352 

THOUGHTS FOR THE SEASON. 

CHRISTMAS, AND THE NEW YEAR. 

*¢Christmas comes but once a year, 
So let it come cheerily ; 
Every face in smiles appear, 
Not an hour pass wearily !” 

TuEre is something in the institution, the 
time, the attributes, and the accompaniments of 
Christmas, which renders it perfectly delightful. 
The event which it commemorates is the greatest, 
and the most fraught with advantage to mankind, 
in the whole annals of therace. Independent of 
its religious and eternal importance, it is a pal- 
pable truth that the institution of Christmas, the 
event of which it is the anniversary, was the real 
birth-day of science, of art—as useful to man, and 
of that reciprocity of advantage between nation 
and nation, which may be said to give man the 
whole earth and sea as a heritage, in the exact 
proportion as he is cultivated in his mind, and 
diligent and moral in his conduct. 
Christmas falls at the most gloomy period of the 
departing year; when the winter has nearly taken 
the maximum of its effect, and when the return 
of the sun from the southern tropic, which is to 
bring us the buds, the blooms, the beauty, and 
the plenty of a new year, has barely begun, and 
is not palpable to common observation. The 
suspension of labor, the full enjoyment of every 
innocent sport, the copious festivity, and the 
general amenity of manners—by means of which 
restraint is taken off, and virtue led jocundly off 
in the silken cords of hearty, happy, and harmless 
glee—make this particular period no inconsiderable 
reward for twelve months of toil. 
The emblems, too, which are displayed in all 
English houses, great and small, and which 
extend from the cottages of the poor to the places 
of devotion—all are characteristic of hope or of 
happiness. The evergreen boughs are types of 
immortality, far more strong and direct than the 
more gaudy and perishing flowers of the summer; 
while the gloss and lustre of the holly berries, 
with the laurel, bring to one’s recollection the 
crowns and chaplets with which it was customary 
to adorn the brows of genius, before the 
invention of the printing-press enabled the labors 
of the mind to find a more lasting or more 
valuable memorial, in every house and on every 
memory. 

TRUE CHARITY. 

Tux poor only, can really feel for the poor. They 
alone know each other’s sufferings. ‘They alone 
know each others’ need of sympathy and kindness. 
People may talk as they will of the charity of the 
rich ; but this is as nothing compared with the 
charity of the poor. They heave immense loads 
of suffering from off each other, which the distant 
help of the rich could never reach. 
In seasons of privation, of sickness, of incle- 
mency, and of distress, the poor are each others’ 
comforters and supporters, to an extent, among 
better circles, never dreamt of. Contented to 
toil on from day to day, and from year to year, 
for a scanty and meagre pittance, they have yet 
wherewithal to spare when a brother is in want 

KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
or in distress. Nor is there ever wanting some 
friendly hand to smooth the pillow, and do all 
those little kind offices which make sickness 
tolerable. 
The women are in this respect especially 
devoted and untirmg. They make sacrifices, and 
run risks; and bear privations, and exercise 
patience and kindness—to a degree that the world 
never knows of, and would scarcely believe even 
if it did know. Aye! even these ‘lower orders” 
and “vulgar people” have a rough goodness of 
heart about them, which has often made us feel 
proud that we belonged to the same nature. They 
often display a philanthropy which would do 
honor to the best and noblest of our species. 
MY LITTLE SUNBEAM. 

‘6 Despise not the’day of small things.”’ 

Never saw my _little® sunbeam? Indeed! 
Well; she was a little creature who passed my 
window each day, on her way to school, and 
who made my acquaintance, child-fashion, with a 
smile. Perhaps none but myself would have 
called her pretty ; but her eyes were full of love, 
and her voice of music. Every day she laid a 
little bunch of violets on.my window. You 
might have thought it a trifling gift, but it was 
much to me; for, after my little sunbeam had 
vanished, I closed my eyes, and the fragrance of 
those tiny flowers carried me back, oh, whither! 
They told of a fragrant, shadowy wood; of a 
rippling brook; of a bird’s song; of whispered 
leafmusic ; of a mossy seat ; of dark, sunlit eyes; 
of a voice sweet and low, and thrilling ; of a vow 
that was never. broken till death chilled the lips 
that made it. God shield my little sunbeam ! 
May she find more roses than thorns in her 
earthly pathway !—From Fanny Ferrn’s Porr- 
FOLIO (0f- course). 

“READ—MARK—LEARN |” 
The same care and toil that will raise a dish of 
peas out of season, would give bread to a whole 
family for six long months. 
“ HOME, SWEET HOME! ”’ 
Home’s not merely four square walls, 
Though with pictures hung and gilded; 
Home is where Affection calls— 
Filled with shrines the Heart hath builded. 
Home !—go watch the faithful dove 
Sailing “neath the Heaven above us,— 
Home is where there’s one to love ; 
Home is where there’s one to love us! 
Home’s not merely roof and room, 
It needs something to endear it ; 
Home is where the heart can bloom, 
Where there’s some kind lip to cheer it! 
What is home with none to meet, 
None to welcome, none to greet us ? 
Home is sweet—and only sweet 
WHERE THERE’S ONE WE LOVE TO MEET US! 

C. Swain. 

