96 



KIDD'S LONDON JOURNAL. 



it is a -trifle more awkward still, to stumble 

 when you wisli to be particularly dignified, 

 and then be raised by the last person in the 

 world from whom you would receive a favor. 

 Kitty felt the awkwardness of her position 

 too much to speak, and of course. Harry 

 could not release her until he knew whether 

 she was hurt. It was certain she was not 

 faint, for the crimson blood died even the 

 tips of her fingers, and Harry's face imme- 

 diately took the same hue, probably from 

 sympathy. Kitty looked down until a 

 golden arc of fringe rested lovingly on its 

 glowing neighbor ; and Harry, too, looked 

 down on Kitty Coleman's face. Then a low, 

 soft whisper — low and soft as the breathing 

 of an infant ; and (poor Kitty must have been 

 hurt and needed support) an arm stole softly 

 around her waist, and dark locks mingled 

 with her sunny ones, and Kitty Coleman 

 hid her face — not in her hands. 



Harry forgot his book again that night, 

 and never thought of it till the squire put it 

 into his hand the next morning. Harry 

 visited the squire very early the next morn- 

 ing. Very likely he came on business, for 

 they had a private interview ; and the good 

 old gentleman slapped him on the shoulder, 

 and said, " with all my heart ;" and aunt 

 Martha looked as glad as propriety would let 

 her. As for Kitty Coleman, she did not show 

 her face — not she ; for she knew they were 

 talking about her — such a meddler was Harry 

 Raymond ! But, as the arrant mischief- 

 maker bounded from the door, there was 

 great rustling among the rose-bushes, inso- 

 much that a shower of bright blossoms de- 

 scended from them and reddened the dewy 

 turf; and Harry turned a face brimming 

 over with joyfuln ess to the fragrant thicket, 

 and went to search out the cause of the dis- 

 turbance. 



Now it happened that Kitty Coleman had 

 hidden in this very thicket, and she was, of 

 course, found out; and I do not think poor 

 Kitty ever quite recovered from the effects 

 of her fall, for the arm. of Harry Raymond 

 seemed very necessary to her for ever after. 



A Song for February. 

 By H. G. Adams. 



Across the wold, 



The wind blows cold; 

 The traveller wraps his cloak around ; 



Far o'er the hill, 



It whistles shrill, 

 And dies away with a mournful sound ; 



But to rise again, 



With a shriller strain, 

 And a stress that makes him forward bend. 



While heap on heap 



The dead leaves sweep, 

 Where'er the miry ways extend. 



The early blooms, 



That in their tombs 

 Have lain the dreary winter long; 



And just peeped out, 



To look about, 

 Lured by the throstle's cheerful song; 



Shrink back aghast, 



As the savage blast 

 Ruffles and tears their tender leaves ; 



And a sob and sigh 



There passeth by, 

 As of one that o'er oppression grieves! 



A sweep ! a whirl ! 



A sudden swirl, 

 Like a headlong torrent bursting forth; 



Hail, rain, and sleet, 



Together meet, 

 In blinding mist from the frozen north ; 



While each tall tree 



Swings heavily 

 Its naked branches to and fro ; 



And from its crown, 



Sends fragments down, 

 Where bide the heaps of last year's snow. 



But noAv again, 



Across the plain, 

 Black shadows, chased by sunbeams, fly; 



And 'twixt the crowds 



Of hurrying clouds, 

 Are glimpses of the clear blue sky ; 



Yet still the wind 



Is keen, unkind, 

 To shivering birds that sit aloof, 



"With mournful " cheep," 



Or huddled keep, 

 Beneath the eaves of friendly roof. 



On, traveller, on! 



The storm anon 

 Once more will sweep across thy way; 



And o'er thy head, 



The sky will spread 

 A gloomy pall of sombre grey ; 



Yet bravely thou 



May' st lift thy brow, 

 Whatever perils thee beset; 



Assured that He 



Aye looks on thee, 

 At whose behest the clouds are met. 



On, traveller, on! 



The goal is won 

 By those who struggle, and who strive; 



And 'mid the strife, 



And storms of life, 

 Still keep the camp of faith alive : 



We journey oft, 



With clouds aloft, 

 And miry ways beneath our feet ; 



But none the less 



Should onward press, 

 In hopes our high reward to meet. 



London:— Published by George Berger, 19, Holywell 

 Street, Strand (to whom alt. Letters and Communica- 

 tions. Sealed and Addressed to" the Editor," and Books 

 for Review, are to be forwarded) ; and Procurable, 

 by order, of every Bookseller and Newsvendor in the 

 Kingdom. 



London : Myers & Co., Printers, 22, Tavistock Street, Covent Garden. 



