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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



idea of; and she has fully prepared us for what 

 is now to follow. We have rambled hither 

 and thither, and been fairly fascinated with 

 what we have seen. All nature has appeared 

 gay and animated ; all creation happy. 



Not the least part of our enjoyment, has 

 been the society of our vernal and summer 

 songsters ; whose voices have filled the air 

 with rejoicing. As early as 2, a.m., have 

 we risen to greet them, and bid them good 

 morrow. From our open casement, we have 

 listened to their " matins" with rapture ; and 

 heard them rehearse their ceaseless songs of 

 praise till we have caught the very spirit of 

 their music. Oh ! what calm delights are 

 those, which hold the mind spell-bound 

 whilst contemplating the world and its 

 Maker ! To see and hear how these little 

 creatures worship ; and to reflect how we, 

 " reasonable creatures," worship — opens the 

 door to reflections which are certainly not 

 unprofitable. Their worship is adoration ; 

 ours, for the most part, dry, formal "duty." 

 Tliey never neglect their worship. Let us 

 hope we are as particular : — 



The feather'd tribe can chant their lay, 

 And hymn their great Creator's praise ; 

 But man, for whom on every thorn 

 The daylight falls, till close of even, 

 Ungrateful views each sun-bright morn, 

 Nor whispers forth a prayer to Heaven. 



• 



Nor must we forget that the feathered 

 tribe never retire to rest at this season with- 

 out attending " vespers." They literally 

 sing themselves to sleep. Thus are they 

 consistent worshippers, and surely patterns 

 for us to follow. 



But we must leave the past (" chewing the 

 cud" of what has given us so much pleasure), 

 and come to the present. We are in July. 



The year has now attained its manhood. 

 The sun has intense power, 

 yields to its influence, and 

 worked every hour. We 

 readers, long since, to make much of the 

 refreshing green whilst it lasted. We did. 

 Our eye was never removed from it long 

 together ; so highly did we estimate its love- 

 liness. It is now gone ; and will return no 

 more. Summer is now perfect. The month 

 is fairly poised between the seasons of growth 

 and decline. It stands forth in all its pride — 

 at once strong,, full-grown, glowing, and 

 beautiful. 



The trees, which hitherto boasted of light- 

 green tender leaves, are now in full foliage. 

 Their vesture has darkened into a rich 

 sobriety. Their youthful days are over. 

 Flowers of every kind abound in the garden. 

 Many too, of the richest brilliancy, are 

 scattered over mead and mountain, over 

 heath and glen. All is bright and hot. 

 Thunder makes us sensible of this, every now 



Everything 

 marvels are 

 advised 



our 



and then. So do the numerous tribes of 

 insects, that hum around us in the lazy 

 listlessness of their joy. This is the be- 

 ginning of our benignant mother, Nature's 

 triumph. She looks upon the work of her 

 hands, and behold it is good — very good. 

 So lavish is she of her favors, so deter- 

 mined that we shall all be happy, that she 

 provides an abundance of everything. The 

 poor are not forgotten. The fruits of the 

 earth are in excess ; there is more than suffi- 

 cient for man and beast. It is Nature's own 

 holiday. " Let the world rejoice and all 

 that is in it. Let the sea make a noise, and 

 all that therein is ! " 



'Tis now that God, and Nature, poetry 

 and benevolence, call us forth. We must 

 not be selfish. We must not overtask our- 

 selves. We must not forget that 



" To day we live, — to-morrow die." 



We owe a duty to ourselves and to each 

 other. Anxiety must be laid aside for a 

 time, and we must band together in 

 brotherly and sisterly love. So, up with 

 you, all ye who are morbidly inactive : — 



Awake ! awake ! the flowers unfold, 



And tremble bright in the sun ; 

 And the river shines, a lake of gold, — 



For the young day has begun. 

 The air is blithe, and the sky is blue, 



And the lark, on lightsome wing, 

 From bushes that sparkle rich with dew 



To Heaven his matin sings. 

 Then awake ! awake ! while music's note 



Now bids thee sleep to shun ; 

 Light zephyrs of fragrance round thee float, 



For the young day has begun. 



We are now about to change one pleasure 

 for another. We have had the song of the 

 birds, early and late. We have enjoyed it 

 to perfection. It is now gradually growing 

 faint, and it will soon cease altogether. 

 The nightingale is hushed. The cuckoo is 

 with us ; but very shy, and very silent. 

 The blackbird sometimes favors us with a 

 happy chant from the top of a high tree ; 

 and the thrush, too, occasionally throws in a 

 few of his joyous notes; but they are only 

 occasional. The rose fades on the way-side 

 bough. Dust and heat strive for mastery 

 over the leaves ; and the corn begins to grow 

 pale in anticipation of its impending fate. 

 The grass has already fallen. 



Do you not smell the aroma from yonder 

 hay-field ? And hark ! there is a ringing of 

 the scythes on every hand. There is the 

 laughter too, of the hay-makers, the sound 

 of the sheep bell, the bleating of sheep, and 

 the lowing of oxen. Sit beneath a shady 

 tree and watch the movements of these hard- 

 working people ; then see if memory will 

 not call to mind the scenes of early youth, 

 and make you happy. Quitting the hay- 



