; And eager gluttony is taught To be content with what it ought.
A warming pan and a foot stove, just as it was brought home from a merry sleigh-ride, or a solemn hour at the "meetin'-house," recalling that line of Thomas Gray's: E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
Sometimes I would offer a little more to gain some coveted treasure already bid off.

How a city friend enjoyed the confidences of a man who had agreed to sell for a profit! How he chuckled as he told of "one of them women who he guessed was a leetle crazy." "Why, jest think on't! I only paid ten cents for that hull lot on the table yonder, and she" (pointing to me) "she gin me a quarter for that old pair o' tongs!" One day I heard some comments on myself after I had bid on a rag carpet and offered more than the other women knew it was worth.
"She's got a million, I hear." "Wanter know--merried ?" "No; just an old maid." "Judas Priest! Howd she git it ?" "Writin', I 'spoze.