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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



their wintry torpor, and finding them some- 

 thing to talk and joke about. At all events, 

 everything appears to go at a brisker pace ; 

 and long faces certainly do get u taken up " 

 a little. The prospect is a promising one, 

 which will naturally brighten as the spring 

 advances. 



But behold ! we have entered upon the 

 month of March ; so let us greet the burly, 

 honest fellow with the right hand of fellow- 

 ship. Like many another good subject, he 

 hides a kind heart under a rough outside. 

 We must not question the motives of his 

 every action. No doubt his reasons are 

 valid ones. " It is an ill- wind that blows 

 nobody any good." Let us watch them, 

 instead of grumbling. Patience will soon 

 have her perfect work. 



The days now are lengthening nicely. We 

 rise by the light of day, and (should) return 

 home by the light of day. No pretence is 

 there now for huddling over fires, lying in 

 bed to " take another turn," and other silly 

 excuses. The vernal choristers are " up " 

 early, and want us to have an audience with 

 them. Let us not refuse such a summons. 

 Their songs of praise suggest our morning 

 hymn ; and the united harmony must be an 

 acceptable sacrifice to the God of Heaven. 



During the month, we may look for many 

 a fine morning. We love to sniff the early 

 breeze in March, and to hail the rising of the 

 god of day. How solemnly yet pleasingly 

 serene is the picture, as it progresses towards 

 the final touch ! What coloring ! What 

 effect ! None but early risers ought ever to 

 affirm that they love the country. Half the 

 charms of a rural life consist in being present 

 at the scenes commencing at break of day. 

 Here indeed we have a living panorama, 

 painted by Nature in her choicest colors, — 

 beautiful because " natural." 



March usually comes in rudely, — giving 

 us in every sense of the word a good blowing- 

 up. No doubt we deserve it ! Yet is he 

 playful withal ; and he loves his fair mis- 

 tress — Spring. To use the sweetly expres- 

 sive language of Thomas Miller, — Spring 

 comes rushing in like a mad merry girl, 

 romping and playing with the lambs, and 

 running about with her hair blowing back to 

 peep at the pale-eyed primroses, or hunt 

 among the last year's leaves for the first tuft 

 of early violets. 



She startles the lark too, as he goes danc- 

 ing through the daisies ; and while he sends 

 down a shower of song, watches him with 

 upraised face, until he appears no larger than 

 a bee, and is at last lost in the floating silver 

 of the clouds. She mocks the bleating of 

 the lambs ; and over the little hillocks, that 

 will in Summer be covered with fragrant wild 

 thyme, runs races with them — her joyous 

 laughter ringing out all the louder when she 



falls, and crushes the silver-fringed daisies. 

 She gathers the wild blue-bells, and twines 

 them in her hair, and goes prying about the 

 hedges for the sky-colored eggs of the hedge- 

 sparrow. She knows where the throstle has 

 built, and where the hard round nest of the 

 blackbird lies concealed in the old orchard. 

 She can lead you to where the blackthorn is 

 in blossom, that looks like sheeted May, 

 though the long hedgerows as yet only wear 

 the faintest flush of green. She laughs at 

 the cold March winds, and knows that the 

 sun, which makes day and night equal, will 

 soon disperse them ; and that his warm 

 breath will in a few more weeks awaken all 

 the sleeping flowers of Spring. 



What a pleasure it is, to know that the 

 silver-rimmed daisies are now opening ; and 

 that the sun-stained buttercups will ere long 

 appear ; and as they look up to the sky, will 

 flash back from earth the glow of sunny gold 

 which they seem to draw from Heaven. That 

 the pleasant hedgerows, those green old 

 English boundary walls, will soon be pow- 

 dered over with the milk-white blossoms of 

 May, and make every breeze that blows 

 smell as sweetly as if it had been out all day 

 a-Maying, and was returning home oppressed 

 beneath the heavy burthen of fragrance 

 which it bears ! Then to look up to the 

 silver-loaded clouds, and as they float leisurely 

 along, to fancy that they also have been a 

 May-gathering, somewherein the blue fields of 

 Heaven ; for such fanciful thoughts will the 

 approaching Spring awaken. 



Already have we received many choice 

 love-tokens, in the witching form of early 

 flowers, grouped in miniature bouquets, and 

 transmitted to us through our faithful ally — 

 the Postmaster-General. In what sweet 

 amity do these little innocents nestle together 

 whilst passively submitting to their rapid 

 transit ; and with what a grateful, sweet odor, 

 do they greet us as we once again let them 

 recognise the light of Heaven ! And do they 

 not inspire our muse, as we gaze on their 

 nodding plumes, — fresher than ever, after 

 they have had their bath ! Surely yes. We 

 could sing of their charms for ever. Yet are 

 words powerless to do them fitting honor ! 



There is something in the dawn of Spring 

 that appears to renew our very system. It 

 seems to hallow our thoughts, and to render 

 them less burthensome. Cares sit lightly, 

 because one day in seven (at least) brings us 

 into contact with all our heart holds dear. 

 Spring, as one says, "brings with it a spirit 

 of tenderness." A burst of freshness and 

 luxury of feeling takes possession of us. 

 Aye, and let fifty springs have broken upon 

 us, yet is this joy (unlike many joys of time) 

 not an atom impaired. Are we not young ? 

 Are we not boys and girls ? Do we not 

 break, by the power of awakened thoughts, 



