KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



79 



the rear,— now plucking a new variety 

 of flower,— and now entrapping the gorgeous 

 insects that flit about everywhere. 



The. air is full of life ; but 'twas unlucky 

 to be so engaged just at this particular 

 moment ; for I cannot participate in that 

 laugh which some story of Douglas' has 

 provoked, and I lost the fun too for the sake 

 of a fly that I have not captured ! Onwards 

 again — and now the wood is passed, when 

 we cross, with a quicker pace, the open 

 fields, and scarcely tarry at the queer little 

 house and mill, which is sunk as it were in 

 the bank over which the road is carried. 

 But we greet the good woman who stands 

 there with her infant in her arm, all a-won- 

 dering at the throng; and our greeting is 

 returned with a cheerful smile that bespeaks 

 the good woman to be happy with her lot. 

 And the opposite bank,covered with thebonnie 

 broom, is sunny, and alive too, with yur-yur- 

 yurlings, and chirps, and melody. And the 

 river is alive with the leaping trout and the 

 up-and-down flies, — and it plays in its course 

 with alternate streams and stills, rapids, and 

 circling deep pools, — and the sun shines on 

 all things, living and dead, and we know not 

 what to say but that this is beautiful and 

 fine ; and we say this to one another very 

 often, and never dream that we repeat a twice- 

 told tale. 



Now a precipitous rock, partly quarried, 

 and clothed with flowering sloes — and a 

 golden whin or two, — hazel and budding 

 hawthorn, — honeysuckle clambering amidst 

 the shrubs, — ivy that festoons the dark rock, 

 and much varied herbage, — draw us to 

 remark with what successful art nature has 

 grouped and mingled all this heterogeneous 

 furniture, — producing a very pleasing and 

 picturesque effect, with materials which, 

 separately viewed, are of a mean and regard- 

 less character. Turned by this rock, the 

 river now runs in a rougher channel ; banked 

 on one side by a green pasture slope. The 

 steeper bank, along whose base we travel, 

 is wooded with almost impenetrable 

 shrubbery and trees of minor rank, where 

 the varied botany that luxuriates in their 

 shelter calls us to frequent admiration. The 

 primrose and violet banks ; the trailing 

 ground-ivy with its modest flowers ; the tall 

 and graceful rush ; the star-wort with its 

 blossoms of vestal purity, — are all beautiful ; 

 and although often seen before, their beauty 

 comes fresh and new upon us. I do love 

 these wild flowers of the year's spring ! 



And on we stroll — almost palled with 

 sweets, and almost weary with loitering. It 

 is felt to be a relief, when a sylvan dean, 

 that opens aside on our path, tempts us to 

 trace its unknown intricacies and retreats. It 

 is a dean without a name ; but sunny and 

 odorous, and silent. Here the brae glows 



with whin and budding bloom, — there it is 

 copsed with grey willows and alders, and 

 every wild shrub and trailer. Here is a 

 gentle bank, with its sward pastured by a 

 lamb or two and their dams that have strayed 

 from trie field above, — while opposite, a rough 

 quarry contrasts, yet not disturbs the 

 solitude ; for the prickly briars and weeds, 

 that partially conceal the defect, tell us that 

 it has been some time unworked. 



Now a sloe-brake gives shelter to every 

 little bird which is seen flitting out from its 

 shelter stealthily, and stealthily returning ; 

 and the lark sings and soars above ; and 

 the blackbird alarms the dean with its 

 hurried chuckle. And as we near the top, 

 we find a grove of elms, and poplars, and 

 willows, which hang partly over a little 

 shallow linn, formed by a rill that has fallen 

 in a gentle stream over a moss-grown shelf 

 of rock. Then does the water steal more 

 than half-hidden, down the grassy bed of the 

 dean. 



Edinburgh. G. Johnston, M.D. 



TELL ME WHAT THOU LOVEST BEST. 



Tell me what thou lovest best — 



Vernal motion ? Summer rest ? 



Winter with its merry rhymes ? 



Or the grand Autumnal times ? 



Dost thou Saxon beauty prize ? 



Or, in England, love-lit eyes ? 



Or the brown Parisian's grace ? 



Or the warm-soul'd Bordelaise ? 



Or the forehead broad and clear 



Which the Indian Damas wear, 



Braiding round their night-black hair, 



Circe-like ? — Or the Spanish air, 



Where the Moor has mixed his blood 



With the dull Castilian flood, 



Giving life to sleepy pride ? 



Tell me, where wouldst thou abide, 



Choosing for thyself a season, 



And a mate, — for sweet Love's reason ? 



LISTEN ! 

 Nought for country should I care, 

 So my mate were true and fair ; 

 But for her — Oh ! she should be, 

 (Thus far I'll confess to thee) — 

 Like a bud when it is blowing ; 

 Like a brook when it is flowing, 

 (Marr'd by neither heat nor cold) ; 

 Fashion'd in the lily's mould — 

 Stately, queen-like, very fair ; 

 With a motion like the air : 

 Glances full of morning light, 

 When the morn is not too bright ; 

 With a forehead marble pale, 

 When sad pity tells her tale ; 

 And a soft scarce-tinted cheek. 

 (Flushing but when she doth speak) ; 

 For her voice, 't should have a tone 

 Sweetest when with me alone ; 

 And Love himself should seek his nest 

 Within the fragrance of her breast ! 



Barky Cornwall. 



