
KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
While on the stile or garden seat 
We sit to watch the falling leaves, 
The song thy little joys repeat 
Our loneliness relieves. 
But we delight to gaze on this lovely change, 
and we glory in the season of Autumn :— 
What though the radiance which was once so 
bright 
Be now for ever taken from our sight, 
Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower, 
We will grieve not—rather find 
Strength in what remains behind. 
We are known advocates for early rising ; 
and during the present month in par- 
ticular :-— 
The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
Is lovely yet 5. 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That watches o’er the year’s mortality. 
It is just now that the garden contains 
living objects mnumerable, to keep you spell- 
bound with admiration. The geometric 
spider is now holding his court on every 
bush.* This skilful architect must be closely 
regarded. ‘That palace of his is surpassingly 
wonderful,—the construction of a “ cunning 
workman.” The more time you now assign 
to an examination of the insect world, the 
better. A world of living wonders is about 
you, all round you, aye,—beneath your 
eet. 
Nor must you fail to walk abroad during 
the day, and observe what is so actively 
going forward in the fields. At even-tide, 
too, ramble forth, good folk; and behold the 
glorious moon, who views with no little 
interest what is passing around us. Our 
autumnal evenings are, for the most part, 
splendid. 
To sum up all that is going forward this 
month would be impossible. The first day 
of September is a blot. It is a signal for 
remorseless acts of butchery and wanton 
cruelty. J artridges, and theirinnocent fami- 
lies, are separated ruthlessly ; and after being, 
some slaughtered, and others frightfully 
wounded, the survivors meet at night to 
condole with each other as best they may. 
Their murderers, meantime, and those whose 
want of skill has left many of their would- 
be victims without a leg or a wing, are joy- 
ously carousing, and telling gleefully of their 
deeds of blood—to be continued on the 
morrow. Man! thou art a savage. 
Gleaning, too, is going forward this month. 
We love to wander among the tribe of gleaners, 
far away in the real country. The gleaners 
round London know too much for us. Sim- 

* We spoke at large of the Spider, and its 
marvellous operations, in our Seconp Vonume, 
pp. 233 and 275. 
103 
plicity, we guess, and innocence, lie far 
remote from cities. In our early days we 
enjoyed those scenes, and could assist the 
little reapers harmlessly. Many a walk have 
we had, side by side with a pretty, nut-brown, 
innocent face; a merry, prattling tongue, a 
neat, trim figure, and an amiable heart. Those 
days, alas! are gone—to return no more. 
The hop-harvest, too, is now at hand; and. 
a glorious sight it is to see the hop-pickers 
busily at work under a fine bright sky. May 
the produce be heavy! As for the apples, 
pears, wall-fruit, &c., &c., there is really no 
end to them this year. In short, there is 
plenty of everything. We have been here, 
there, everywhere—and there appears but 
one tale to tell. If the wheat was prostrated 
by the heavy storms, most of it recovered 
itself in good time; and we find the harvest 
will be an excellent one. The hay, too, is 
by no means such a scanty crop as was re- 
presented—far from it. ‘The alarmists have 
been foiled. “There is corn in Egypt,” 
enough to stand many a siege! 
The “signs of the times” are now made 
evident by the restlessness of certain of our 
little birds of passage. Their summer visit has 
nearly terminated. ‘Their prophetic imstinct 
has warned them that it is time to collect 
their offspring, and prepare for a lengthened 
flight. By the way, we have been asked 
about our promised articles on “ Instinct and 
Reason.” They shall appear soon. 
We have left ourself no room to speak of 
our autumnal flowers—the China Aster, the 
Dahlia, the Convolvulus, the Scabious, the 
Arbutus, &c. These, and many of last 
month’s flowers, are in all their glory. The 
garden really looks quite gay and animated. 
As for rural scenery, all nature has put on 
her richest looks. The firs are gradually 
darkening towards their winter blackness. 
The oaks, limes, poplars, and horse-chestnuts 
still retain their very darkest summer green. 
The elms and beeches are changing to that 
bright yellow which produces, at a distance, 
the effect of patches of sunshine; and the 
sycamores, in one or two localities, we 
observe, are assuming a brilliant warmth of 
hue almost amounting to scarlet. 
The birds who have been recently lost 
to sight, whilst moulting, now begin to peep 
out at us from the hedges as we pass, and 
invite us to look at their new coats. New, 
indeed! How lovely and how imnocent 
are their wearers! It is a curious fact, 
that birds should, during this painful 
effort of nature, retire altogether from ob- 
servation. They feel themselves ‘“ unclean ;” 
and till the fever is over, they will not 
present themselves to the eye. If time and 
space permitted, we could give a very 
pretty illustration of this in the case of 
“our own” robin, who has been partially 


