
o-—- 
KIDDS OWN JOURNAL. 
La | 

nothing, however; Dick was not to be 
wrought upon by any such arguments. 
** Don’t do so, John !’ 
“I turned my head as the maiden’s sweet 
voice reached my ear She was passing 
through the gate into the road, and m the 
next moment had taken hold of the lad and 
drawn him away from the animal No 
strength was exerted m this; she took hold 
of his arm, and he obeyed her wish as 
readily as if he had no thought beyond her 
gratification. 
“ And now that soft hand was laid gently 
on the pony’s neck, and a single low word 
spoken. How imstantly were the tense mus- 
cles relaxed—how quickly the stubborn air 
vanished ! 
“*Poor Dick!” said the maiden, as she | 
stroked his neck lightly, or sofily patted it 
with her child-like hand. 
“* Now, go along, you provoking fellow!” | 
she added in a half-chiding, yet affectionate 
voice, as she drew upon the bridle. The 
pony turned towards her, and rubbed his 
head against her arm for an instant or two; 
then, pricking up his ears, he started off at 
a light, cheerful trot, and went on his way | 
as freely as if no silly crotchet had ever en- 
tered his stubborn brain. 
“* What a wonderful power that hand 
possesses!” said I, speaking to my compa- 
nion, as we rode away. 
“He looked at me for a moment, as if my | 
remark had occasioned surprise. Then a 
light came into his countenance, and he said 
briefiy— 
«<She’s good! Everybody and every- 
thing loves her.” ae a 
“Was that indeed the secret of her) 
pewer? Was the quality of her soul per- 
ceived in the impression of her hand, even | 
by brute beasts? The father’s explanation | 
was, doubtless, the true one. Yet I have 
since wondered, and still do wonder, at the 
| breakfast does not come up? 
MUSINGS AND MEDITATIONS. 
BY A BENEDICT. 

“How use does breed 2 habit m 2 man ** 
WaT 4 BLOCKHEAD MY BEOTHEE Tom 
Is, not to marry! Or rather. perhaps, I 
should say, what a blockhead not to marry 
some twenty-five years azo—for I suppose 
he will hardly get any decent sort of a body 
to take him, as oldas he isnow. Poor fellow! 
what a forlorn, desolate kind of life he leads. 
No wife to take care of him—ano children to 
love him—no domestic enjoyment—anothing 
snug and comfortable in his arrangements ai 
home—no nice sociable dmners—no pleasant 
faces at breakfast ! 
By ihe way, what is the reason that my 
I have been 
Waiting for it this half-hour. Oh! I forgot; 
my wife sent the cook io market to get some 
trash or other for Dick’s cold. She will be 
the death of that boy! But, after all, I 
ought not io fmd fault with Tom for not 
getiing a wie, for he has lent mea good deal 
of money, that came quite convenient; and 
I suppose my young ones will have all that 
he’s worth when he dies. Poor fellow! 
So ee 
| They'll want it, I am afraid ; for though my 
busimess does very well, this housekeeping 
| eats up the profits with such a large family 
| as mine. 
Let me see how many mouths [ have to 
feed every day. There's my wie, and her 
_two sisters; that’s three—and the four boys, 
seven—and Lucy, and Sarah, and Jane, and 
| Louisa, four more—eleven. Then there's 
| the cook and the housemaid, and the boy— 
fourteen; and the woman that comes every 
| day to wash, and to do odd jobs about the 
house—iifteen. Then there’s the nursery- 
maid—sixteen. Surely theremust beanother? 
'I am sure I made it up seventeen when I 
was reckoning up last Sunday mornmg at 
potency which lay in that maiden’s magic | church. There must be another somewhere : 
touch. I have seen something of the same |let me see again—-wite, wife's sisters, boys, 
power, showing itself in the loving and good, | girls’ Qh, it’s myself! Ihave so many to 
but never to the extent as instanced im her, | think of, and to provide for, that I forget my- 
whom, for a better name, I must still call | self half the time. Yes, that makes it seven- 
Nae per ed eiactateea ihs YO Seventeen people to feed every day is 
few of us ‘dhien thé will chpetrhis with PS: | aes aa — ot i ae Fe = 
? a : s oo, WHER MS | urious appetites. en, biess their 
Beare ae ante Powe; of sete | hearts, it fs pleasant to. coe: them ont: whats 
£! y hav : e cakes in a morn- 
great influences effect their ends silently, | set e. 35 ae % i i 
pes cage and with a force that seems at Now poor Tom knows nothing of all this. 
st glance to be altogether inadequate. i : himself i 
Is there not a lesson for us al in this ? | a3 ae le ee sae mete 
And how very quickly it may be learnt! cares a brass farthing whether he lives or 
God bless every “ gentle hand !” say a” dies. No affectionate wife to nurse him, 
| coddle him up, put him to bed, &c., when he 
| is sick; no litile prattlers about him to keep 
Tasre.—Nothing can be more atrocious than | him in good-humor; no dawning intellects, 
fancy without taste—GorTHE. whose development he can amuse himself with 
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