332 
KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 

colors, — ebony, flaxen, and auburn; and 
byouterte without limit. 
Happy Fitz! What spell bound him to 
the plain but loveable Nelly? A nature 
essentially feminine; a refined, cultivated 
taste; a warm, passionate heart. Did he re- 
member, when he listened to that most 
musical of musical voices, and sat hour after 
hour, magnetised by its rare witchery, as it 
glanced gracefully and skilfully from one 
topic to another, that its possessor had not 
the grace and beauty of a Hebe or a Venus? 
It was a bright moonlight evening. Fitz 
and Nelly were seated in the little rustic 
parlor opening upon the piazza. The moon 
shone full upon Kate, as she stood in the low 
doorway. Her simple white dress was 
confined at the waist by a plain silken cord. 
Her fair white shoulders rose gracefully from 
the snowy robe. Her white arms, as they 
were crossed upon her breast, or raised above 
her head, to catch playfully the long tendrils 
of the woodbine, as the wind swept them 
past her forehead, gleamed fair in the moon— 
light ; and each and all had their bewildering 
charm. She seated herself upon the low 
doorstep. Song after song was borne upon 
the air; her eyes now flashing with the 
enthusiasm of an improvisatrice; then soft 
and lustrous, and liquid, and—dangerous! 
Nelly’s heart beat quick; a deep crimson 
spot glowed upon her cheek ; and, for once, 
she was beautiful. 
Kate apparently took but little notice of 
the lovers; but uot an expression that flitted 
across the fine face of Fitz-Allan passed | 
unnoticed by her. And she said proudly to 
herself, ‘‘ I haye conquered him !” 
And so the bright summer month passed 
by, and they rambled through the cool 
woods, and rode through the winding. paths, 
and sang to the quiet stars in the dim dewy 
evening. 
® 2 & ® 
“Fie, Mr. Fitz-Allan! What would Nelly 
say to see you kneeling here at my feet? 
You forget,” said the gay beauty, mockingly 
curling her rosy lip,“ that you are an affianced 
lover, when you address such flattering 
language to me!” 
“J only know that you are beautiful as a 
dream!” said the bewildered Fitz, as he 
passionately kissed the jewelled hand that 
lay unresistingly in his own. 
That night Fitz might be seen pacing his 
room with rapid strides, crushing in his hands 
a delicate note from Nelly, containing these 
words : — 
“The moon looks on many brooks; the brook sees 
but one moon. “oN ” 
ELLY, 
Here we see a true picture of human life 
and human nature. Nelly had a heart, but 
nb eauty. Kate was indeed beautiful, but 

had no heart. Let us then seriously ask 
ourselves,—which is the more desirable of 
the two? 
This little tale is worth its weight in gold, 
if we only read it profitably. We are all 
mixed up init; and not one of us, if we be 
honest, can say that Fanny Fern has not 
found out “our tender part.” 
We again say,—‘‘ Beware !” 
THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON. 

‘¢ Christmas comes but once a year!” 

Nopopy, Sir, wishes to be troublesome 
less than I do; but, if anybody can give a 
satisfactory reason for what everybody does, 
perhaps somebody will be so good as to tell 
me why the epithet “merry”’ is exclusively 
applied to this season of the year—when 
eighteen hundred and fifty-three proofs of its 
inapplicability have now stared the world 
in the face. Is it merry, when you put your 
feet out of bed in the morning, to feel as if 
you put them into a pail of cold-water? Is 
it merry to have your back-bone iced? Is it 
merry to have raw steaks on your plate, and 
raw chaps on your hand? Is it merry to 
have rent and taxes to pay ? Is it merry, when 
you put your nose out-of-doors, to encounter 
a north-east wind which you could swear was 
made at Sheffield? Is it merry to slip, to 
break a button off your trowsers, and then to 
be told that it’s fine bracing weather? Is it 
merry to meet with cold friends? Is half- 
melted snow merry? Is afog merry? Is 
sleet merry? Assuredly, to my thinking, 
none of these things are in themselves merry 
—however meritorious in us it may be to 
bear them patiently. But I anticipate; you 
shall hear my adventures upon last Christmas 
Monday, and then judge whether or not my 
complaints are seasonable. 
All sorts of people wish me “a merry 
Christmas,’ though most of them do some- 
thing to me at the same time which prevents 
the possibility of its being so. I took pos- 
session on Sunday last of a new house. The 
rain found its way through the ceiling in the 
night, and [awoke on Monday morning with 
an excruciating rheumatism. “A merry 
Christmas to you, sir,” said the servant, as 
she opened the shutters and enlightened me 
as to the cause of my sufferings. ‘Thank 
you,” said I, as well as a fresh twinge would 
let me. I got up with plenty of rheum in 
my head and plenty of smoke in my room; 
with one pain more than I wanted in my body, 
and one pane less than I wanted in my win- 
dow. The water in my wash-hand stand 
was frozen, and the water sent me to shave 
with scarcely warm. My tooth-brushes were 
lumps of ice, and cut my chin with my razor 
just as my daughter tapped at my room-door 
and called out, ‘‘ Merry Christmas, Papa !”’ 


