KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



57 



The whole face of Nature is now one vast 

 expanse of loveliness and sun-shine. Oh, 

 Summer ! 



Bright, sunny Summer, season of warm days, 

 Of ripening suns, and yellow harvestry! 

 Beneath the brooding fervence of thy sky, 

 The teeming earth its fruitfulness displays, 

 And toiling husbandmen in store repays. 

 Where'er we rove, soft gales go flitting by, 

 C barged with the hay's sweet breath deli- 



ciously 

 From many a heap'd-up field. Through plea- 

 sant ways, — 

 Green, winding lanes, that lead from farm to 



farm, 

 A thousand tinkling teams the fragrant load 

 Bear off to crofts and yards, at thy command; 

 And crowds of merry harvest-gatherers swarm 

 In every mead, and rural, leafy road, 

 Throughout the length and breadth of this fair 

 land. 



Two or three weeks agone, we spoke in 

 rapturous anticipation of the joys of hay- 

 making. These joys have since been ours ; 

 and our sun-burnt features now give ample 

 tokens that we have been " making hay 

 while the sun shines." Time was, when WE, 

 like other of our jeunesse, thought much of 

 preserving the " beauty of our complexion." 

 It was well perhaps, so to do ; but we are 

 wiser now, and hold "ruddy health" to be 

 paramount to all considerations about 

 " purity of color." No person who loves to 

 examine carefully Nature's lap-full of 

 Summer blessings, must fear sunburn and 

 freckles. These marks must ever attend the 

 true lover of country joys. We delight in 

 beholding them, as well on the brow of " a 

 nut-brown maid " as on the countenance of 

 one of the rougher sex. We claim an 

 affinity with the former in an instant, and 

 fraternise with true brotherly affection. A 

 vein of pleasing masonic sympathy, be it 

 known, runs through all who love the fields 

 and the hedgerows ; and we care not how 

 often we put ourselves in rehearsal with 

 these children of nature. Their society is 

 truly delectable, May they cross our path 

 daily ! 



We have before said, that we must now 

 for a season dispense with the warblings of 

 birds. The heat has nearly silenced them, 

 and driven them to the thickets. We may, 

 however, still hear the mellow note of the 

 blackbird, who lazily but happily opens his 

 sweet mouth, occasionally, to chime in with 

 the harmonies of nature; and also the deli- 

 cious melody of the blackcap, who sings 

 nearly all day on the tops of the highest 

 trees. This warbler is our especial favorite. 

 Wander where and when we may, there we 

 invariably find him in our company. How 

 this bird does love the company of man ! 

 and what a joyous, merry, happy little rogue 

 he is ! He has oftentimes cured us of a 



heart-ache, and we love him for it. We shall 

 be singing his praises at much length, in a 

 few days. 



Let us now call the attention of such as 

 fear not the heat of the sun, and dread not 

 his marks, to the insect world. If they 

 will throw themselves incontinently down 

 under some quiet hedge, in some sweet- 

 smelling field, and cast their eyes around 

 them, there will they behold a world of the 

 tiniest of happy creatures, revelling in all 

 the innocent enjoyments of a short but 

 merry life. Of all delights, this is to us the 

 purest, the most exquisite. The Hand that 

 formed both them and us, is and must be 

 Divine. And what a host is there of them ! 

 nearly all of them different ; and how united 

 are they in their movements, their bodies all 

 but transparent ! Hear how Clare sings 

 of them : — 



" These tiny loiterers on the barley's beard, 

 And happy units of a numerous herd 

 Of playfellows, the laughing Summer brings, 

 Mocking the sunshine on their glittering icings. 

 How merrily they creep, and run, and fly! 

 No kin they bear to labor's drudgery, 

 Smoothing the velvet of the pale hedge-rose ; 

 And where they fly for dinner no one knows — • 

 The dewdrops feed them not — they love the 



shrine 

 Of noon, whose suns may bring them golden wine. 

 All day they're playing in their Sunday dress — 

 When night, repose, for they can do no less. 

 Then, to the heath-bell's purple hood they fly, 

 And like to princes in their slumbers lie, 

 Secure from rain, and dropping dews, and all 

 In silken beds and roomy painted hall. 

 So merrily they spend their summer day, 

 Now in the corn fields, now in the new-mown 



hay; 

 One almost fancies that such happy things, 

 With colored hoods and richly-burnished wings, 

 Are fairy folk, in splendid masquerade 

 Disguised, as if of mortal folk afraid ; 

 Keeping their joyous pranks a mystery still, 

 Lest glaring day should do their secrets ill." 



So much for one of the sources of Summer 

 enjoyments, at which, indeed, we can but 

 barely hint. 



We may now soon look for thunder and 

 some refreshing showers ; which, after great 

 drought, are most truly welcome. We 

 observe, on every hand, a universal languor 

 prevailing throughout nature ; and we our- 

 selves cannot escape from it. Yet can we, 

 like the cattle, seek repose near pools of 

 water, and find a shelter from the sun's rays 

 beneath the trees of the wood. This 

 " Summer laziness " is particularly observa- 

 ble among the larger members of the fea- 

 thered tribe : — 



The daw, 

 The rook, and magpie, to the grey-grown oaks 

 That the calm village (in their verdant arms 

 Sheltering) embrace, direct their lazy flight; 



