164 
and—fight (and bravely too), when their 
“honor” is in peril. A boy who will not 
doff his coat, and marshal his fists on such 
an occasion, will grow up amilk-livered man. 
I know that tender mothers will shake their 
heads at me for patronising infant pugilism ; 
it is so “low”—so “‘ dangerous ’’—so ‘‘ un- 
genteel ”"—“ teaches such bad habits.” This 
is all moonshine and vapor—worse than sour 
caudle. As if two little fellows, with fists 
about the size of walnuts, could do them- 
selves any serious mischief! As if there 
were any evil in learning self-defence and the 
laws of honor ! 
We have omitted an extremely pretty sight 
among the sports of children—a child at play 
with a kitten. The latter, I take it, is in 
itself a most poetical object, when pouncing 
on a fly, playing leap-frog with a sun-beam, 
or circling about and snapping at its own 
tail. But when accompanied by a little 
child, the unison of simplicity and friskiness 
is charmingly attractive. The kitten puts 
itself on an immediate equality with the 
child; bridges its dotted back, whisks its 
tail, and paws and purs, and prances with 
the coyest playfulness imaginable. The child 
coops down before it with eyes in a glitter 
of delight, scratches the board with his 
finger, flickers a tempting slip of tape around 
its head, and, like Lesbia with her favorite 
cock-sparrow, 
primum digitum dare appetenti, 
Ht acres solet incitare morsus. 
Andthis I maintain to be an extremely pretty 
spectacle. 
A few more lines touching a subject on 
which half the world are mad—and the re- 
mainder very little better; and this childish 
chapter shall be concluded. One of the most 
insensate plans in the rearing of children is 
that of harnessing them with the trammels of 
“education” before they can hardly dis- 
tinguish their nose from their mouth. ’Tis 
enough to make the child sick of the world, 
and die out of spite. Let this be altered, ye 
mamas of old England ! 
Don’t seek to place “‘ old heads upon young 
shoulders.” It will not do. ‘The brain of a 
child must not be trifled with. Stuff it with 
a Babel fabric of modern science, and it will 
bend, perhaps break, beneath the weight. 
If your child must be a prodigy of wisdom, 
be it so. In later years, perhaps, the arena 
of its showing-off will be a lunatic asylum. 
Nature cannot be outraged without a high 
moral offence being committed. The sin 
will be visited heavily on the parent. 
Let children de children. Watch the bent 
of their minds. Treasure up everything that 
indicates their natural bias. But interfere 
not with their sports and harmless amuse- 
ments. There is plenty of time yet for care 
to be placed upon these innocent brows ; nor 
KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
must those ruddy cheeks and laughing eyes 
be too soon rendered ‘“‘ thoughtful.” Sorrow 
will come quite early enough; and bring 
with it its usual train of anxieties indescrib- 
able. 
The day is happily gone by, for children to 
be brought in after dinner to go through 
sundry recitals of “Turn, gentle Hermit of 
the Dale,” &c.. Let all other follies and 
‘“‘mistakes”” become equally obsolete. 
Nature requires—nay insists upon it, that in 
infancy and childhood art must be dispensed 
with, if it be desired that our offspring should 
be “ healthy.” Therefore, good people, let 
your bairns be “natural.” Lay aside A B 
C, till curiosity ask for it. Then will all go 
smoothly and safely. 
If we had fifty of these little “ bread-and- 
butter innocents ’’—which Heaven forefend ! 
—all of them should go tumbling about in the 
bright-haired meads, revelling in goose- 
berries, currants, elicampane,—and laughing 
their very hearts out in an overflow of 
joy. 
Thus endeth this “Chapter on Little 
Children.” 
THE JOYS OF LIFE. 
BY HELEN HETHERINGTON. 
6¢ Nil desperandum !?? 
Let us not be cast down by the hand of despair, 
Nor picture the future with sorrow and care ; 
The heart that makes sorrow or sadness its guest, 
Expels those kind feclings it ought to love best. 
Oh, why should we doubt, though the sun for a 
while 
Withdraw from our presence his bright happy 
smile ? 
We yet have the joy that contentment bestows, 
And the pleasure that ever from gratitude flows. 
The sweet tones of Friendship still fall on the ear, 
Relieving from sorrow the heart they would cheer; 
And who would in doubt and despondency mope, 
When a path lies before us enlivened by hope ? 
Hope smiles kindly on us when summer is gone, 
And hails the bright buds as the spring-tide draws 
on ; 
It beams on all nature, o’er forest and plain, 
And guides the brave ship as she rides o’er the 
main. 
The poor little bird, when deprived of its nest, 
Commences again with an increase of zest; 
Again and again it completes it with care, 
And dies from fatigue, ere it yields to despair. 
Then be not cast down, nor give place unto sorrow, 
Contentment will lessen the cares of the morrow ; 
With Farrn for our guide we need never be sad, 
Whilst eratrrupe makes the heart merry and 
glad. 

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