KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



197 



(which he did on the farmer's knee, to his 

 vast delight,) he began carrying the rest to 

 his box, where he stowed them carefully 

 away. 



So well did he recollect this ever afterwards, 

 that whenever he came to the house he 

 would search his pockets for acorns, two or 

 three of which the farmer always provided him- 

 self with whenever lie called in. After having 

 had him for a year and a half (during which 

 time he had enjoyed good health, and made 

 a host of friends), he one day was observed 

 not to have eaten his food, neither did he 

 make his appearance at breakfast. This 

 induced us to open his box, to see what was 

 the matter with him. Alas! we found him 

 nearly dead, and looking very stupid. We 

 tried (vainly) to make him take some warm 

 milk, but he was past all recovery. Ere the 

 day had closed, "poor Jack " was no more. 



It was a very long time before we felt 

 reconciled to our loss. We missed the pretty 

 little tricks of our interesting friend more 

 than I can describe in words. However, 

 lamentations were useless ; and as we do not 

 know the cause of his death, we are not 

 inclined to keep another, lest a similar mishap 

 should again befall us. 



C. F. T. Y. 



Stockleigh Pomeroy, Devon. 



[Some day, we promise ourself the 

 pleasure of writing a little volume entirely 

 devoted to our experience with " Domestic 

 Pets," amongst which Squirrels have 

 played a very prominent part. We shall 

 not fail to include the foregoing as corrobo- 

 rative of what otherwise might savor of 

 "romance." Kindness to animals leads to 

 delightful results.] 



SILENT LOVE. 



SEASONABLE ENJOYMENTS. 

 SPRING. 



Thou askest me, my fair-hair'd love, 



Wherefore my lips are still ; 

 While love within me dwelling — 

 Silence 

 My heart doth fill ! 



Do then the flames go singing 

 Their Heaven-aspiring will? 

 Then send their sparks up high and red — 

 So high, so red, 

 And yet so still ! 



The rose, too, nought can utter 



When blooming into light ; 

 She glows, and breathes the fragrance forth- 

 Voiceless forth ! — 

 Upon the night ! 



So, too, my rapture uses ; 



Since thou my love hast crowned, 

 It glows and blooms within my soul, 



Deep in my soul ! 

 But makes no sound ! 



In the " Hyperion " of Professor Long- 

 fellow, are some very beautiful fragments, 

 well deserving a place in the columns of OUR 

 OWN. I propose sending you an extract or 

 two occasionally, feeling sure that you will 

 give them a ready insertion. I now forward 

 you his first chapter on 



SPRING. 



It was a sweet carol which the Rhodian 

 children sang of old in spring, bearing in 

 their hands, from door to door, a swallow, as 

 herald of the season : — 



" The swallow is come ! 

 The swallow is come ! 

 fair are the seasons, and light 

 Are the days that she brings. 

 With her dusky wings, 

 And her bosom snowy white!" 



A pretty carol, too, is that wdiich the Hun- 

 garian boys, on the islands of the Danube, 

 sing to the returning stork in spring : — 



" Stork ! stork ! poor stork ! 

 Why is thy foot so bloody ? 

 A Turkish boy hath torn it; 

 Hungarian boy will heal it, 

 With fiddle, fife, and drum." 



But what child has a heart to sing in this 

 capricious clime of ours, where spring comes 

 sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy 

 cloud-sails, and the misty pennon of the east 

 wind nailed to the mast ? Yet, even here, 

 and in the stormy month of Mar.h even, 

 there are bright warm mornings, when we 

 open our windows to inhale the balmy air. 

 The pigeons fly to and fro, and we hear the 

 whirring of wings. Old flies crawl out of 

 the cracks to sun themselves, and think it 

 is summer. They die in their conceit ; and 

 so do our hearts within us, when the cold sea 

 breath comes from the eastern sea, and 

 again 



" The driving hail 

 Upon the window beats with icy flail." 



The red flowering maple is first in blossom, 

 its beautiful purple flowers unfolding a fort- 

 night before the leaves. The moosewood 

 follows, with rose-colored buds and leaves ; 

 and the dogwood, robed in the white of its 

 own pure blossoms. Then comes the sudden 

 rain storm ; and the birds fly to and fro, and 

 shriek. Where do they hide themselves in 

 such storms ? At what firesides do they dry 

 their feathery cloaks ? At the fireside of 

 the great hospitable sun, — to-morrow, not 

 before ; — they must sit in wet garments till 

 then. 



In all climates spring is beautiful. In the 

 south it is intoxicating, and sets a poet be- 

 side himself. The birds begin to sing : they 

 utter a few rapturous notes, and then wait 



