36 
a failure. In a word, Nature compels us to 
be natural. 


KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
We spoke, last year, about the mysterious- 
What a sweetly-persuasive | looking “ little carpet-bags’’ that were ever 
eloquence her ladyship has! We have no | and anon peeping out atthis charming season. 
wish to resist her will. 
If it were so, we 
have not the power; so— 
Let us wander on the mountain, 
In the valley, by the rill ; 
Mark the forest pine-trees waving, 
Hear the wild birds sing at will; 
Gaze upon the changing seasons, 
And the gifts to earth they throw,— 
Of the God who made them speaking, 
As they come and as they go. 
Sitting down in sunny places, 
With the fresh wind on our cheek, 
Let the holy voice of nature 
To our inmost spirit speak— 
In the blade, the leaf, the blossom, 
As in thinking man, you’ll find 
There are voices, there are beauties, 
For the ear and eye of mind. 
Oh, ye dwellers in the city, 
Who in handicrafts excel— 
Who, with mighty hearts and sinews, 
Work so bravely, work so well— 
Bringing from the world of matter 
Properties and wonders rare, 
Which the hand of God hath planted 
For your searching wisdom there,— 
Is there nothing on the mountain, 
In the valley, and the flower, 
Far beyond their merely serving 
To beguile an idle hour ? 
Is no priceless treasure hidden 
That hath power the heart to bless ? 
Go and ask those spirit-teachers, 
And their voice shall answer ‘“‘ Yus!” 
We have often said, and we say it again,— 
we love to meet lady and gentleman “ strol- 
ling dabblers,” in our summer rambles; and 
to converse with them. An interchange of 
thoughts, and a little friendly gossip, do 
so expand the soul! 
This is the grand month in the year, for 
looking down from an eminence on the 
expansive, growing crops of corn; and for 
beholding far and near the general aspect of 
nature. The flitting of clouds, their fantastic 
shapes; the sighing of light breezes in the 
trees ; the lazy hum of happy insects; the 
lowing of oxen; the bleating of sheep; the 
suppressed notes of happy birds—parents 
and chiidren; the aroma from the growing 
fields of clover—aye, and how many other 
eharms? These, and a peaceful spirit; a 
heart full of love to God and man,—what 
remains to be desired ? 
Let us add, that NATURE herself gives 
way this month torepose. Delighted at the 
work of her hands, she smiles as none other 
can smile. Behold! everything that she has 
created is good. Wellmay she “ rest” after 
such an effort! And rightly shall we act, if 
we follow her example. 
We observe them now, daily; and note the 
gleeful features of the holders thereof. We 
can see that their very heart is locked up in 
that little carpet bag. Its contents are not 
intended for a long visit. No! Some two, 
three, or four days of happiness are in pleas- 
ing prospect. A friend, a lover, a relation, 
or an acquaintance—all in turn claim an in- 
terest in that little bag. An interest! Oh, 
what an interest in some particular cases! 
We speak feelingly ; for our heart has been 
more than joyful whilst carrying one of those 
dear little bags. ‘“ May their shadow never 
grow less!” é; 
We never travel to town without a feeling 
of joy, as we daily note the happy bearers 
of carpet-bags — little and large. Papa, 
mamma, sons, daughters ; all speak with their 
eyes. They are going out of town. Yes; 
and the very thought of going out of town 
throws a whole language into each face. 
We gaze at it, it gazes at us. We smile, 2 
smiles. The ice is at once broken, and con- 
fidence springs up. We put the question— 
it is answered. “Weare going to Ramsgate 
fora month.” “We knew it,” is our reply ; 
and a hearty shake of each youngster’s hand 
—in many cases, Papa’s and Mamma’s too— 
terminates our brief, but pleasant acquaint- 
ance. 
But we are wasting time. 
who has the means, away at once. 
glorious Summer, calls us forth,— 
Let every one 
Summer, 
Her sunny locks 
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece. 
Her days are lovely, and at her close we 
have— 
An eve intensely beautiful ; an eve 
Calm as the slumber of a lovely girl 
Dreaming of hope. 
Nor shall the month depart, without a glimpse 
of the advancing season—when 
The rich autumnal woods, 
With their innumerable shades and colorings, 
Are like a silent instrument at rest— 
A silent instrument, whereon the wind 
Hath long forgot to play. 
But the printer here imperatively orders us 
to halt; so once more, good reader, let us 
exhort you to be “up and away!” We have 
already detained you far too long. 
GOOD ACTIONS. 
Attowine the performance of an honorable 
action to be attended with labor, the labor is soon 
over; but the honor is immortal. Whereas, 
should even pleasure wait on the commission of 
what is dishonorable, the pleasure is soon gone ; 
but the dishonor is eternal.—Joun Stewart. 

