60 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



exquisitely savory smell of a beautiful joint of 

 baked-pork, which some ruddy girl, in her neat 

 Sunday dress and clean white apron, is bringing 

 smoking-hot from the baker's, to the family table ? 

 [Hold hard ! good Bombyx.] Have you never 

 wished, as you espied the crisp crackling, and 

 brown frizzling potatoes peeping from underneath 

 their snowy covering (speak the truth Mr. Editor) 

 that it was going to your own table ? [We never 

 see this without breaking the "tenth command- 

 ment."] / have, often. More especially when, 

 a little further on, you meet the bustling boy from 

 the neighboring inn with his blue tray in each 

 hand, well filled with sundry pots of frothy 

 porter. I really cannot go on, lest you should 

 think that the roast pork and brown potatoes 

 make me forget all about the eloquent discourse 

 of the kind-hearted, venerable vicar. But do just 

 think of a potato-salad — with a salted herring or 

 two mixed up with it. Ma foil mais c'est 

 superhe. [If you go on thus, we shall become ex- 

 travagant; our appetite is getting alarmingly keen.] 

 One more dish I must just hint at, and then, good- 

 bye. Only fancy yourself coming home after a 

 tiring day's walk (say about nine o'clock on a frosty 

 night), when, in a few short minutes, stands before 

 you a large dish of smoking roasted potatoes, 

 butter, salt, pepper, &c, &c, flanked by a bright 

 pewter of Charrington's best ! [This has "finished" 

 us completely.] The potato is found on the table 

 of the highest sovereign, and decorates equally that 

 of the poorest peasant. It is eaten and enjoyed 

 by the high and the low, the rich and the poor. 

 It is a universal favorite. In almost all countries, 

 in every quarter of the globe, it is (f believe) 

 found. I have seen a great deal in my time, 

 Mr. Editor, and dined in many odd places, but I 

 really cannot recollect that the delicious potato (in 

 some one shape or another) ever failed to form 

 part of the repast. Even in an entomological 

 point of view, what a noble insect is Acherontia 

 Atroposf You know the favorite food of the 

 beautiful larvae is the potato ; its leaves and young 

 stems. It is true it will feed on the jasmin ; but 

 then this splendid insect (as if to show its deep 

 regret at the absence of the noble potato) invari- 

 ably doffs its luxurious emerald dress, and habits 

 itself in a sober, quakerish garb (yellowish brown), 

 such as "veritable" quakers of the olden time 

 used to wear. Now, are we sufficiently thankful 

 for the potato ? Do we, or do we not, bless the 

 bounteous hand of that most wonderful, invisible 

 Creator, for this His inexpressibly great gift to 

 man? If not, it is because we either do not think 

 at all, or else we do not think rightly ; and as the 

 object of Our Journal is to make men " think," 

 I hope you will find a corner in it for the thoughts 

 of an old man on that most invaluable of all vege- 

 tables, the potato. — Bombtx Atlas, Tottenham. 

 [Your voice in praise of the potato, will, ere 

 this reaches your eye, have been heard far and 

 near. Its echo will soon resound in America, 

 Australia, and the ends of the earth. Speedily, 

 we hope, the potato will be restored to its pristine 

 vigor and excellence. Good it is, even now ; but 

 it has long pined for frost and snow. These, in 

 all their powers and energies, have lately been 

 added to our other blessings. The earth is rege- 

 nerated — disease destroyed — new ife imparted — 

 and the potato will soon be " himself again."] 



On Breeding Goldfinch Mules. — The grand 

 secret of management is, to get a good hen canary 

 to cast or throw off a " marked" or pied mule, 

 when crossed with a goldfinch. I have devoted 

 much of my time to this interesting study. I 

 originally procured a buff, or mealy common cock, 

 and a bright yellow hen canary ; both free from 

 mark or spot. With these I bred in 1845. From 

 the nest of young, I selected one pair, and bred 

 with them in 1846. Again I selected a pair from 

 their progeny, and bred with them in 1847. Not 

 one of their produce was deformed, or in any way 

 misshapen, although so near of kin. (Yen; are of 

 course aware that delicate hens throw off lighter 

 birds than do rank hens.) In 1848, I crossed one 

 of the young hens with a goldfinch, which cast 

 two dark, worthless mules; but there was one 

 worth a guinea in the same nest. This same hen 

 has thrown off several beautiful mules, for three 

 successive years. Her (three) sisters were sold 

 to a bird-dealer in Sunderland, in 1848. His 

 name is William Chalk, and he is a man well- 

 known. He has bred " marked" mules with all 

 of them, — also with their daughters, all of whom 

 were mated with goldfinches — T. J. 



The Language of Birds. — I do not wish to 

 conceal from you, my dear sir, that you are a little 

 bit of a favorite of mine. I like the conceit that 

 places you, month after month, in the company of 

 such sweet Flowers, — rejoicing, too, in such pretty 

 names, — all so significant in their respective mean- 

 ings ! It is a pleasing idea, and should by all 

 means be kept up. After this, you will be expect- 

 ing that / want to become a " Flower." Exactly 

 so. You have guessed quite right. But what 

 shall I be ? Something that you can love, — of 

 course. Stay ; it shall be " Lily of the Valley," 

 or " Happiness Returned." That will do. 

 [" Nicely."] I am not jealous, — not a bit. Else 

 would " Honeysuckle," "Heartsease," [Alas, dear 

 " Lily of the Valley," that noble soul is dead !] 

 "Puss," "Violet," and others, set my ruff up. 

 No, no ! We will all be " one " united happy 

 family. I send you to-day a choice morceau, as 

 being applicable to the New Year, — a season when 

 gratitude, love, thankfulness, and rejoicing, are 

 called for at our hands. You will please imagine 

 it to form part of a conversation between a phea- 

 sant of the woods and a barn-door fowl, who 

 (naughty boy !) had strayed from home. But let 

 us hear the pheasant speak : — " That bird, on the 

 border of the wood, with his warbling note of 

 ' Tiri ! tiri ! ' always rising higher towards Heaven 

 as he flies — is the Lark. He proclaims that God 

 is Almighty. That other, nestling so modestly 

 in those dark bushes, whose tones float so softly 

 on the summer breeze, is — the Nightineale. He 

 says ' God is Love.' This one here, with his cry 

 of ' Cuckoo ! ' praises the God who is over all. 

 And lastly, those lively little birds in the golden 

 dress, who hop so cheerily among the branches, 

 are finches. They bid us ' Fear God, and stay 

 ourselves upon Him.' " As regards worshipping 

 God in the fields and woods ; gardens, hedge-rows, 

 and lanes, — I quite agree with you. All we see 

 in our walks, tends to his glory. Happy they 

 whose hearts can feel these things ! How pure is 

 the enjoyment arising from Innocence ! — Lily op 

 the Valley. 



