KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL, 



415 



YES" AND "NO." 



BY SAMUEL LOVER. 



There are two little words that we use 



Without thinking- from whence they came ; 

 But if you Avill list to my muse, 



The birth-place of each I will name; 

 The one came from heaven to bless, 



The other was sent from below, 

 What a sweet little angel is " Yes!" 



What a demon-like dwarf is that " No!" 



And " No" has a friend he can bid 



To aid all his doings as well, 

 In that delicate arch it lies hid 



That adorns the bright eye of the belle. 

 Beware of the shadowy frown, 



Which darkens her bright brow of snow, 

 As bent like a bow to strike down, 



Her lip gives you death with a " No." 



But "Yes" has a twin-sister sprite — 



'Tis a smile you will easily guess- 

 That sheds a more heavenly light 



On the doings of dear little a Yes;" 

 Increasing the charm of the lip 



That is going some lover to bless ; 

 Oh, sweet is the exquisite smile 



That dimples and plays around " Yes !' 



CHRISTMAS. 



Bring hither, bring hither, the dear misseltoe, — 

 From the bright holly bough shake its clusters of 



snow; 

 They shall hang with deep ivy to grace the high 



wall, — 

 For a Christmas we'll keep in my father's old 



hall. 

 Bring hither, bring hither, the well-flavor'd ale, 

 And summon my neighbors to merry wassail; 

 While the hissing crabs float, pass the love-cup 



about, — 

 Eemember 'tis Christmas, the waits are without. 



Bring hither, bring hither, the solid sirloin: 

 Bring the well-fatted turkey and. savory chine; — 

 Here the youthful and aged together shall dine, — 

 Twas my lather's old custom, and still shall be 

 mine. 



Bring hither, bring hither, the friendless and poor, 

 And welcome the young to my father's hall 



door ; — ■ 

 Bring the bright sparkling cider and rich-spiced 



cake,-— 

 Remember 'tis Christmas and all shall partake. 



Bring hither, bring hither, the log for the hearth; 

 Bring the boys and the girls to establish our 



mirth; — 

 Here the gay and the sober may happily join, — 

 'Twas my father's old custom and still shall be 



mine. 

 Bring hither, bring hither, the dear misseltoe, — • 

 From the bright holly bough shake its clusters of 



snow ; 

 They shall hang with deep ivy the broad chimney 



o'er, 

 And the hall of my fathers be merry once more. 



Seven Oaks, Kent. A. Gr. 



GAMS OF TEE " CHRISTMAS-TREE. 



Mr. Spooner, of 379 Strand, well known as 

 the purveyor of Christmas and holiday games and 

 puzzles for children young and old, — has just 

 issued a new and interesting game entitled the 

 " Game of the Christmas-Tree," which will prove 

 more than ordinarily attractive. It is well con- 

 ceived and equally well executed; and it is cal- 

 culated to make a long evening pass rapidly away. 

 There is a great deal of ingenuity evinced in the 

 arrangement and construction of this game; and 

 the elements of fun are nicely locked up in every 

 branch of the tree, — which, when in full leaf, will 

 be found quite an ornament to the drawing-room 

 table. We give our young friends a timely hint, 

 in order that they may be thoroughly furnished 

 for the festivities of the coming; season. 



WINTER IN THE OLDEN TIME. 



The following description of Winter, written 

 about three hundred years ago, will be new to 

 many of our readers. It was written by a 

 good old Scotch bishop, named Gavin Douglas, 

 and first rendered familiar to English readers by 

 the poet Warton, to whom we are indebted for 

 the following beautiful version: — 



" The fern withered on the miry fallows ; the 

 brown moors assumed a barren, mossy hue ; banks, 

 sides of hills, and bottoms, grew white and bare; 

 the cattle looked hoary from the dank weather ; 

 the wind made the red reed waver on the dyke. 

 Fram the crags and the foreheads of the 3-ellow 

 rock hung great icicles, in length like a spear. 

 The soil was dusky and grey, bereft of flowers, 

 herbs, and grass ; in every holt and forest the 

 woods were stripped of their array. Boreas blew 

 his bugle-horn so loud that the solitary deer 

 withdrew to the dales ; the small birds flocked 

 to, the thick briars, shunning the tempestuous 

 blast, and changing their loud notes to chirping; 

 the cataracts roared, and every linden tree 

 whistled and bowed to the sounding wind. The 

 poor laborers, wet and weary, draggled in the 

 fen; the sheep and shepherds lurked under the 

 hanging banks or wild broom. Warm from the 

 chimney-side, and refreshed with generous cheer, 

 I stole to my bed, and lay down to sleep, when I 

 saw the moon shed through the window her 

 twinkling glances and wintry light, 

 wild geese, with screaming cries, 

 city through the silent night. 



I was lulled to sleep; till the cock, clapping his 

 wings, crowed thrice, and the day peeped. I 

 waked and saw the moon disappear, and heard 

 jackdaws cackle on the roof of the house. The 

 cranes' prognosticating tempests, in a firm pha- 

 lanx pierced the air, with voices sounding like a 

 trumpet. The kite, perched in an old tree fast 

 by my chamber, cried lamentably — a sign of the 

 dawning day. I rose, and half-opening my win- 

 dow, perceived the morning, livid, wan, and 

 hoary. The air was overwhelmed with vapor and 

 cloud ; the ground stiff, grey, and rough; the 

 branches rustling ; the sides of the hills looking 

 black and hard with driving blasts; the dew-drops 

 congealed on the stubble and rind of trees; the 

 sharp hailstones, deadly cold, and hopping on 

 the thatch." 



I heard the 

 fly over the 



