
KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 233 

Go, leave the busy, bustling world, 
And ramble in the fields. 
Bless’d Nature will have sympathy 
Both with thy sufferings and thee. 
element—electricity not excepted. We have 
internal evidence of this. 
When others fly from the country, we 
linger in it. What they sneer at, we worship. 
The wild winds of November are sweetly 
musical to a “natural” and well-attuned ear. | 
We love, too, to gaze upon the lofty trees, 
when shaken by the gloomy strife of the 
contending elements. And what exquisite 
poetry there is in the sound of raging tem- 
pests without, whilst we are comfortably | @) to the fields, and Nature woo, 
Kind Narovre solace offers all ; 
Gives joy in storm or calm ; 
For every pain a pleasure has, 
For every wound a balm. 
A mightier physician she 
For feart-ills than philosophy. 
housed within! Could one rest satisfied that No matter what thy mood ; 
the poor suffered not, then would our feelings! The light heart will be lighter made, 
be ecstatic. But, in this world, clouds and | The sorrowful imbued 
sunshine must go together; and therefore is| With joyous hearts. The simplest flower 
our happiness so often interrupted. Has o’er the soul a magic power. 
But let no one foolishly imagine that,} Alone, communing with thyself, 
because Winter is at hand, we must be Or with congenial friends ; 
gloomy or sad. Surely not! True, most of} If joy expands thy soaring soul, 
our flowers are gone. The long grass will Or woe thy bosom rends— 
presently stand among the woodland thickets | Go to the fields ; there thou wilt find 
withered, bleached, and sear. The fern will| THY WOE sUBDUED, THY JOY REFINED. 
soon become red and shrivelled amongst the 5 : 
green gorse and broom. The plants which It is at such moments, and while under these 
waved their broad white umbels to the | 2allowing influences, that the soul feels for 
summer breeze (like skeleton trophies of | what grand be z. are Uae a ee 
death) even now rattle their dry and hollow | are ae ae he pnts (OWS 
leaves to the autumnal winds. The brooks | VT: BG Ne ES 
: 
are becoming brimful; the rivers, turbid and | Lae ete wi yen ont : eas 
covered with masses of foam, hurry on in} I ses = eae 
angry strength, or pour their waters incon- | S¢¢ 1# once more hurried into a pestilential 
tinently over the open lands. Our very atmosphere, again associated with thought- 
less, worldly-minded people, whose thoughts 
gardens are sad, damp, and desolate. Their 4 } : 
floral splendors are dead, and naked stems | Bever rise beyond the sordid, all-engrossing 
consideration of £s.d.! That WE are not 
and decaying leaves are fast taking the place : 
yms z P cast in the same mould, do not take pleasure 
| 
| 
of verdure. Nature is about to repose, pre- |‘ é : 
vious to entering upon her long sleep. in the same pursuits, care nothing for an 
accumulation of the ‘ accursed gold”—is, so 
far, satisfactory. It would seem to argue 
that there is a “ something” tending Heaven- 
ward in our composition, which can never 
be extinguished. The very thought of this, 
renders life supportable. Nay, it makes us 
energetic in a cause which we feel to be so 
good. If people could only be induced to 
reflect, they would, let us hope, be very 
different from what they now are. 
| We have said nothing about the dear 
little birds, and other sociable animals that 
share our winter rambles with us. Of these, 
and their winning endearing ways, we could 
tell so much that it becomes a mark of 
wisdom to be silent altogether. It isa weak 
point with us, to be eloquent when our pets 
are on the ¢apis. We may, however, just 
mention that our garden is now thronged 
with its usual winter guests—all tame as 
ever, and sure of a hearty welcome. 
Our old friends, the robins, of course come 
in-doors just when they will, and eat from 
our hand. We have a jar of meal-worms 
for them. The hedge-sparrows, wrens, tits, 
If thou art sorrowful and sad, blackbirds, thrushes, “ chinks’’ (chaffinches), 
And thought no comfort yields, &c., &c.,—they too, dodge our footsteps as 
This picture, to some so appalling, has for 
Us an imperishable interest. We love to 
contemplate these passing scenes; and we 
draw from them some of the finest and most 
exquisite feelings of delight that it is per- 
mitted for a mortal to experience. Witha 
light heart, a nimble foot, a trusty stick, and 
a rustic over-coat to shield us from the rude 
blast—often do we sally forth in the winter 
months. Our steps wander far and near. 
Sometimes, from an eminence, we watch the 
flying clouds, and listen to the raging tem- 
pest; at others, we note the ever-varying 
landscape in the broad expanse of hill an 
valley, wood and water. Every minute there 
isa change of scene. An eternity sometimes 
appears to have passed ina single half-hour! 
Then—the murmuring sighs in the trees, 
the music of the rills, the sweeping past of 
the flying leaves, and the creaking harmony 
of the swaying branches—all this (and how 
much more?) makes the heart so happy! 
ae it, ye who are doubtful. We say to 
eac 

SS Se aa a aaa. 

