230 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



pace with the increasingly - heavy, — 

 alarmingly-heavy duties. We must have a 

 furlough. One head, and one pair of hands, 

 have done " wonders " year after year. Now, 

 the human frame begins to totter. This by 

 the way. 



The charms of May are perfectly inde- 

 scribable in words. The lovely maiden is for 

 ever blushing at the innocent consciousness 

 of her own unrivalled beauty. To use the 

 graceful language of Thomas Miller — she is 

 the bud of the year that will soon burst into 

 the sweet rose of June ; and which, when it 

 opens to the sun, can never become a bud again. 

 What a pretty idea ! 



11 The very winds visit her gently, whilst 

 facing her maiden beauty; as if they felt that 

 she was the embodied loveliness of the year — 

 the sweet nymph, whose zone the sun has not 

 yet. unbound, who is not yet too old to sport 

 with the lambs, nor too young to sit alone 

 by the brook that reflects her beauty, and 

 dream of love. The cuckoo singing in the 

 tree is enamored of her loveliness, and all his 

 cry to her is " Come, come !" but she shakes 

 her sweet head in token of refusal, and by the 

 motion shakes down a shower of May-buds, 

 which fall about her like a veil of flowers, 

 and wholly conceal her charms. 



She sets down her thoughts in the cow- 

 slips, and they grow -up into letters, which 

 she alone can read, but which to us bear only 

 the form of flowers scattered over hill and 

 dale ; though to her they have a meaning of 

 their own. She knows every word the butter- 

 flies whisper into the hearts of the blossoms 

 on which they alight with folded wings. 

 The language which the bees murmur to the 

 bells and buds, is as familiar to her ear as the 

 love-notes of the birds ; and when the long 

 leaves talk to one another in the breeze, she 

 hears all they say. She is seated in her 

 trellised arbour, amid the long green leaves 

 which ever wave and flicker, and throw a 

 golden network on the rounded whiteness of 

 her arms, and the peach-like bloom of her 

 delicate cheeks. 



Beautiful does an English village now look, 

 that stands beside a river, on the banks of 

 which a long line of trees are planted — their 

 shadows thrown upon the moving ripples 

 below ! Such a one now rises upon the 

 picture chamber of the mind, with its range 

 of hills in the distance, round the base of 

 which the river sweeps like a belt of silver, 

 partly crowned with a w r ood, whose trees in 

 this sweet May-month are " musical with 

 bees." On the opposite bank the lowing of 

 oxen is heard, and the jingling of sheep -bells; 

 which, mingling with the rippling of the 

 river, give a voice to the landscape that falls 

 soft and soothingly upon The air. 



Perchance at some bend of the river an 

 angler takes his patient stand in a da k pic- 



turesque dress, his figure resting upon a grey 

 background formed by the light-colored 

 stone jetty, from the interstices of which a 

 green creeper here and there hangs down, like 

 a dash of agreeable color. Far as the eye 

 can reach, a long train of sunshine, like a 

 pathway of gold, runs trembling along the 

 river, and seems at last to unite with, and 

 be lost in the flood of glory that streams 

 from the sky — the blaze of light that flashes 

 from the unclouded face of Heaven. The 

 swallows skim to and fro, and are ever laving 

 their white breasts in the water; while some- 

 where near at hand there is a noise of rooks, 

 and the sound of the cooing of ringdoves 

 from some adjoining copse. Others may 

 boast of the sunny skies of Italy, the gran- 

 deur of mountain scenery, the wide wild 

 prairies of America, the citron and orange 

 groves of the East ; but nowhere can such a 

 scene be found excepting in green old homely 

 England." 



To enjoy all this, requires one to be pos- 

 sessed of a soul. Without geniality of feeling 

 all objects become tame. Pleasure must be 

 shared, to be thoroughly relished ; and when 

 two hearts, cast in the same mould, do come 

 together, how great their happiness ! 



May is termed the Queen of the Year. 

 Such is she, truly. Hill, and wood, and vale, 

 contribute to her lovely wardrobe. Behold 

 her hair pranked with daisies ; the pansy, 

 "frecked with black," pressed into her 

 bosom, where dwells, beneath, heartsease — in 

 happy innocence. And see ! her lap is full 

 of yellow cowslips and pale primroses. And 

 what a robe ! It is of emeralds, sprinkled 

 with the gold and silver spangles of the 

 buttercup and daisy : — 



Born in yon blaze of orient sky, 



Sweet May ! thy radiant form unfold; 



Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye, 



And wave thy shadowy looks of gold. 



For thee the fragrant zephyrs blow ; 



For thee descends the sunny shower ; 

 The rills in softer murmurs flow, 



And brighter blossoms gem the bower. 



Light graces deck'd in flowing wreaths, 

 And tip-toe joys their hands combine ; 



And Love his sweet contagion breathes, 

 And laughing, dances round thy shrine. 



Warm with new life, the glittering throng 

 On quivering fin, and rustling wing, 



Delighted join their votive song, 

 And hail thee " Goddess of the Spring ! " 



Oh May ! May ! lovely May ! the " sweet 

 season," " the savorous time," — the month 

 of love and jollity, wdien everything grows 

 gay, and the malicious cuckoo " mocks 

 married men" with his two ominous notes. 

 What a hard-hearted muckworm must he 



