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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



secret, and cannot share our happiness. We 

 quite agree with the Wise Man, who said : — 

 " I had rather never receive a kindness, than 

 never bestow one. Not to return a benefit 

 is the greater sin ; but not to confer it is the 

 earlier." We grant that these feelings are 

 poetical ; but what is life without poetry ? 

 The common jog-trot way of the world is 

 sickening ; nor can we help marvelling that 

 the lower creation should in these matters be 

 so infinitely in advance of Man. 



We have ever said, and we cling to the 

 opinion still— that selfishness is at the bottom 

 of every action of our lives. If we do an 

 act of kindness, we do it for self-gratification. 

 It gives us pleasure to do it. This is a pretty 

 way of paying a compliment ; and as it is the 

 simple truth, let each one of us make the 

 most of it. 



Above all things, let us remember, — that 

 the time for rendering " Little Kindnesses" 

 is, — not once a year only, but always. Society 

 is so constituted, that, if we would continue 

 happy, we must for ever be engaged in labors 

 of love and works of benevolence. 



Such are our thoughts ; such is our " Be- 

 lief." And may all to whom we are so pleas- 

 ingly indebted, accept these few remarks as 

 the offering of a grateful, loving heart. 



SONG. 



Say, have you in the morning 



Beheld the dewy gem, 

 So beautiful, adorning 



The rose's diadem ? 

 Or have you in the wildwood, 



Where clear the streamlet flows 

 Beheld in summer's childhood 



The blushing, bright primrose ? 



Have you beheld the lily 



Bloom on the water's breast ; 

 Or, in the dewy valley, 



The gowan's modest crest ? 

 Then ye have seen sweet Nature 



Her loveliest charms display, 

 As they beamed in every feature 



Of her I've lost for aye. 



Her eye was lit with beauty, 



Her coral lip with love ; 

 Her bosom, true to duty, 



Was guileless as the dove. 

 How tenderly, how kindly, 



Love's accents from her fell ! 

 And, oh, how warmly,, fondly 



I loved my Isabel ! 



In vain for me the flowers 



Of spring or summer blow, 

 And from the rosy bowers, 



In vain doth music flow ; 

 The song-birds by the river 



Kemind me all too well — 

 That stilled, and stilled for ever, 



Is the voice of Isabel ! 



J. C. 



TO AN ABSENT FRIEND. 



BY HELEN HETHERINGTON. 



Yes ; thou art ever near me ! "When the Spring, 



Dress'd in a robe of joyous innocence, 



Tells me of happiness, I hear thy voice, — 



Its soothing cadence falling on mine ear, 



Like the soft music of a seraph's lyre ; 



And, when the Summer's sun beams on the face 



Of Nature, with ineffable delight 



I listen to the voice of melody, — 



Feast on the happiness that Hope bestows ; 



And in the brilliant scene of loveliness 



That faithfully recalls the joys we prize, 



The flowers we love, — I recognise thy smile, 



Then in my breast a Paradise exists, 



And thou art its creator ! 



Autumn's breeze, 

 Laden with odors from a richer shore, 

 Bears me thy sigh. Again I hear thee speak 

 Of brighter days : and softly whispering 

 Kind words of pity, bid me weep no more! 

 Thus have I braved cold Winter's bitter storm, 

 And heeded not the wild, — the fearful blast, 

 That revell'd in destruction. For thy love 

 Beam'd on the rugged path of life, and bless'd 

 The heart that claims its happiness from thee. 

 Still will I cherish in affection's dream 

 Each look of kindness that doth picture thee ; 

 And when my fancy paints it faithfully 

 I will impress it on my memory, — 

 For thou indeed art precious ! 



THE JOYS OF EARLY SPRING. 



W t e called attention, in a late number, 

 to the various popular Almanacs of the 

 season ; and, amongst others, we glanced at 

 the " Lady's Almanac." We are anxious to 

 do ample justice to the merits of this last ; 

 and therefore give as a fair specimen of its 

 claim to popularity, an interesting article on 

 the present month, by Thomas Miller. His 

 remarks about " Winter feeling that his end 

 is drawing nigh," are sweetly poetical. So 

 also are his remarks about " Ladies, Love, 

 and Flowers," — the three inseparables. But 

 let us hear him sing his own love-song : — 



February is the childhood of the year. 

 Like streams loosened from their icy fetters, 

 that rush with a singing sound down the 

 hills and through the meadows, — so does it 

 now break loose and makeapleasant prattling 

 in those places where silence has so long 

 reigned. In the early notes of the speckled 

 thrush and golden-billed blackbird, we hear 

 its voice ; for in calling to and imitating them, 

 it finds utterance for the joyous feelings 

 which now stir within its young heart. At 

 every new burst of sun-colored crocuses, it 

 raises a shout of wonder — at every opening 

 of the sky-stained hyacinths, a cry of delight. 

 Hither and thither it runs to peep at the 

 silver buds on the willow, the spots of green 

 on the gooseberry bushes, and the early 

 leaves on the elder tree ; sometimes shading 



