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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



spirit in the breeze. The nightingale, too, 

 is now in his finest voice, singing rapturously 

 strains of the purest love. " Our Village" 

 rings night after night with the sweet echo 

 of his song. The blackcaps, too, are very 

 numerous ; and their flutelike voices are 

 never silent. What harmony is theirs ! 



We mentioned in a former number that 

 Spring was making her toilet, and preparing 

 to robe herself in a Summer dress. These 

 preparations are now complete ; and she 

 stands before us in all the natural beauty of 

 Innocence. Her attendants, too, in the 

 woods, groves, and fields, have all donned 

 their new annual attire. The shrunk and 

 withered limbs of the old trees are quite 

 ^regenerated. Age seems to have deserted 

 them, and they look young and fresh as ever. 

 This is just what ought to be the case with 

 mankind. All that is now around us tends 

 to make us forget care and trouble, and look 

 upwards. The birds sing on every tree, 

 flowers exhale their sweetest odors, insects 

 hum merrily in the hedges and open air, and 

 fishes may be seen leaping on the shining 

 waters. Everything that hath breath (save 

 one) is praising God. Aye, even the winds : — 



'Tis sweet to hear the restless wind 

 Gliding about among the trees, as if 

 The angel of the earth were passing o'er 

 The velvet carpet of her palace-home 

 From chamber unto chamber ; just to see, 

 With all the yearning of a mother's heart, 

 That all her loved ones were asleep and well — 

 And look her last on them for this one night, 

 And take their happy dreams with her to Heaven. 



Our occupation now must be out of doors. 

 There is no possible reason for indoor em- 

 ployment. Morning, noon, and evening, find 

 constant sources of pure delight for all who 

 love nature. It is at this particular season 

 that we rejoice in rising with the lark — 

 gazing with him fondly on the break of day. 

 Let us listen to his song the while : — 



Fling back the orient gates ! Behold, awaking, 



Aurora, beautiful from tranced sleep ; 

 While with crystalline fingers she is shaking 



Morn from her dewy hair, the young hours keep 

 Watch o'er her car ; and round its pathway sweep 



Hoses, far scattering onward as they flee ; 

 Light rays flash'd forth like foam from the blue 

 deep ; 



Downwaid they wheel in dance and revelry, 

 Waking on earth's grey hills the choirs of melody. 



Her eyes are flashing glories ! Round her head 



Iris her diadem ethereal flings ; 

 Her bow, o'er which the sun's rich rays are shed, 



Who, with all radiant eyes, the treasure brings 

 For his immortal daughter. Forth she springs,— 



Her car is loosed, her banner is unfurl'd, 

 Life wakes from death like sleep ; Time plumes 



his wings, 

 Night's shadows backward to their caves are hurl'd; 

 Behold! great day is born, and walks along the 

 world ! 



Such sights as these, set to music by the 

 lark, whose vocal powers only those who 

 rise early know how to appreciate, can be 

 but faintly imagined. If we were to cultivate 

 more of the pure feelings they inspire in the 

 human breast, we should be better subjects 

 than we are ; but, alas ! why speak we of 

 impossibilities ? Only imagine any of our 

 English people up at daybreak, — viewing 

 the rising sun with their locks bathed in dew, 

 and joining the birds at early matins ! What 

 they hate, however, that do we love. 



"We might be truly eloquent of the charms 

 of this month. Our heart is full of the most 

 delightful impressions peculiar to the season : 

 but vain must words ever be to describe the 

 feelings of the soul. The mower will be 

 busy anon, with his musical scythe ; laying 

 low all the daisies, buttercups, and field- 

 flowers without mercy. Then shall we see 

 the merry haymakers tripping along; the 

 lasses tossing over the grass with the pret- 

 tiest air of impudence imaginable, as much 

 as to say, "Do — if you dare!" We speak 

 now of places far away. These happy, 

 merry scenes are not to be met with near 

 London. Innocence, amongst us, is indeed 

 unknown ! 



Then, fancy the perfume of the clover and 

 new mown hay, which the sun exhales and 

 bears ofl" on the gentle breeze across 

 the meadows and highways ! Then a sudden 

 shower from a passing cloud — making that 

 sweet odor still sweeter; the aroma softly 

 stealing over the senses with pleasurable 

 delight, and lasting till the sun again shines 

 forth — more glorious than ever, in his great 

 majesty. Oh, that hay-field ! and oh, those 

 hay-cocks ! 



And what about the roses, whose bashful 

 cheeks and lovely countenances woo us to 

 keep them company ? In very truth, this is 

 a subject we dare not handle. We feel we 

 love those darling flowers, and could for 

 ever worship at their shrine of beauty. But 

 alas ! like all other pleasures, they last too 

 short a time, and quickly vanish away : — 



" All that's fair must fade — 

 The brightest still the fleetest." 



We have not particularised the hosts of 

 lovely wild-flowers, nor the many living 

 things which cross our path every minute 

 as we walk along ; grasshoppers, cockchafers, 

 dragon-flies, bees, moths, beetles, and insect- 

 life generally — all intensely happy in their 

 existence. These, if we be wise, we shall 

 leisurely examine. They all afford food for 

 much, thought and curious inquiry — par- 

 ticularly the May-fly. This last, as the sun 

 declines, may be seen emerging from the 

 surface of shallow streams — lying there for 

 a while, till its wings are dried for it to take 

 flight. Escaping, after a protracted struggle 

 of half a minute, from its watery birthplace, 



