102 

-KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 

Average weight of the fluid ejected by the moth 
shortly after its escape from the chrysalis, the 
55-100th part of a grain. 
Color of silk produced, rich orange. 
[Here terminates this ‘‘ strange eventful 
history.”’ Let us cherish the ardent hope, 
—most sincerely expressed,—that our rising 
youth will lend a willing ear to the detail of 
such matters. The world is ful/ of similar 
wonders. It is the disposition to investigate 
them that is alone wanting. ] 

OUR MIRROR OF THE MONTHS. 
SEPTEMBER. 

How sweetly Nature strikes the ravish’d eye 
Through the fine veil with which she oft conceals 
Her charms, in part, as conscious of decay! 
*Tis now the mellow season of the year, 
When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves 
Till they be gold,—and, with a broader sphere, 
The moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves ; 
When more abundantly the spider weaves, 
And the cold wind breathes from a chilling clime. 

WHAT A CURIOUS WORLD is this we 
inhabit! Or rather, what curious people are 
those of whom the world consists! We 
stick to our favorite opinion that the world 
itself is good as ever ; it is WE who are found 
wanting. 
As late as to the very end of July, people 
were grumbling sorely about the prospect of 
the harvest. It was said that the quartern 
loaf would assuredly soon be sold for one 
shilling ; that horses would soon be starved ; 
and that desolation would presently prevail 
amongst us to an extent never known. July 
closed under these heavy forebodings of 
coming sorrow; and August dawned with 
anything but a hearty welcome. 
But how did the advent of August reproach 
the grumbling multitude! Full of smiles, 
and full of tenderness, she brought with her 
the glorious sun, who, in all his splendor has 
continued with us ever since; doing good to 
his enemies with a heartiness that makes us 
love him better than ever. Oh! how we do 
rejoice to bask in his golden rays, and wander 
abroad in his sweet company through the fields 
of golden grain! He smiles, and his smile 
blesses all nature. The atheist retires to his 
den ; the cavillers at the Creator’s goodness 
mumble out some sort of an excuse for their 
shortsightedness ; the valleys shout and sing; 
the barns are well filled with the fruits of the 
earth; and at last we confess that all is 
quite right. 
When will people begin to learn that 
Nature delights in compensating for any 
apparent deficiency ? How easy is it for her 
to make up for (what WE call) lost time! In 
all our walks, and observations by the way, 
we have seen reason, during the past month, 


to rejoice with exceeding great joy. An 
abundance of good things has been visible 
on every hand, and the Goddess of Plenty 
has showered down upon us blessings out of 
number. 
If our readers could get access to our 
heart, and read therein written what we have 
sensibly enjoyed since last we chatted with 
them, they would agree with us,—that such 
feelings could never find utterance on paper. 
The month of August possesses charms of 
the most exquisite kind for those who idolise 
Nature. 
It is now that this loving, blessed mother, 
rests from her labors. She has done, by 
her creative power, all that she has to 
do. She now looks on at the in-gathering 
and proper distribution of her gifts to man- 
kind. And oh,—what tongue shall tell, what 
pen note down, the broad expanse of her 
power! Far beyond the reach of vision— 
far beyond the realms of thought, extend her 
lavish bounties; and, as we see the busy 
laborers at work in the fields, and listen to 
the distant voices in the villages and barns 
mingled with the tinkling of sheep-bells, the 
lowing of oxen, and occasionally the striking 
of the country church clock,—the whole, 
united, makes the heart happy. 
But we must quit this land of pleasing 
dreams. Would that such dreams would 
tarry longer with us! They are so refreshing!. }] 
We are now in SEPTEMBER. 
Of all months in the year, this perhaps is 
the most enjoyable,—we mean, of course, out 
of doors; for no sane person would remain 
at home in September. All that has life now 
basks in the sunshine ; and— 
There is no sunshine like the sky 
Of these mild, breezy, cloudless Autumn days, 
Which tempt once more abroad the butterfly 
To search for lingering flowers; when the green 
sprays 
Of ash, now loosened, drop on him who strays 
Through woodland paths, while the light yellow 
leaves 
Of fading trees come dancing down all ways, 
Like winged things ; and oft the stream receives 
Full many a tiny voyager, whirl’d along 
Amid its eddies,—when the gossamer spreads 
O’er the fresh clods her trembling silvery threads. 
The mention of the word September, brings 
with it a solemn truth,—the year is in its 
decline. Already have we heard the lively 
song of the autumn robin sweetly welcoming 
in the “harvest home.” Perched aloft on a 
hedge-stake, or a stile, he tells us plainly 
that the season has changed, and that with it 
come signs of gradual decay :— 
Sweet little bird, in russet coat, 
The livery of the closing year! 
We love thy lonely, plaintive note, 
And tiny whispering song to hear. 

