326 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



THE DELIGHTS OF A GARDEN. 



He who has no taste for a garden is 

 to be pitied. AVe question, indeed, if such 

 a person can be amiable. Flowers have a , 

 charm about them that nmet win upon a gentle 

 heart. 



We rarely pass by a cottager's garden I 

 without being struck by the neatuess of its j 

 arrangement, and the beauty of its flowers : 

 and we as rarely fail to find the gude wife a I 

 type of what is exhibited out of doors. A- I 

 propos to this subject, is an article which : 

 appears in a late number of the Florist. It 

 is entitled " The Poor Man and his Garden." 

 From it we make an extract or two, as being 

 well worthy attention : — 



It is a remarkable fact, and one to which I 

 scarcely know an exception, that the state of the 

 cottage-garden is a tolerably correct index to the 

 internal condition of the tenement and its inhabi- 

 tants. Whenever I find outside the door a neat 

 and well-cropped garden, and more especially if 

 I observe one cherished spot radiant with the 

 brightest of flowers (can any one tell me why 

 cottage flowers are always so very, very bright ?) 

 I am certain to find cleanliness, order, and com- 

 fort within. 



The cottager who takes a delight in his gar- 

 den is essentially a domestic man. It is there, 

 at home, surrounded by his family, he finds re- 

 laxation and amusement after the fatigues of the 

 day. And when he seeks his humble couch 

 (sweet and invigorating be his slumber !) will any 

 one dare to affirm that the bosom of this wearied 

 son of the soil does not glow with a feeling of 

 honest pride, a sense of the dignity of the man 

 within him, that the mightiest noble of the land 

 might envy ? I regret that so many of our cot- 

 tages are without gardens ; I fear that there ex- 

 ists a prejudice in the minds of large occupiers oi 

 land, which fixes too narrow a liruit to the cot- 

 tage garden ; and although this evil has been 

 somewhat remedied of late years, there is still 

 considerable room for improvement in this re- 

 spect. I am at a loss to account for this prejudice, 

 as it would be no difficult matter to prove that the 

 good gardener is almost invariably a first-rate 

 laborer ; how indeed should it be otherwise ? 



The establishment of horticultural societies 

 in various parts of the country, with liberal prizes 

 to cottagers, has been productive of the greatest 

 good ; but these societies are like angels' visits — 

 few and far between. I would multiply them. I 

 would have one in every parish of considerable 

 extent. Smaller parishes might unite in twos 

 and threes for the purpose. I would give prizes 

 for every description of vegetable useful to the 

 cottager ; and one main feature of my society 

 should be as many premiums, graduated in 

 amount, for the best managed cottage-garden, as 

 the funds would allow. Would I exclude flowers ? 

 By no means. I would invite their production, 

 by bidding highly for the best nosegay ; but the 

 word bouquet should not appear in my schedule ; 

 it seems sadly out of place in a cottager's prize- 

 fist, though I have often seen it there for the pur- 

 pose, I presume, of astonishing the natives. But 



there is the pet Fuchsia or Geranium, which the 

 good wife so assiduously cultivates as an ornament 

 for her window. We must have that ; so, Mr. 

 Secretary, put down " The best blooming plant in 

 a pot, 2s. 6d." 



I would have one exhibition in each year, and 

 no more ; but that should be a general holiday : 

 and I would take especial care that the children 

 should have their annual treat on that day, which 

 should be in every respect worthy to be marked 

 with a white stone in our calendar. 



We hardly need add, how cordially we 

 agree with all that this sensible writer has 

 advanced. May it be as he says ! 



MY RUSSET GOWN. 



My Busset Gown is dear to me, 



Though years have passed away 

 Since my young heart beat joyously 



Beneath its folds of grey. 

 No jewels hung around my neck, 



Or glittered in my hair, 

 With lightsome step I tript along, 



My spirit knew no care ; 

 The roses near my windows crept, 



And shed their sweets around, 

 Hard was the bed on which I slept 



But yet my sleep was sound. 



My Russet Gown I laid aside, 



For one of rich brocade ; 

 I thought in my simplicity 



Its charm could never fade. 

 I left the cot where I had passed 



My happy childhood years, 

 I left my aged father sad, 



My mother was in tears ; 

 I left them for a wealthy home, 



To be a rich man's bride, 

 And thought that splendor woidd atone 



For loss of all beside. 



My Busset Gown, when next I gazed 



Upon its sombre hue, 

 Brought such a lesson to my heart 



Ah, sad as it was true. 

 Its simple neatness seemed to mock 



My silks and jewels gay, 

 And bore my wandering thoughts to those 



Dear friends so far away. 

 I felt how fleeting were the joys 



That wealth alone can buy, 

 And for that hamble cottage home 



My bosom heav'd a sigh. 



My Russet Gown I still have kept, 



To check my growing pride ; 

 A true though silent monitor, 



My folly to deride. 

 And when I meet with faithless friends 



Among the giddy throng, 

 Whom vice and pleasure, in their train, 



Drag heedlessly along, — 

 I feel how gladly I would give 



My coach and bed of down, 

 Once more in sweet content to five, 



AXD WEAK MY RUSSET GoWX. 



M. C. 



