KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 
171 
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OUR MIRROR OF THE MONTHS. 
OCTOBER. 

Tue sere leaf, flitting on the blast, 
The hips and haws on ev’ry hedge, 
Bespeak OcrosER come! At last 
We stand on Winter’s crumbling edge. 
Like Nature’s op’ning grave, we eye 
The two brief months not yet gone by. 

AT A TIME when all the world are poured 
out to behold the glories of the year, now 
apparently stationary, and reluctant to bid 
us adieu,—it seems almost superfluous for a 
pen like ours to attempt to sing of the sea- 
son. We can say nothing worth listening 
to; though we feel transports unutterable. 
Therefore will our song, we fear, not be a 
very sweet one. 
September has passed. It brought with it 
an agreeable change. For rain, we had sun- 
shine; for chilling winds, we had a genial 
atmosphere. The wailings at the close of 
August were exchanged for renewed hope. 
The golden grain shook its dewy locks, and 
blushed with its honors thick upon it. A 
glorious sight has it been, to notice its dying 
moments ; as, looking the sun full in the face, 
it fell laughing beneath the sickle. The farmer, 
whilst we now write, has overflowing barns ; 
and though he tres to grumble, he finds it hard 
work. 
That the price of “the staff of life” is 
excessive, is, alas! but too true. Yet is this 
not caused by a scanty harvest, There are 
other reasons for it, which lie beyond the 
scope of our inquiry. In all our rambles 
hither and thither,—we repeat it,—we have 
seen an abundance of everything ; food ample 
both for man and for beast. 
If we were to enter in detail upon our 
enjoyments of the month of August and a 
portion of September,—we should only be 
relating what must be fresh in the feelings of 
most of our readers. The charms of Sep- 
tember are as unutterable in words, as they 
are delightful to experience. The year now 
concentrates all its beauties. Nature loves 
to behold, in one grand view, the past works 
of her delicate hands. Unwilling to let them 
depart, she waits till the very last moment 
ere she lets down the curtain which is to hide 
them for ever from our sight. Nor does this 
curtain drop suddenly. Surely not. The 
descent is gradual; and as the year decays, 
a million of fond objects lmger with us to 
the last. 
Summer still lingers, though its glories fade, 
Still soft and fragrant are the gales that blow; 
The yellow foliage now adorns the glade, 
And paler skies succeed the summer’s glow. 
The drooping flowers fade, and all around 
Their scatter’d blossoms wither and decay ; 
But still bright verdure decorates the ground, 
And the sun sheds a soft and silver ray. 
One great drawback to our enjoyment of 
Autumn, is, the oft-repeated sound proceding — 
from the murderous gun. In our late walks, 
we have seen many acts of savage butchery 
dealt out upon the unoftending partridge. 
Hunted from morning to night, wounded 
first by one and then by another,—again 
“flushed,” and again wounded—this is his 
fate daily. What aday’s “sport” for a 
civilised man to boast of! We carefully note 
the countenances of these butchers as we 
pass, and we blush to think that we are of 
the same race. 
This very day, commences another ‘‘ battue” 
on the pheasants. We shall now daily see 
registered in the papers, flaming accounts of 
the grand total of slaughtered victims which 
“fell to the gun” of the Hon. Mr. Fi, my 
Lord Fo, and the Marquis of Fum. ‘These 
will be gloated over by the whole race of 
bird-butchers; and each will strive daily 
(rising early and slaughtering late) to surpass 
his fellow in acts of cruelty. But let us leave 
these blood-thirsty savages, whose sole joy 
seems to consist in the wanton destruction of 
life. 
This is just the very time of year for us all 
to be vigorous. The sun shines, gentle gales 
rustle in the branches, the birds in their new 
livery come forth and sing; the air is bracing, 
and all Nature rejoices. The open fields, 
though bereaved of much of their former 
beauty, yet present sights that are agreeable 
to the eye, and stirring to the imagination. 
The husbandman is already at work, pre- 
paring for the coming year ; and all is bustle 
and activity around us. 
Nor are the hedge-rows devoid of interest. 
The luxuriant blackberry is now seen in 
boundless profusion ; and many are the lads 
and lasses who go forth to gatherthem. The 
blue sloe, too, is now gracing the hedges with 
its soft tempting-looking bloom, and we see 
the dull bunches of the woodbine, and the 
sparkling holly-berry. The wild flowers are 
departing. A few only remain,—but those 
few, peeping up from beneath the newly-fallen 
leaves, seem to smile at us ere they bid us 
adieu. They are beautiful even in their 
death. 
We still behold the butterfly hovering over 
the flowers in the garden,when the sun shines ; 
or basking on the warm wall. He is happy 
to the last. Free from all care, he suns his 
wings, sips his nectar, and is “jolly” to the 
end. No wonder the poet sang,— 
“ T’d be a butterfly !” 
The butterfly however, be it said, is rather 
ornamental than useful. We have amongst 
us far too many butterflies! A-hem! 
We hardly need remind our friends to 
make the most of this month; for when it 
has closed upon us, the ensuing prospect 

