


KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 83 

A MAY RAMBLE IN DARENTH WOOD. 
THE SUN WAS SHINING warm and bright, 
when I peeped from my chamber window at 
the ‘Fox and Hounds.” There had been 
rain during the night; and every bush and 
plant within sight was hung with innumerable 
erystal drops, which sparkled and glittered in 
the sun’s early beams, like so many liquid 
pearls, as the soft wind waved them to and 
fro. It was a beautiful sight. But I always 
view these bright clear mornings with dis- 
trust ; for I scarcely ever knew a fine day to 
follow. 
Unlike our gracious Queen, J am very 
unfortunate with regard to the weather; sel- 
dom returning home without a wet jacket. 
Even as I gazed, dark clouds appeared above 
the summit of the wood. However, down 
stairs ] went; and, having armed myself with 
the necessary entomological weapons, I 
bounded forth into the open air. 
There is something peculiarly beautiful in 
the early morning. It is then that the song 
of birds, or the hum of that early little riser, 
the bee, is alone borne on the breeze,— 
when yet the air is untainted with the smoky 
breath of the city, and the dew yet lingers on 
the perfumed flowers. 
Arrived in the wood, I was greeted by the 
melodious song of the nightingale, whilst ever 
and anon came from afar the cuckoo’s plaintive 
note. The ground and trees were miserably 
wet. Both, however, as the morning ad- 
vanced, became tolerably dry. The clouds 
passed away; and, for once, I concluded I 
was, with regard to the weather, to be agree- 
ably disappointed. 
The first insect I met with was the speckled 
yellow Venelia Macularia; the next was the 
Maiden’s Blush. I beat, beat, beat, till my 
arms grew weary. Nothing would stir save 
those eternal speckled yellows, and at length 
I returned to the “ Fox and Hounds” without 
the satisfaction of having taken a single in- 
sect. Here, however, I was consoled by the 
sight of a good breaktast, to which I consider 
I did justice—albeit the tea was none of the 
best; but then new-laid eggs (some laid by 
Mr. Martin’s own hens), and mild ham, are 
wonderful provocatives to the appetite. 
While making myself intimately acquainted | 
with these good things, the sun suddenly 
ceased to shine, the sky became overcast, and 
shortly, as I had expected, down came the 
rain. True it is it did not last long, but there 
was quite enough to render the herbage as 
miserably wet as before. As soon as the sun 
shone forth, I again made my way up the 
steep and narrow lane, to one of the many 
choice spots in this fine wood. ‘The ground 
was literally carpeted with the blossoms of 
the Ground Ivy (Gilechoma Hederacea); Bugle 
(Ajuga Reptans); and Wood Spurge; round 
which latter flower, numbers of Dipiera and 
Hymenoptera were constantly hovering. But 
here again I was doomed to disappointment. 
My captures were limited to a few specimens 
of Melitia Euphrosyne. 
Here and there, on the edges of the pathi- 
ways, were clusters of that beautiful sweet- 
scented little fower, the Woodnift (Asperula 
Odorata); and by its side the meek, white 
flowers of the Wood Strawberry (fragaria 
Vesca). By beating, I took one specimen of 
Jephtha’s daughter, one of Macaria Nota- 
taria ; one of Thera Veriaria; one of Strenia 
Clathraria ; and several of the Birch Ingrail, 
from the trunks of the trees. These con- 
clude my list of important (!) captures. I 
searched long for, but could not obtain, a 
single specimen of Nemeobius Lucina and 
Thecla Rubi, and during the search narrowly 
escaped a drenching, which, had it not been 
for a woodcutter’s hut, I should most certainly 
have caught. 
In several places the ground was blue with 
the Wild Hyacinth, a white variety of which 
I not unfrequently observed. Peeping out 
from the shade of the trees, I noticed the frail 
Wood Sorrel (Oxzalis Acetosella); but this 
sweet flower is rather scarce here — the 
Forget-me- not, the Stitchwort (Holostea Stel- 
laria), the Cranesbill, the Dog Violet, the 
Ragged Robin, and in the clearings, the green 
Twayblade (Listera Ovata), and the Brown- 
winged Orchis (Orchis Fusca)—this latter I 
am not. certain about—besides many others 
that my limited knowledge of botany will 
not allow me to name. 
The weather still continuing showery, and 
seeing no hope of better luck, I again re- 
turned to the “‘ Fox and Hounds ;” and having 
refreshed myself with a capital dinner, I bent 
my steps homeward. Here I will leave the 
reader ; as this part of my excursion is even 
more dry and uninteresting than the relation 
of “A May Ramble in Darenth Wood.” 
C. MILLER. 
Hackney, August 16. 

SWEET MELANCHOLY. 
Aut things are touch’d with melancholy,— 
Born of the secret soul’s mistrust, 
To feel her fair ethereal wings 
Weigh’d down with vile degraded dust. 
Even the bright extremes of joy 
Bring on conclusions of disgust,— 
Like the sweet blossom of the May, 
Whose fragrance ends in must. 
Oh, give her, then, her tribute just ; 
Her sighs and tears, and musings holy! 
There is no music in the life 
That sounds with idiot laughter solely, 
There’s not a string attuned to mirth 
Bur HAS ITS CHORD IN MELANCHOLY. 
Tom Hoop. 

