258 
KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 

Perfect contrivance, wondrous propagation, 
providential support, marvellous protection— 
Invite our contemplation and enforce our 
adoration. Who can look at nature, gaze 
upon the great world (great in itself, small 
creationally considered), glance at the 
glorious splendor of the sky, observe the 
beauty of the earth~its fragrant plants, its 
exquisitely-formed animals, and not be im- 
pole, on the mountain top, in the abysses of 
the deep. Mysterious life! so uncertain in 
the individual, so certain in the species. 
Nature’s power is indeed without limit. 
Wherever life can exist, there it is! We 
find it in diversified combinations, in endless 
perpetuity—all-subordinate to one scheme of 
general good. 
WHO would not become a “ Naturalist ? ” 
pressed with a feeling of wonder magnified |’ 
into adoration ! 
The most cursory glance at living-nature 
must call up feelings of profound astonish- 
ment. Look at the infinite variety of form, 
the endless complicity of construction—ani- 
mation everywhere. ‘These (large and small) 
are working out their path in the grand 
scheme of creation. The great Creative 
Power has stamped upon all—activity. 
|| Work, commonly considered as the curse, is 
_ the blessing of life as life. All is work ; the toil 
of the individual animal is merely a humble 
reflex of the work of Creation. . 
The conformations and varieties of animals 
are endless. Onthe earth, and under the 
earth; in the light element of the air, in the 
boisterous ocean—all is life! Everything 
teems with lite. The very sunken rocks are 
mementoes of past-life ; formed as they are 
of the natural tombs of previous inhabitants 
of the surface. The waters abound with life ; 
from the wavy fish, and the shelly crustacea, 
to the pulpy medusa, and the microscopic 
monad. Allis life, all is work—all the distant 
humble reflex of Creation! The tiny 
coralline builds up continents, and shames 
man by the consistency of its labors. The 
bird builds its own house, and seeks for the 
materials, even while compelled to find its 
daily sustenance ! 
It is worthy of notice that, in all quad- 
rupeds, the four extremities, more or less, 
contribute to the support and progression of 
the body; but ct ts onlu in man that they are 
wholly exempted from these offices. In the 
power of executing an infinite variety of move- 
ments and of actions, requiring either strength, 
delicacy, or precision—the human arm and 
hand, considered in their mechanism alone, 
are structures of unrivalled excellence. But, 
when viewed in relation to the intellectual 
energies to which they are subservient, they 
plainly reveal to us the Divine Source from 
which have emanated this exquisite work- 
manship, and these admirable adjustments, 
so fitted to excite the deepest veneration, 
and to fill us with never-ceasing wonder. 
To conclude—how magnificent is life in its 
vastness and its minuteness! How incom- 
prehensible to finite life is infinite Creation! 
Every animal has its assigned place in the 
grand scale of being. It cannot choose. It 
cannot change. Yet life—jinite life, is every- 
where. In the scorching desert, at the icy 
THE DYING YEAR, 
BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. 

Yus ; the year is growing old, 
And his eye is pale and bleared— 
Death, with frosty hand and cold, 
Plucks the old man bythe beard, 
Sorely,—sorely ! 
The leaves are falling, falling, 
Solemnly and slow ; 
Caw! Caw! the rooks are calling, 
It is a sound of woe, 
A sound of woe! 
Through woods and mountain passes 
_ The winds, like anthems, roll ; 
They are chanting solemn masses, 
Singing ; “Pray for this poor soul, 
17? 
Pray,—Pray ! 
And the hooded clouds, like friars, 
Tell their beads in drops of rain, 
And patter their doleful prayers ; 
But their prayers are all in vain, 
All in vain! 
There he stands in the foul weather, 
The foolish, fond Old Year, 
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, 
Like weak, despised Lear, , 
A king,—a king! 
Then comes the summer-like day, 
Bids the old man rejoice! 
His joy! his last! O, the old man grey 
Loveth that ever soft voice, 
Gentle and low. 
To the crimson woods he saith,— 
To the voice gentle and low 
Of the soft air, like a daughter’s breath,— 
‘Pray do not mock me so! 
Do not laugh at me !” 
And now the sweet day is dead, 
Cold in his arms it lies ; 
No stain from his breath is spread 
Over the glassy skies, 
No mist or stain! 
Then, too, the Old Year dieth, 
And the forests utter a moan, 
Like the voice of one who crieth 
In the wilderness alone: 
“ Vex not his ghost!” 
Howl! howl! and from the forest 
Sweep the red leaves away ! 
Would the sins that thou abhorrest, 
O soul, could thus decay, 
And be swept away ! 

