KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



the subjects of it. Coriolanus himself did 

 not confront ill-will with a haughtier brow. 

 Indeed, as a general rule, an Englishman is 

 never so repulsive as when it is his cue to 

 conciliate opposition, and disarm unreasonable 

 prejudice. — G. H. 



THE EMIGRANT'S LARK. 



The following little sketch will, we are sure, 

 please our readers. It is a good story ; all 

 the better for the way in which it is told. Sir 

 Francis Head is the narrator. 



Henry Patterson and his wife Elizabeth 

 sailed from the Tower in the year 1834. as 

 emigrants on board a vessel heavily laden with 

 passengers, and bound to Quebec. Patterson 

 was an intimate friend of a noted bird-catcher 

 in London, called Charley Nash. Now,|Nash 

 had determined to make his friend a present 

 of a good skylark, to take to Canada with him ; 

 but not having what he called " a real good 

 un" among his collection, he went into the 

 country on purpose to trap one. In this 

 effort he succeeded ; but when he returned to 

 London,he found that his friend Patterson had 

 embarked ; and that the vessel had sailed a few 

 hours before he reached the Tower-stairs. He 

 therefore jumped on board a steamer that was 

 about to start, and overtook the ship just as 

 she reached Gravesen d ; where he hired a small 

 boat, and then sculling alongside, he was soon 

 recognised by Patterson and his wife, who 

 with a crowd of other male and female emi- 

 grants of all ages were taking a last farewell 

 of the various objects which the vessel was 

 slowly passing. 



" Here's a bird for you, Harry," said Nash 

 to Patterson, as, standing up in the skiff, he 

 took the frightened captive out of his hat; 

 " and if it sings as well in a cage as it did just 

 now in the air, it will be the best you have 

 ever heard." 



Patterson, descending a few steps from 

 the gangway, stretched out his hand and re- 

 ceived the bird, which he immediately called 

 Charley, in remembrance of his faithful friend 

 Nash. 



In the Gulf of St. Lawrence the vessel was 

 wrecked ; almost everything was lost except 

 the lives of the crew and passengers ; and ac- 

 cordingly, when Patterson, with his wife 

 hanging heavily on his arm, landed in Canada, 

 he was destitute of everything he had owned 

 on board, excepting Charley, whom he had 

 preserved, and afterwards kept for three 

 days in the foot of an old stocking. 



After some few sorrows, and after some 

 little time, Patterson settled himself at To- 

 ronto, in the lower part of a small house in 

 King Street, the principal thoroughfare of 

 the town, where he worked as a shoemaker. 

 His shop had a southern aspect ; he drove a 



nail into the outside of his window ; and 

 regularly every morning just before he sat 

 upon his stool to commence his daily work, he 

 carefully hung upon this nail a common sky- 

 lark's cage (which had a solid back of dark 

 wood, with a bow or small wire orchestra in 

 front) upon the bottom of which there was to 

 be seen,whenever it could be procured, a fresh 

 sod of green turf. 



As Charley's wings were of no use to him 

 in this prison, the only wholesome exercise he 

 could take was by hopping on and off his little 

 stage. This sometimes he would continue to 

 do most cheerfully for hours, stopping only 

 occasionally to dip his bill into a small,square, 

 tin box of water, suspended on one side, and 

 then to raise it for a second or two towards 

 the sky. As soon, however, as (and only 

 when) his spirit moved him, this feathered 

 captive again hopped upon his stage ; and 

 there, standing on a bit of British soil, with 

 his little neck extended, his small head 

 slightly turned, his drooping wings gently 

 fluttering, his bright black eyes intently fixed 

 upon the distant, deep, dark blue Canada sky, 

 he commenced his unpremeditated morning 

 song, his extempore matin prayer. 



The effect of his thrilling notes, of his shrill 

 joyous song, of his pure unadulterated English 

 voice, upon the people of Canada, cannot be 

 described ; and probably can only be imagined 

 by those who either by adversity have been 

 prematurely weaned from their mother 

 country, or who, from long- continued absence 

 from it, and from hope deferred, have learned 

 in a foreign land to appreciate the inesti- 

 mable blessings of their fatherland, of their 

 parent home. All sorts of men — riding, 

 driving, walking, propelled by urgent businesg, 

 or sauntering for appetite or amusement — as 

 if by word of command, stopped, spell-bound, 

 to listen, for more or less time, to the inspired 

 warbling, to the joyful hallelujahs, of a 

 common, homely-dressed, English lark ! The 

 loyal listened to him with the veneration 

 with which they would have listened to the 

 voice of their sovereign ; reformers, as they 

 leaned towards him, heard nothing in his en- 

 chanting melody which even they could desire 

 to improve. I believe that in the hearts of 

 the most obdurate radicals, he reanimated 

 feelings of youthful attachment to their 

 mother-country ; and that even the trading 

 Yankee (in whose country birds of the most 

 gorgeous plumage snuffle rather than sing) 

 must have acknowledged that the Heaven- 

 born talent of this little bird unaccountably 

 warmed the Anglo-Saxon blood that flowed 

 in his veins. Nevertheless, whatever others 

 may have felt, I must own, that although I 

 always refrained from joining Charley's 

 motley audience, yet, while he was singing, 

 I never rode by him without acknowledging, 

 as he stood with his outstretched neck looking 



