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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



THE MOTHER AND CHILD. 



BY FELICIA REMANS. 



What is that, mother ? The lark, my child ! 

 The moru has but just looked out, and smiled, 

 When he starts from his humble grassy nest, 

 And is up and away, with the dew on his breast 

 And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright 



sphere, 

 To warble it out in his Maker's ear- 

 Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays 

 Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise ! 



What is that, mother? The dove, my son ! 

 And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, 

 Is flowing out from her gentle breast, 

 Constant and pure, by that lonely nest, 

 As the wave is poured from some crystal urn, 

 For distant dear one's quick return. 

 Ever, my son, be thou like the dove, 

 In friendship as faithful — as constant in love ! 



What is that, mother? The eagle, boy ! 

 Proudly careering his course of joy ; 

 Firm, on his mountain vigor relying, 

 Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying. 

 His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, 

 He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. 

 Boy ! may the eagle's flight ever be thine — 

 Onward, and upward, and true to the line ! 



What is that, mother? The swan, my love ! 

 He is floating down from his native grove ; 

 No loved- one now, no nestling nigh, 

 He is floating down, by himself to die. 

 Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his 'wings, 

 Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings. 

 Live so, my love, that when death shall come, 

 Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee " home!" 



VIVID PICTURES OF LIFE. 



The whole world so rejoices in the out- 

 pourings of Fanny Fern's joyous spirit, 

 and so thoroughly relishes the " palpable 

 hits" she gives to certain people in fashion- 

 able (i.e. unfeeling) life, that we offer no 

 excuse for transferring three of her short 

 chapters to our columns. 



The first, " Little Mabel," is a tale of every- 

 day life, and has its counterpart in nearly 

 every fashionable street. The second, 

 " Mistaken Philanthropy," is also a sketch 

 from life ; and so is the third, — "" Owls kill 

 Humming-Birds." 



LITTLE MABEL. 



Little Mabel had no mother. She was 

 slight, and sweet, and fragile, like her type, 

 — the lily of the valley. Her little hand, as 

 you took it in yours, seemed almost to melt 

 in your clasp. She had large dark eyes, 

 whose depths, with all your searching, you 

 might fail to fathom. Her cheek was very 

 pale, save when some powerful emotion lent 

 it a passing flush ; her fair open brow might 

 have defied an angel's scrutiny ; her little 

 footfall was noiseless as a falling snow-flake ; 



and her voice was sweet and low as the last 

 note of the bird ere it folds its head under 

 its wing for nightly slumber. 



The house in which Mabel lived was large 

 and splendid. You would have hesitated to 

 crush with your foot the bright flowers on 

 the thick rich carpet. The rare old pictures 

 on the walls were marred by no envious 

 cross-lights. Light and shade were artisti- 

 cally disposed. Beautiful statues, which the 

 sculptor, dream-inspired, had risen from a 

 feverish couch to finish, lay bathed in the 

 rosy light which streamed through the silken 

 curtains. Obsequious servants glided in and 

 out, as if taught by instinct to divine the 

 unspoken wants of their mistress. 



I said the little Mabel had no mother; and 

 yet there was a lady, fair and bright, of whose 

 beautiful lip, and large dark eyes, and grace- 

 ful limbs, little Mabel's were the mimic 

 counterpart. Poets, artists, and sculptors 

 had sung, and sketched, and modelled her 

 charms. Nature had been most prodigal of 

 adornment. There was only one little thing 

 she had forgotten — the Lady Mabel had no 

 soul. 



Not that she forgot to deck little Mabel's 

 limbs with costliest fabrics of most unique 

 fashioning ; not that every shining ringlet on 

 that graceful little head was not arranged by 

 Mademoiselle Jennet, in strict obedience to 

 orders ; not that a large nursery was not 

 fitted up luxuriously at the top of the house, 

 filled with toys, which its little owner never 

 cared to look at ; not that the Lady Mabel's 

 silken robe did not sweep, once a week, with 

 a queenly grace through the apartment, to 

 see if the mimic wardrobe provided for its 

 little mistress fitted becomingly, or needed 

 replenishing, or was kept in order by the 

 smart French maid. Still, as I said before, 

 the little Mabel had no mother ! 



See her, as she stands there by the nursery- 

 window, crushing her bright ringlets in the 

 palm of her tiny hand. Her large eyes glow ; 

 her cheek flushes, then pales ; now the little 

 breast heaves ; for the gorgeous west is one 

 sea of molten gold. Each bright tint thrills 

 her with strange rapture. She almost holds 

 her breath as they deepen, then fade and die 

 away. And now the last bright beam dis- 

 appears behind the hills, and the soft grey 

 twilight comes creeping on. Amid its deep- 

 ening shadows, one bright star springs sud- 

 denly to its place in the Heavens. Little 

 Mabel cannot tell why the warm tears are 

 coursing down her sweet face ; or why her 

 limbs tremble, and her heart beats so fast ; 

 or why she dreads lest the shrill voice of 

 Mademoiselle Jennet should break the spell. 

 She longs to soar, like a bird, or a bright 

 angel. She had a nurse once, who told her 

 " there was a God." She wants to know if 

 He holds that bright star in its place. »She 



