KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL 



175 



spicuous; and the lilacs are green, bushy, 

 and thick. They are flushed with half-un- 

 folded leaves; and bunches of the future 

 blossoms stand out amongst them. The 

 rose trees, too, are gradually donning their 

 new liveries ; and the pe;ich, nectarine, and 

 pear give lavish promises of beauty and 

 plenty on every bough. Then, do but behold 

 the chesnuts ! How every day's sun is add- 

 ing to the gloriousness of their apparel ! 

 But why particularise, when all we see is 

 so full of beauty ? 



It is now that one revels in the enjoyments 

 of early Spring, and rejoices in beholding 

 the vernal greenness stealing along the shel- 

 tered hedgerows, whilst strolling through 

 fields and bowery lanes ; the celandine, daisy 

 coltsfoot, cardamine, primrose, and anemone, 

 disclosing tliemselves bashfully to our view, 

 and making our bosoms glow with rapture 

 at the thought of what is preparing for us 

 anon. Nature loves to provide for us ; and 

 feels delighted, no doubt, whilst beholding 

 us gaze with admiration on her handiwork ; 

 whilst our very senses " ache " at the rich 

 sweetness of the hidden flowers growing 

 beneath our feet. 



We feel, now our heart is warming 

 upon the subject of flowers, buds, and blos- 

 soms, that we could be very eloquent in their 

 praise; but, alas! what are words? How 

 infinitely powerless is the pen to set forth 

 even one of Nature's beauties ! To enjoy 

 these, let us again urge upon our readers the 

 necessity for early rising. The mornings 

 now are fresh. Dew, like diamonds, hangs 

 upon the buds and branches. The sun is 

 up betimes, shining people into activity, 

 and wooing them forth into the open air. 

 The vernal choristers obey his impulse, and 

 sing themselves awake. — chanting sweetly 

 their morning hymn of praise for a happy 

 night's rest. 



Something less than another fortnight 

 will see located amongst us many of our old 

 favorites, — blackcaps, nightingales, swallows, 

 and redstarts, besides other stragglers even 

 now on the wing towards the spot where 

 they were so happy last year. How we do 

 love to recognise, day after day, some well- 

 remembered voice ; and to bid our little 

 friends welcome, as one by one they greet 

 us with their song ! Only those who are 

 in the secret can understand the feeling we 

 speak of. "Honeysuckle," "Puss," " Lily 

 of the Valley," and other of our choice 

 correspondents, will vouch for this. 



Then the Cuckoo, — our garden is his home. 

 How we do rejoice in first hearing of his 

 advent, as announced by himself and mate ! 

 The very mention of his name recalls to our 

 memory the sweet lines of Wordsworth : — 



0, blithe new-comer ! 1 have heard, 

 I hear thee and rejoice ; 



O, Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, 

 Or but a wandering voice ? 



While I am lying on the grass 



Thy twofold shout I hear, 

 That seems to fill the whole air's space, 



As loud far off as near. 



Though babbling only to the vale 



Of sunshine and of flowers, 

 Thou hringest unto me a tale 



Of visionary hours. 



Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring, 



Even yet thou art to me 

 No bird, but an invisible thing — 



A voice, a mystery. 



The same whom in my schoolboy days 



I listen'd to; that cry 

 Which made me look a thousand ways, 



In bush, and tree, and sky. 



To seek thee did I often rove 



Through woods, and on the green ; 



And thou wert still a hope, a love , 

 Still long'd for, never seen. 



And I can listen to thee yet, 



Can lie upon the plain 

 And listen, till I do beget 



That golden time again. 



0, blessed bird ! the earth we pace 



Again appears to be 

 An unsubstantial, fairy place, 



That is fit home for thee ! 



How often, how very often have we re- 

 peated these lines whilst wandering far, far 

 away, and listening to the love-song of this 

 most singular bird ! A recurrence of these 

 happy hours is at hand. We know every 

 likely "spot, we can divine places out of 

 number where all our pets will reassemble, 

 and disbur then themselves in song ; and where 

 we can listen happily, — ourself unseen. Then 

 only imagine the skylark just now, — rising 

 fresh at earliest dawn from his bed of dew, 

 bathed in song ; and the lovely, tender green, 

 pervading the face of all Nature ! What 

 sounds ! what a refreshing sight to the eyes 

 after so long a separation ! We must not 

 dwell on it here. Words are so inefficient ! 



We have just been reading a lovely sketch 

 by Miss Mitford. It refers to a ramble of 

 hers, in early Spring, among the mazes of a 

 wood. It is so apposite to the present 

 month, that we must introduce a part of it 

 here : — 



Imagine a small forest, full of glades 

 and sheep-walks ; surrounded by irregular 

 cottages with their blowing orchards, a clear 

 stream winding about the brakes, and a road 

 intersecting it, and giving life and light to the 

 picture, — you will then have an idea of the 

 wood I speak of. 



Every step was opening a new point of 

 view ; a fresh combination of glade, and path, 



