KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



323 



THE WORLD, A BEAUTIFUL WORLD. 



BY HELEN HETHERTNGTON. 



Tis a Beautiful World ! With gypsy glee, 



I roam over mountain and moor ; 

 The white-foaming waves bring joy to me, 



As they merrily dance on the shore. 



My heart is light and my thoughts are gay, 

 I welcome the sunshine, and shower ; 



I rise with the lark at break of day, 

 And rove with the evening hour. 



Nature, too, smiles ; and she welcomes me, 

 As a mother the child she loves best ; 



My heart from care and distress is free, 

 As I peacefully sleep on her breast. 



Wlien the soft wind sighs o'er the seaman's grave, 

 And night has succeeded the day — 



I watch the gay moonbeams that dance on the 

 wave, 

 And gambol the midnight away. 



'Tis a beautiful world ! the stars talk to me 



Of those who are far, far above ; 

 The soft gentle twilight steals o'er the lea, 



With thoughts of the friends that I love. 



I roam hand-in-hand with the bright days of 

 Spring, 

 Through valley, glen, forest, and brake ; 

 And Summer's light breezes new joys seem to 

 bring, 

 As they waft my light bark on the lake. 



There's a ray of hope in the darkest day, 

 A joy that the heart loves to borrow ; 



And bright happy thoughts, as the clouds pass 

 away, 

 Awaken to welcome the morrow. 



Every tree, every leaf, prove a power supreme, 

 And when their bright buds are uncurled, — 



When clusters of fruit in the clear sunlight 

 gleam, 

 Oh, this is a beautiful world ! 



GEMS AT HOME. 



Home is the spot of earth supremely blest — 

 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. 



Home is a casket of the rarest gems that can 

 glitter in the noon-day sun. Whether we instance 

 the palace of royalty, or the equally sacred roof of 

 the cottager, matters but little. Every room, every 

 nook, every corner,abounds with gems of the richest 

 value to the properly constituted mind. It requires 

 no particularly retentive memory to call to mind 

 the varied treasures of a given home. It needs no 

 vivid imagination to pourtray the many cherished 

 objects that are held dear by brothers, sisters, 

 fathers, and mothers, — not so much for their in- 

 trinsic worth, as for the ties of love, affection, and 

 duty that they recall. 



See yonder room, and mark how the better feel- 

 ings of our nature embalms a memento which the 

 thoughtless would jeer at. It is a sick chamber. 

 Albeit the blinds are down, the brilliant light of a 

 May morning pierces the apartment, as if nature 

 herself was greeting the convalescence of a little 



sufferer. The pillow is pressed by the pallid cheek 

 of a child over whom five summers seem scarcely 

 to have passed. The anxious watcher, so silently 

 moving across the room, is the sleeper's mother. 

 The fever spot hath passed, and the little girl is 

 slowly recovering ; but the doating parent hardly 

 ventures to breathe with confidence. The approach 

 of death has been 60 near that the fearful consum- 

 mation still seems inevitable. 



The invalid has sunk into what promises to be 

 a sound refreshing slumber ; and, after a fervent 

 prayer for its welfare, the young mother seats her- 

 self by the bedside, and ponders over the hearts 

 she has loved, and thinks of those that still beat 

 to return the affection. 



Presently she reaches a casket containing the 

 little heir-looms, forget-me-nots, and keepsakes, 

 that she has treasured up from girlhood. She 

 takes therefrom three morocco cases. They enclose 

 miniatures. They are daguerreotype portraits of 

 the departed, the absent, and the sleeping girl 

 present. Reader ! canst thou not sympathise with 

 that devoted creature's emotions? 



She is tracing the lineaments of a dear mother's 

 face ; that mother who has been laid in the cold 

 grave now some nine moons wasted. What me- 

 mories, what thoughts, what affections, rush 

 through her mind, as she gazes on the features so 

 vividly stamped on the daguerreotype ! Every 

 dimple and every line are retained, with a fidelity 

 that fairly staggers the beholder, — and makes her 

 scarcely credit that the life-like form and life-like 

 smile so exquisitely pourtrayed on the silver tablet 

 are for ever gone ! 



Perhaps, when the picture was taken, it was 

 lightly esteemed, — the receiver little dreaming 

 how soon death would desolate her hearth. If so, 

 a deep atonement has been made by the priceless 

 worth since set upon the trifle. It is now one of the 

 most valued gems the owner possesses. Nothing 

 could replace it ; neither could the ingenuity of 

 man or the wealth of worlds, produce so complete 

 a monument to the memory of the dead. 



Sadly closing the eloquent record of a mother's 

 being, — our friend opens the second case. Oh ! 

 the tell-tale eye, how it brightens ! How the color 

 comes and goes, as the young wife views the manly 

 form of her early love, — the father of her child ! 

 He is thousands of miles away, under the scorching 

 sun of India, little conscious of his daughter's 

 danger or its mother's grief. Perhaps lie, too, is 

 suffering, — but no ; do not fill the cup of misery 

 to the brim. His return is expected ; perchance 

 he is hastening on his way home, — with the same 

 bright eye, the same well-knit form, and the same 

 frank expression so faithfully caught by the magic 

 pencil of the photographist. Either way it is a 

 consolation of no small extent to realise his form so 

 palpably before the eye. 



The third case is opened, and another phase of 

 human love is stirred to its depths. What now 

 greets the eyes of the loving woman ? it is the 

 cherub-like face of the little invalid there, — taken 

 when the rosy hue of health bedecked its cheek, 

 and before it had reached its third summer. Tears 

 gush into the fond parent's eyes, as she once more 

 beholds her darling, — whose very movement seems 

 to have been caught in the picture. The little 

 creature is laughing, and looks its mother full in 

 the face, whilst she gazes on the portrait. The 



