184 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL, 



NOTICE. 



All the numbers of this Journal are in print ; and 

 may be bad from No. I. inclusive — price 3d."eacb. Also, 

 Parts 1 to 8, price Is. Id. each; post-free, Is. 4d. 



As due notice was given to our Subscribers, early in 

 June last, to complete their Sets without delay, it i3 

 hoped they have done so, as the Stock is now made up 

 into Sets, and very few "odd" numbers are on hand. 

 Tbe price of the first two Quarterly, and the first Half- 

 yearly Volumes, remains as before. 



TO CORRESPONDENTS. 



Communications Received. — J. B. D. — Violet — Emily* 

 F. L. — Amelia.— Bombyx Atlas. — Grey Badger. — 

 Verax. — G. P. — Sperando. No opportunity offers at 

 present, for touching upon your note. The troupe must 

 indeed have strangely and suddenly altered, since they 

 performed elsewhere ! Thanks for the promised Expe- 

 rimental Notes. 



Phrenology for the Million will be continued in 

 our next. 



To Correspondents.— As we always print one number 

 of the Journal in advance, such of our Correspondents 

 as may not receive replies to their questions in the cur- 

 rent number, must bear in mind that they are not for- 

 gotten. We pay marked attention to all favors. 



KIDFS OWN JOXTRNAL. 

 Saturday, September 18, 1852. 



There is something peculiarly be- 

 witching about the month of September. 

 It is a month closely allied to Summer ; and 

 yet it differs from it in its various associa- 

 tions, and the feelings it engenders. The 

 middle of the day brings with it summer 

 heat, and summer rejoicings ; but the morn- 

 ings are cool and bracing ; the evenings 

 chilly, and occasionally ushered in by fog. 

 A wee bit o' fire in the stove, is welcome. 

 "We are made aware that the season has 

 changed, and yet — 



With a sweet unfaded dye, 

 Summer lingers in the sky; 

 Whilst upon her glowing cheek, 

 Wanders now and then a streak 

 Of the lily's paler hue. 



We note these " lingering " beauties with de- 

 light, and enjoy them with unceasing plea- 

 sure while they last. But oh, dear Summer ! 

 we observe — 



That thy eye's delicious blue 

 Shines as though in tears it swam ; 

 Whilst thy evening's breath of balm 

 Wafts no more the silver song, 

 The enchanted woods among ! 



All these departing glories of the year we 

 gaze on — hang upon with rapture. The re- 

 pose of Nature is fast hastening on. Her 

 " great work " has been accomplished. She 

 looks on, and is well satisfied. The fields 

 have been filled with corn — the valleys have 

 shouted and sung with abundance. All 

 these " gifts " are now garnered up for our 

 use. May we and our children live to enjoy 

 them ; and may we be devoutly thankful for 

 the blessings of plenty ! 



The orchards are now about to render 

 up the account of their stewardship. They 

 rejoice as much as we do in this 



Season of mist and yellow fruitfulness, 

 Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 



Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

 With fruit the Vines that round the thatch- 

 eaves run. 



Plums, apples, pears, peaches, nectarines, 

 filberts, walnuts, — all now appear in their 

 allotted season : — 



Press'd from th' exub'rant orchard »s fruitful 



bound, 

 Pomona pours a sparkling tide that vies 

 With the rich juices of the purple vine. 

 Lo! russet Labor's train, both old 

 And young, shake numerous down the yellow 



fruit, 

 Streaked with a cheek as ruddy as their cwn. 



Oh, the ruddy cheeks — the youthful, rosy 

 tint that graces the lovely face of many a 

 rural maiden at this season ! How we do 

 love to behold it ! And how we love to join 

 the innocent possessors of these " ornaments," 

 in their nutting excursions among the woods ! 

 To climb the obstinate trees that will not 

 bend and do homage to the fair arm that 

 tries to keep them down, but cannot, whilst 

 relieving them of their clustering fruits ; and 

 to render a multitude of other delicate atten- 

 tions peculiar to this season of the year ! 

 These autumnal delights, coming, like Christ- 

 mas, but " once a year," bring with them a 

 zest which is perfectly indescribable. 



But we forget that we are talking to our- 

 selves all this while. The sea -side still con- 

 tinues all-powerful in its attractions, which 

 are, as they ought to be, irresistible. " Lon- 

 don still is out of town ;" while carpet-bags 

 are still flying about, and every man you meet 

 glides stealthily behind a post, feeling 

 " ashamed to be seen." Too plainly does his 

 visage (and his coat) tell us that " 'tis his 

 poverty, and not his will consents " to be 

 found where he is. He lives by his wits, 

 which are insufficient to provide him more 

 than his daily meal. We " see " each other ; 

 we shudder — we pass. 



No man can settle down to " work " at 

 such a season as this. He gets fidgetty, rest- 

 less, uneasy ; dissatisfied with himself and 

 all about him. Whilst we now write, the 

 glorious, most glorious sun, the god of our 

 idolatry, is streaming through the window 

 with irresistible power. He woos us to leave 

 the desk, and we feel that we must obey the 

 impulse. Our head refuses to think; our 

 knife to cut; our pen to write ; our ink to 

 flow ; our paper to - receive an impression. 

 We only hope our printer is not under a 

 similar influence ! 



We have just taken up the newspaper. 

 What see we there ? Nothing whatever, save 



u= 



