KiDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



219 



our bed after a heavy meal, the less we say 

 about " the delights of the country" the 

 better. We cannot rise with the sun's herald, 

 nor witness the ushering in of day, — a sight 

 of unexampled grandeur : — 



How beautiful is Morn ! 



When from her downy pillows peeping 



At the world beneath her sleeping, 

 Her ruddy blush reflected lingers 



On the tissuey veils of gold, 

 The gorgeous work of Sol's own fingers,— 



That gracefully her form enfold 



From the sky-lark's daring sight, 



As merrily he wings his flight, 

 The laureate of morn ! 



How beautiful is Mom ! 



When in her garb of roseate hue, 



Bichly gemm'd with glittering dew, 

 She sees the fields of light advancing, 



While laughing nymphs around her play ; 

 Welcoming, with glad songs and dancing, 



The all-resplendent orb of day. 



At his approach they fade from sight, 



Enveloped in a silvery light, — 

 The peerless robe of mora ! 



It often astounds us, when we meet with 

 people who delight to talk about such things, 

 and read them in books, — and yet never 

 make one single effort to witness them ! We 

 repeat, — it astounds us. A pleasant writer 

 referring to people in towns, says : — It is de- 

 plorable to think of the aching hearts, borne 

 hither and thither in their luxurious carriages; 

 the envyings and heart-burnings which vex 

 the spirits of the passers-by, gazing on the 

 wealth they long for, toil for, — but cannot 

 have. How different the attractions of the 

 country ! You walk out and gaze around on 

 Nature in all her inimitable beauty. The sun 

 glistens on the dew, making it brighter than 

 any jewels ; sheds its radiance on the exqui- 

 site flowers, more beautiful than any work 

 of art ; and they are the property of the 

 poorest herdsman, and create no vain long- 

 ings. The ploughman whistling to his cattle, 

 or a joyous child swinging on a gate, are 

 perhaps all you meet in your walk ; but you 

 pass them without a feeling of pain. They 

 have their troubles doubtless, for sorrow is 

 the lot of man ; but they are lighter far than 

 the vexations of those who live in a troubled 

 city. 



We have now arrived at the time of the 

 singing of birds. All the groves and gardens 

 are vocal with melody. The nightingale 

 and black-cap, true to their observed times, 

 were safely allocated with us on the 9th of 

 April, and singing away merrily under our very 

 window on the morning of the 10th. Most 

 of the other summer visitors too, including 

 our good friend, the cuckoo, have since been 

 added ; and we are again in all our glory. 



As for walks and strolls, — if we have no 

 " opportunities " for these, we make them. 



" Where there is a will," says the proverb, 

 " there is also a way." And at this lovely, 

 seductive season, — 



When May 

 With her saucy curls, 



Beckons us at the gate, — 

 We were but unmanneied churls 

 To sleep and let her wait. 



No waiting is there for us ! A sight of the 

 blue ether, and the sound of "melody hanging 

 in the clouds," soon hurry us away.* 



This is the month when the sun shines out 

 warm and broadly; when, to use the forcible 

 expression of an enthusiastic admirer of 

 nature, " the crackling holly hedges glitter 

 in the laughing shower of splendor, like a 

 line of cuirassiers with their polished breast - 



* We are always pleased when we find an echo 

 to our own sentiments — and more particularly 

 when it is freely and openly expressed. The 

 following fragment, from the pen of Leigh Hunt, 

 shews a geniality of feeling which is perfectly 

 delightful. Speaking of May and its influences, he 

 says : — " Spring,while we are writing, is complete. 

 The winds have done their work. The shaken 

 air, well tempered and equalised, has subsided. 

 The swallow now shoots by us, like an embodied 

 ardor of the season. The glowing bee has his 

 will of the honied flowers, grappling with them as 

 they tremble. Then the young green ! This is 

 the most apt and perfect mark of the season, — the 

 true issuing forth of the Spring. The trees and 

 bushes are putting forth their crisp fans ; the lilac 

 is loaded with bud ; the meadows are thick with 

 the bright young grass, running into sweeps of 

 white and gold, with the daisies and buttercups. 

 The orchards announce their riches in a shower of 

 silver blossoms. The earth in fertile woods is 

 spread with yellow and blue carpets of primroses, 

 violets, and hyacinths, over which the birch-trees, 

 like stooping nymphs, hang with their thickening 

 hair. Lilies-of-the- valley, stocks, columbines, 

 lady-smocks, and the intensely red peony, which 

 seems to anticipate the full glow of summer-time, 

 — all come out to wait upon the season, like fairies 

 from their subterranean palaces." To the above 

 he adds the following exquisite sentiments : — 

 "Who is to wonder that the idea of love mingles 

 itself with that of this cheerful and kind time of 

 the year, setting aside even common associations ? 

 It is not only its youth and beauty, and budding 

 life, and 'the passion of the groves," that exclaim 

 with the poet, — 



Let those love now, who never loved before ; 

 And those who always loved, now love the 

 more. 



All our kindly impulses are apt to have more 

 sentiment in them, than the world suspect ; and 

 it is by fetching out this sentiment, and making 

 it the ruling association, that we exalt the impulse 

 into generosity and refinement, instead of degrading 

 it, as is too much the case, into what is selfish, and 

 coarse, and pollutes all our systems." — We wish 

 we could find a few more such writers as these, 

 and see such sentiments dispersed all over the 

 civilised world. — Ed. K. J. 



