20 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



MY VILLAGE MAID. 



BY THOMAS MILLER. 



I met her in the flowery month 



Of blossom-laden Spring ; 

 When trees put forth their tender leaves, 



And larks soared high to sing. 

 We wandered where the primrose grew, 



Deep in the forest glade; 

 There vowing naught save death should part 



Me and my village maid. 



When Summer came, with sunny days, 



And soft blue-hanging skies, 

 Throwing a gladness all around, 



Just like her gentle eyes ; 

 Again we sought the twilight woods, 



Where hazels formed a shade, 

 And sweeter than the speckled thrush 



Sang my fair village maid. 



When Autumn came in solemn gold, 



And yellow leaves were strown, 

 I saw that Death had marked my love, 



Too soon ! to be his own. 

 I tended her by night and day ; 



But when the gleaners strayed 

 Across the stubbly harvest -fields, 



Death stole my village maid. 



Then Winter came with hollow voice ; — 



I heard the howling wind 

 Ring through the savage naked woods, 



Now gloomy like my mind : 

 Yet still I lived, — although I prayed 



Beside her to be laid ; 

 But Death would lend no ear to me, 



He had my village maid. 



JUuieitt. 



Seasons. 

 Henry G. 



Pictorial Calendar of the 

 Edited by Mary Howitt. 

 Bohn. 



The name of Henry G. Bohn will never 

 die. His innate love for Natural History 

 from boyhood, has led him to spend a large 

 fortune in trying to make others as fond of 

 it as himself; and the books he has issued 

 are so numerous, so choice, so "winning," 

 and withal so exceedingly " cheap," that we 

 do sincerely hope he has not labored in vain. 

 We are proud of him as an ally ; and glory in 

 giving an extended publicfty to his exertions 

 in the public service. "We have said this 

 many times before ; but we gladly repeat it. 

 " May his shadow never grow less !" 



The book to which we would now direct 

 special attention, professes (and performs 

 even more than it promises) to exhibit the 

 pleasures, pursuits, and characteristics of 

 country life, for every month in the year. 

 Moreover, it embodies the whole of that 

 imperishable work — " Aikin's Calendar of 

 Nature." Is this aW? No! There are, in 

 addition, more than one hundred beautiful 

 illustrative engravings on wood. 



Mary Howitt — everybody loves Mary 



Howitt — being the Editor, it would be super- 

 fluous to comment on the provision she has 

 made for our enjoyment. We may " cut, and 

 come again;" and must ever feel a still 

 growing appetite for — more ! 



And how sweetly natural are the pictorial 

 embellishments of the Calendar ! They are 

 lovely to behold. But so indeed are all the 

 illustrations. They savor of Ver ceternum, — 

 a perpetual Spring. 



To give a specimen of so extensively- 

 varied a Bill of Fare is puzzling ; but as it 

 must be done, let us pounce upon a " season- 

 able" article, — not original, but acknowledged 

 to be borrowed from (another of our sweet- 

 hearts) Miss Mitford : — 



frost. 



At noon to-day, January 23rd, says Miss 

 Mitford, one of our pleasantest writers on the 

 country, I and my white greyhound, Mayflower, 

 set out for a walk into a very beautiful world — 

 a sort of silent fairy-land — a creation of that 

 matchless magician the hoar-frost. There had 

 been ,just snow enough to cover the earth and all 

 its colors with one sheet of pure and uniform 

 white, and just time enough since the snow had 

 fallen to allow the hedges to be freed of their 

 fleecy load, and clothed with a delicate coating of 

 rime. The atmosphere was deliciously calm; 

 soft, even mild, in spite of the thermometer ; no 

 perceptible air, but a stillness that might almost 

 be felt ; the sky rather grey than blue, throwing 

 out in bold relief the snow-covered roofs of our 

 village, and the rimy trees that rise above them ; 

 and the sun shining dimly as through a veil, 

 giving a pale, fair light, like the moon, only 

 brighter. There was a silence, too, that might 

 become the moon, as we stood at our gate looking 

 up the quiet street ; a Sabbath-like pause of work 

 and play, rare on a work day ; nothing was 

 audible but the pleasant hum of frost, — that low, 

 monotonous sound which is perhaps the nearest 

 approach that life and nature can make to absolute 

 silence. The very wagons as they came down 

 the hill along the beaten track of crisp yellowish 

 frost-dust, glide along like shadows ; even May's 

 bounding footsteps, at her height of glee and of 

 speed, f.ill like snow upon snow. * * * 



These murmuring cogitations have brought us 

 up the hill, and halfway across the light and airy 

 common, with its bright expanse of snow and its 

 clusters of cottages, whose turf-fires send such 

 wreaths of smoke sailing up the air, and diffuse 

 such aromatic fragrance around. And now comes 

 the delightful sound of childish voices, ringing 

 with .glee and merriment almost from beneath our 

 feet. There is a shouting from the deep, irregular 

 pool, all glass now, where, on two long, smooth 

 slUes, half a -dozen ragged urchins are slipping 

 along in tottering triumph. Half-a-dozen steps 

 bring us to the bunk just above them. May can 

 hardly resist the temptation of joining her friends, 

 for most of the varlets are her acquaintance. But 

 " come, May ! " and up she springs as light as a 

 bird. The road is gay now ; carts and post- 

 chaises, and girls in red cloaks, and afar off, 

 looking almost like a toy, the coa^-h. It meets 

 us fast and soon. How much happier the walkers 



