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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



rose-colored, then the red and blue flowers, ac- 

 quire their hues. Every form becomes distinct. 

 The hemerocallis, closed at night, expands its 

 yellow corolla and exhales a jonquil-like fra- 

 grance. The gold-colored lion's-leaf (Leontodon) 

 has preceded the hemerocallis in displaying its 

 showy bloom amid the grass, in which the still- 

 closed daisies keep their tiny silver rays closely 

 pressed together, showing the under-side tipped 

 with bright pink. 



The biids arouse themselves and sing; the sky 

 assumes a rosy light; the grey clouds change into 

 pale lilac ; the east sheds around a glowing yel- 

 low; the silvery bark of the cherry-trees in a 

 western aspect are tinged with rose-color be- 

 neath the first rays obliquely darted by the sun. 

 Behold the star of day! the star of life rising in 

 glory and in majesty! A globe of fire appears in 

 the horizon. Transparent dew-drops tremble 

 upon every blade of grass ; some pure white, 

 others ruby red, emerald green — each every in- 

 stant changing into each, or into topaz or sapphire. 

 It is a magnificent diadem of gems falling every 

 morning from the sky, which lends it for half an 

 hour to the earth, and which the sun, with his 

 first rays, restores to the sky — when the world re- 

 vives to renewed labor, hatred and ambition. 



The soul expands; a thousand pure and joyful 

 emotions spring to life in the heart. The plants 

 are awakened; the acacia had its leaves folded 

 and pressed one against another ; they now sepa- 

 rate and stand erect. The blue-flowered lupine, 

 with palmate leaves of a glaucous green, had 

 closed its leaflets, while the petioles drooped 

 against the stem; they now rise up and extend 

 themselves. The lupine has been the motive of 

 many pages penned by the learned. Yirgil has 

 somewhere said, tristis lupinus. Why has Virgil 

 called the lupine melancholy? The variety, of 

 which we speak, has a charming habit of growth. 

 The shape of the flower is pretty and its color 

 beautiful; other varieties have an agreeable fra- 

 grance. Why does Virgil, then, call the lupine 

 melancholy? Heaven knows the reasons the 

 learned have adduced to account for it. Many 

 volumes have been written on the subject, as well 

 by learned botanists as by learned commentators ; 

 they have never been able to coincide in opinion. 



I recollect two queries of equal importance we 

 used to ask each other at college ; the one re- 

 mained undecided as that of the lupine has hi- 

 therto been — the other was solved in the same 

 manner that the " melancholy" of the lupine shall 

 presently be. 



" Why," asked one student of another, "is the 

 salmon the most hypocritical of fish ?'■' The ques- 

 tioned meditated some time, but not being a pro- 

 fessional savant, ended by saying, — "I don't 

 know." A savant never says " I don't know ;" 

 he prefers eiror to ignorance. 



" Nor I," was the replv; " if I did, I would not 

 ask." 



The following was the other question : — " Tell 

 me why St. Paul fell from horseback ?" 



The answer, however long pondered, was al- 

 ways, — " Because he did not keep his seat." 



I declare these two answers to be perfectly 

 clear, sensible, and rational. Savants are very 

 far from proceeding in a similar manner. Yet 

 the only reason why Virgil called the lupine 



" melancholy" was, because he required two long 

 syllables for the measure of his verse, with which 

 the word tristis supplied him. 



But let us watch the plants recover. The bal- 

 sam, whose leaves were bent towards the earth, 

 now lifts them upwards. Those of the Oenothera, 

 which, on the contrary, had been raised and closed 

 round the stem, now extend and droop a little. 

 The hum of insects is heard. The Cape marigold 

 displays its violet disk, surrounded by rays — 

 white above, violet beneath. The white water- 

 lily, whose cup was yesterday evening closed, 

 again unfolds. The convolvulus major, climbing 

 in garlands laden with rose-colored, violet, white 

 and striped flowers, closes those which had opened 

 at night. Each plant blooms at its appointed hour. 

 The sun which forces the one to open, compels 

 the other to close ; 3 et the eye can discern nQ| 

 difference to account for the contrast. 



At night the trees imbibe the oxygen, which is 

 as necessary to their existence as to ours. In the 

 day, they exhale it, and return to the air a much 

 larger portion than they had deprived it of; the 

 action of the sun decomposing the carbonic acid. 

 These two phenomena explain the danger of keep- 

 ing plants at night in a close room, as they then 

 absorb a portion of the oxygen and diminish the 

 quantity of respirable air. The quantity neces- 

 sary to man is more considerable than is generally 

 supposed. One individual exhausts in an hour 

 at least six square feet (metres cubes) of air. The 

 greater part of the amusements taken in society — 

 balls, soirees, plays, assemblies, considerably di- 

 minish this necessary portion. It is difficult to 

 accomplish that, in a route or soiree as they are 

 now given, any one can have more than a foot 

 and a half of respirable air. You would not 

 easily be persuaded to take part in these amuse- 

 ments at the cost of the privation of two-thirds 

 of your food. The privation of air is less imme- 

 diate in its effects, but it is probably the cause of 

 the greater part of the illness of the inhabitants 

 of towns. 



Plants in a close room absorb a portion of oxy- 

 gen and exhale an equal portion of carbonic acid, 

 which is a mortal poison when existing in too 

 large a proportion in the air, of which it is never- 

 theless an element. This explains the bien etre 

 felt under trees in the day-time ; a sensation of 

 comfort not alone attributable to shade and cool- 

 ness. Without change of abode, it is sufficient 

 to make use of one's eyes to see constantly new 

 scenes. The Lion's leaf always opens its golden 

 rays before the daisy displays its silver ones; the 

 evening primrose never expands its petals till 

 those of the water-lily are closed. The black- 

 bird whistles in the morning, the nightingale 

 sings at night. The grasshopper chirps amid 

 the long grass during the most intense heat of 

 the sun. The frog croaks in the marshes at sun- 

 set. Every moment has its interest, its spectacle, 

 its richness, and its splendor. 



[The above has been translated for this Jour- 

 nal by our valued correspondent, Forestiera, 

 from Voyaye autour de mon Jardin, by Al- 

 phonse Karr.] 



Ennui. — A fearful visitation; induced, for the 

 most part, by an emptiness both of heart and 

 mind. 



