
216 

of good heart, for they would never desert her, 
though she might not have a leaf to wear, nor a 
flower wherewith to deck herself. 
And the little harvest-mouse, the smallest of 
created quadrupeds, threaded its way in and out 
amid the flowers that twined her hair, and 
whispered in her ear that it would never forsake 
her; that but for her it would never have had 
the tall corn to climb up, the stems of which she 
had made strong enough to bear its weight, and 
the weight of all its little ones, whose nest it 
affixed half-way up the eary corn, and from which 
it sat and peeped out, watching them while they 
were learning to climb. Then, the bees—seeing 
that she was sad—came humming around her, 
and thanked her in grateful murmurs for all she 
had given them; for the miles of hawthorns 
which she had hung with the blossoms of May, 
and the pavilions of roses she had erected, and 
the bowers of honeysuckle she had trailed for 
them to shelter in from the burning sun, and the 
carpets of clover she had spread out for them to 
rest upon, when they were wearied with flying. 
They offered her their sweetest honey, but she 
shook her head, and refused to be comforted ; so 
they flew back to their hives, there to hide 
themselves, and mourn; for they knew that 
Summer must soon die. Then, thousands of 
little insects flew about her—they blew their 
buzzing horns, and hoped by their feeble music 
to solace her for the loss of the band of birds 
that used to sing in her great cathedral of trees. 
Summer threw herself back on her couch of 
flowers, and with her face turned to the sky— 
which she had hung so beautifully with blue and 
silver—smiled tor a moment as she watched the 
gnats rising up and down, as they ran over the 
strings of the airy instruments on which they 
played, and which sounded remote or near just as 
they rose or fell. The scarlet-backed lady-birds 
spetied the overhanging leaves, and the mealy- 
winged moths peeped about with their curious 
eyes, and blundered against the glow-worms, 
who had not yet lit up their starry lamps. The 
large-eyed oxen gathered about her in silence, and 
the full-grown lambs looked with gentle faces 
upon her—while the tall hay-ricks—altars on 
which so many of her flowers had been offered up 
—threw a shadow across her feet, and over the 
flocks and herds that stood below. Summer 
looked up to where her piled flowers and withered 
grasses rose like a pyramid, and thought that, but 
for such store as she had there provided at the 
sacrifice of her own life, the cattle must perish in 
the long dark Winter that would settle down 
upon the earth, when she was laid in her grave. 
And as she lay and mused, she seemed to become 
more reconciled to death, and thought it was 
better that she should die than that the fields 
should be silent, and neither the lowing of herds 
nor the bleating of flocks be again heard, when 
her sweet sister Spring awoke from her long 
sleep. Strange! that she could never see that 
sister’s face, but that ever when she herself awoke 
from her long death-like sleep, and looked from 
the summit of the eastern hills, she saw only 
the primrose-colored garments of Spring, fading 
into the sunset of the far-west, and that they 
never met 

KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 


On hill, in dale, forest or mead, 
By paved fountain, or by rushy brook, 
Or on the beached margent of the sea, 
Te dance [their] ringlets to the whistling winds! 
Spring, too, had often turned her head to take a 
departing look at her sister, Summer: but the 
rounded earth lay between them, and all she 
could see was her green kirtle, half-bidden by the 
opening leaves. 
And so Summer lay musing with half-closed 
eyes, regardless of the flowers that were withering 
around her. She knew that she should never 
rise again, until the stir of other flowers awoke 
her—until she felt the daisies growing above her 
grave, and the smell of the sweet violets scenting 
the earth. She folded herarms across her breast, 
and drew together unconsciously the flowers that 
blowed about her. Their bent heads met above 
her, and she lay halfburied beneath the blooms 
which she knew not she had thus enclosed. And 
so she died. She covered herself with a winding- 
sheet of her sweetest flowers. 
Yellow Autumn—crowned with corn, and with 
the sickle thrown over his sinewy and sun-tanned 
arm, came and looked upon the spot where she 
was laid. Upon the flowers that covered her he 
let fall, with gentle hand, showers of fading and 
richly-colored leaves. The pattering tears of the 
clouds fell upon them, as they came up in sad, 
leaden-colored garments, and bent over her to 
weep. ‘The winds beat their wings in agony 
above her grave, and in their great despair threw 
themselves upon jf; the clouds weeping all the 
while, and the leaves rushing together to see 
where she was laid; then lying down, and dying, 
above, around, and beside her—leaves came of 
every hue— 
Red, green and gold, 
Ruins from her own bowers, 
That almost looked as beautiful 
As Summer’s sweetest flowers. 
Then the red-breasted robins stood upon the 
leafless branches, and chanted a low requiem over 
her grave! 
Need we say, that a work like this ought 
to be patronised ? Such clean and wholesome 
food is rarely to be met with, and should be 
prized accordingly. 
THe Naturauist.—No. 32. Groombridge 
and Sons. 
This popular Miscellany is, as usual, well 
filled with interesting notices of animals, &ce. 
We subjoin part of an article, by Stephen 
Stone, Esq., on the Autumnal Nesting of the 
Rook :— 
In former times, when superstitious notions 
prevailed to a much greater extent than they do 
now, and when unusual occurrences, of what sort 
or kind soever they might be, were wont to bring 
dread and dismay to the minds of those ‘“ luck- 
less wights”? whose lot it might be to witness 
them, from a feeling that some terrible calamity 
was suddenly about to befall them, this unseason- 
able nesting of the rook was looked upon as 
boding some dire disaster to those whose imme- 
diate neighborhood it might chance to select for 
that puzpose. 


