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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



tance travels. A calculation has been made, 

 founded on the interval between the flash and 

 the sound, and the duration of the thunderclap, 

 showing that a flash of lightning will frequently- 

 traverse a space of nine or ten miles ; and, when 

 we take into account the zig-zag course which it 

 ordinarily follows, its alternate approach and 

 recession, will account for the phenomena in 

 question. Such would be the effect produced 

 upon an observer standing at the end of a long 

 file of soldiers, who were to discharge their mus- 

 kets at the same moment. He would not hear a 

 single repor|, but a succession of reports, which 

 would produce an irregular rolling sound. 



PHILOSOPHY OF SLEEP. 



When sleep is not very profound, the senses, 

 in a certain degree, are excitable, and the con- 

 ception of ideas by the mind does not entirely 

 cease ; consequently, dreams occur. If a light is 

 suddenly brought into a room where a person is 

 in this kind of sleep, he will either dream of 

 being under the equator, or in a tropical land- 

 scape, or of wandering in the fields in a clear 

 summer's day, or of fire. If a door is suddenly 

 slammed, but not so loud as to awake the sleeper, 

 he will dream of thunder; and if his palms be 

 gently tickled, his dreams will be of ecstatic 

 pleasure. If some particular idea completely 

 occupies the mind during the waking state, it 

 will occur in dreams , during sleep. If a person 

 folds his arms closely over his breast, he is likely 

 to dream of being held down by force, and the 

 images of the persons employed in holding him 

 down will be also present to his mind. The pre- 

 dominant emotions of the mind influence greatly 

 the character of dreams. 



SELECT POETRY". 



L0¥E BETTER THAN FEAR. 



Beyond all doubt, 'tis better — far, 



To rule by love than fear. 

 Speak gently— let not harsh words mar 



The good we might do here. 



Speak gently! — Love doth whisper low 

 The vows that true hearts bind ; 



And gentle friendship's accents flow — ■ 

 Affection's voice is kind. 



Speak gently to the little child! 



Its love be sure to gain ; 

 Teach it, in accents soft and mild, 



It may not long remain. 



Speak gently to the young ; for they 

 Will have enough to bear — 



Pass through this life as best they may, 

 'Tis full of anxious care ! 



Speak gently to the aged one — 

 Grieve not the care-worn heart, 



The sands of life are nearly run — 

 Let such in peace depart ! 



Speak gently, kindly to the poor; 



Let no harsh tone be heard — 

 They have enough they must endure, 



Without an unkind word ! 



Speak gently to the erring— know 

 They must have toil'd in vain. 



Perchance unkindness made them so ; 

 Oh, — win them back again ! 



Speak gently ! — 'tis a little thing 

 Dropped in the heart's deep well — 



The good, the joy which it may bring 

 Eternity shall tell. 



ORIGINAL POETRY. 



CHILDHOOD'S HAPPY HOURS. 



BY HELEN HETHERINGTON. 



In Life's eventful, changing scene, 

 Where'er our footsteps roam, 

 A soul-inspiring joy attends 

 The sacred name of Home. 



Thoughts, happy thoughts, still fondly dwell 

 'Midst scenes so loved — so dear; 

 The morning prayer, the evening hymn, 

 Fall back upon the ear. 



The pretty cottage on the hill, 

 Its lawn, and shady bowers, — 

 Our little skiff, borne by the breeze 

 In Childhood's happy hours ! 



Imagination oft recalls 

 The peasant's happy smile ; 

 The little shady lane that led 

 Down to the church-yard stile. 



The village-church half hid by trees, 

 The valley and the glen ; 

 Our fav 'rite walk at even-tide, — 

 Oh, we were happy then ! 



Never did birds so sweetly sing ; 



What voices cheer' d the vale ! 



How soft they breath'd their evening hymn, 



Perch' d on the garden pale! 



And surely ne'er were skies so clear; 

 Ne'er bloom'd such fragrant flowers, — 

 As those that cheer'd our little hearts 

 In Childhood's happy hours ! 



THE TEAR OF CHILDHOOD. 



The tear down childhood's cheek that flows, 

 Is like the dew-drop on the rose ; 



When next the summer breeze comes by, 

 And waves the bush — the flower is dry. 



Sir W. Scott. 



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