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KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 

his bosom, saying—‘ Suffer little children to 
come unto me.’ G. M. 
[The foregoing requires to be read—not 
once, but often. We direct special atten- 
tion to it.| 
FOND HEARTS,—LISTEN! 

[We cannot forbear introducing, at this particular 
season of the year (when people meet together to cement 
the bond of Love and Friendship), the following exqui- 
site Lines from ‘‘ Lalla Rookh.” ‘There is ‘‘a voice’’ in 
them, to which it behoves anu of us to listen; and, it must 
be remembered, ‘‘ we are never too old to learn.’’ | 

Aas !—how light a cause may move 
Dissension between hearts that love ! 
Hearts that the world in vain has tried, 
And sorrow but more closely tied ; 
That stood the storm when waves were rough, 
Yet in a sunny hour fall off, 
Like ships that have gone down at sea, 
When Heaven was all tranquillity! 
A something light as air—a look, 
A word unkind or wrongly taken— 
O! love that tempests never shook, 
A breath, a touch like this has shaken— 
And ruder words will soon rush in 
To spread the breach that words begin ; 
And eyes forget the gentle ray 
They wore in courtship’s smiling day ; 
And voices lose the tone that shed 
A tenderness round all they said ; 
Till fast declining, one by one, 
The sweetnesses of love are gone, 
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem 
Like broken clouds—or like the stream 
That smiling left the mountain’s brow,” 
As though its waters ne’er could sever; 
Yet, ere it reach the plain below, 
Breaks into floods that part for ever ! 
O, you that have the charge of Love, 
Keep him in rosy bondage bound ; 
As in the fields of bliss above 
He sits, with flow’rets fetter’d round :— 
Loose not a tie that round him clings, 
Nor ever let him use his wings; 
For even an hour, a minute’s flight, 
Will rob the plumes of half their light ; 
Like that celestial bird, whose nest 
Is found below far Eastern skies,— 
Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, 
Lose all their glory when he flies! 
Some difference of this dangerous kind,— 
By which, though light, the links that bind 
The fondest hearts may soon be riven ; 
Some shadow in Love’s summer Heaven, 
Which, though a fleecy speck at first, 
May yet in awful thunder burst. 
LIFE AND DEATH. 

Hast thou seen, with flash incessant, 
Bubbles gliding under ice— 
Bodied forth and evanescent, 
No one knows by what device ? 
Such are Thoughts! A wind-swept meadow 
Mimicking a troubled sea. 
Such is Life; and Death a shadow 
From the rock Errrnrry ! 
W. 

SHOULD A WIFE “ASK” FOR MONEY? 
AN ADDRESS TO BENEDICTS. 

Listen to me! Do you remember when you 
were sick? Who tip-toed round your room, 
arranging the shutters and curtain-folds, with an 
instinctive knowledge of light, to a ray, that 
your tortured bead could bear? Who turned 
your pillow on the cool side, and parted the thick 
matted locks from your hot temples? Who moved 
glasses and spoons and phials without collision or 
jingle? Who looked at you with a compassionate 
smile, when you persisted you “wouldn’t take 
your medicine because it tasted so nasty ;” and 
kept a sober face, when you lay chafing there, 
like a caged lion, calling for cigars and newspapers, 
and whisky-punch ? 
Who migrated, unceasingly and uncomplain- 
ingly, from the big baby before her to the little 
baby in the cradle, without sleep, food, or rest ? 
Who tempted your convalescent appetite with 
some rare dainty of her own making, and got 
fretted at because there was “not sugar enough 
in it ?” Who was omnipresent in chamber, 
kitchen, parlor, and nursery—keeping the domestic 
wheels in motion that there should be no jar in 
the machinery ? 
Who oiled the creaking door that set’ your 
quivering nerves in a twitter? Who ordered tan 
to be strewn before the house, that your slumbers 
might be unbroken by noisy carriage-wheels ? 
Who never spoke of weary feet or shooting pains 
in the side or chest, as she toiled up and down 
stairs to satisfy imaginary wants, that “ nobody 
but wife” could attend to? And who, when you 
got well and moved about the house just as good 
as new, choked down the tears, as you poised on 
your forefinger the half-sovereign she asked you 
for, while you inquired—“ how she spent the last 
one?” 
“‘Give her what money she asks for!” Fie! 
We hardly need say that ‘ Fanny Fern” is. the 
perpetrator of the foregoing. And is there not 
‘‘ something in it” that speaks to many of Us, in 
England, as well as to our American brethren? 
“ Aye, marry is there.” Who but a wife,—a fond, 
devoted, never-tiring woman, would do what 1s 
done for a grumbling, impatient husband, every 
day in the year? 
Of a truth, man is at best but a selfish savage ! 
A SONG TO MY “DOVE.” 

My lady pluck’d a blooming rose, 
To plant upon her lily breast ; 
It softly closed its crimson leaves, 
And fondly kiss’d its snowy nest. 
The silken leaves were gently stirr’d 
As her soft heaving bosom shook; 
Like the white plumage of a dove 
That coos beside some breezy brook. 
Oh! had J been that waving rose 
Which on her angel bosom blush’d, 
And revell’d ’mid those heaving sighs 
Whose lovely music none hath hush’d ! — 
Lived on the pantings of her heart, 
And caught her eye in tranquil rest,— 
Then, like that crimson-waving rose, 
I should have been for ever blest ! Q. 



