secret, and cannot share our happiness. We quite agree with the Wise Man, who said:"I had rather never receive a kindness, than never bestow one. Not to return a benefit is the greater sin; but not to confer it is the earlier." We grant that these feelings are poetical; but what is life without poetry? The common jog-trot way of the world is the lower creation should in these matters be sickening; nor can we help marvelling that so infinitely in advance of Man. We have ever said, and we cling to the opinion still-that selfishness is at the bottom of every action of our lives. If we do an act of kindness, we do it for self-gratification. It gives us pleasure to do it. This is a pretty way of paying a compliment; and as it is the simple truth, let each one of us make the most of it. Above all things, let us remember,-that the time for rendering "Little Kindnesses" is, not once a year only, but always. Society is so constituted, that, if we would continue happy, we must for ever be engaged in labors of love and works of benevolence. Such are our thoughts; such is our "Belief." And may all to whom we are so pleasingly indebted, accept these few remarks as the offering of a grateful, loving heart. SONG. Say, have you in the morning So beautiful, adorning The rose's diadem? Or bave you in the wildwood, Where clear the streamlet flows Beheld in summer's childhood The blushing, bright primrose? Have you beheld the lily Bloom on the water's breast; Or, in the dewy valley, The gowan's modest crest? Then ye have seen sweet Nature Her loveliest charms display, As they beamed in every feature Of her I've lost for aye. Her eye was lit with beauty, Her bosom, true to duty, In vain for me the flowers J. C. Autumn's breeze, Laden with odors from a richer shore, Still will I cherish in affection's dream THE JOYS OF EARLY SPRING. WE CALLED ATTENTION, in a late number, to the various popular Almanacs of the season; and, amongst others, we glanced at the "Lady's Almanac." We are anxious to do ample justice to the merits of this last; and therefore give as a fair specimen of its claim to popularity, an interesting article on the present month, by Thomas Miller. His remarks about "Winter feeling that his end is drawing nigh," are sweetly poetical. So also are his remarks about "Ladies, Love, and Flowers," the three inseparables. But let us hear him sing his own love-song: FEBRUARY is the childhood of the year. Like streams loosened from their icy fetters, that rush with a singing sound down the hills and through the meadows, so does it now break loose and make a pleasant prattling in those places where silence has so long reigned. In the early notes of the speckled thrush and golden-billed blackbird, we hear its voice; for in calling to and imitating them, it finds utterance for the joyous feelings which now stir within its young heart. At every new burst of sun-colored crocuses, it raises a shout of wonder-at every opening of the sky-stained hyacinths, a cry of delight. Hither and thither it runs to peep at the silver buds on the willow, the spots of green on the gooseberry bushes, and the early leaves on the elder tree; sometimes shading its eyes with its hand, while looking at the sun, or smiling to see that pale primrose color which now and then spreads over the sky. Every day it discovers some new object of pleasure, some new source of delight, in the putting forth of a fresh flower, or the low note of an additional bird. It has shaken the snow of Winter from its flowing hair, and melted the hoary frostwork with its warm breath; and there is a look of love in its clear blue eye, while watching the birds pair on St. Valentine's Day. Sometimes through the sunny flashes that fall upon the landscape in the course of this month, the lark will suddenly spring up; and beating against the wind, send out a few shivering notes, which are only answered by the ploughman's whistle; for, with a few exceptions, the great band of birds are silent, and many of them far away over the sea. So the messenger of Spring will again descend, and hide himself somewhere a little longer; it may be, grieving all the while for the absence of the flowers. If the season is mild, the starry celandine will show its yellow flowers under the sheltering hedge-rows; and on mossy banks that face the sunny south, those foremost heralds of Spring's pale primroses, which Milton says "die unmarried," will be found in bloom. A bud will be perceived here, and a bell there, where last month all was brown and bare, and desolate; for there is a stir of life about the earth and in the air, though Nature hath not yet thoroughly awoke; many a little flower is sitting up and rubbing its eyes, which, byand-by, will be wide open. Winter seems to feel that his end is drawing nigh-that the branches which he struck numb and lifeless, and left for dead, again feel the sap stirring within their veins. Even the little round daisy-buds begin to rise under him, and break his rest; and he knows that the time of his departure is at hand. The low humming in the air, and the increased twittering in the copse, proclaim that Spring is on her way; and that unless he makes haste to retire, he will be buried beneath the approaching flowers. He knows by the melting snow-flakes as they fall, that the air is already impregnated by her warm breath; and that he must hurry back to the regions of icy sleet and howling storm. For this is the old month of Valentines and love-making, began at first by the birds; but tradition has not even preserved the date of this ancient wooing, which commenced so long, long ago. It is only the British birds who remain with us all the year, that are said to choose their mates on Valentine Day, and remain true to them until death. Those which go over the sea and return again, are not so constant. The English birds only have true, faithful, loving, and constant hearts. It is said that until St. Valentine came amongst them, there was squabbling in the shrubs and battling amid the branches, and quarrelling noises around the nests,-that this bird was ever wishing to change, and that bird was never happy. Whilst a third was envious and jealous, and ever pecking at his partner, because her plumage was not so bright and rich as hers in the neighboring nest. Some turned up their bills at the insects their husbands brought them; and said that, when single, they had not been used to such food. Others complained that the hips and haws were coarse and hard; and wished that they had gone over the sea, when they had the offer, with that fine foreign bird, that came and sang so sweetly in May, and went away in June (he, like Leander, was drowned while crossing the Hellespont). Even the doves at times murmured at one another, instead of cooing; until good Bishop Valentine came and touched them; and then their purple beaks breathed only vows of love, and cooed promises of faithful endearment and everlasting affection. And then he at last touched the tender heart of Woman; and when she saw the young buds opening, and the first flowers blooming, there was a milder and softer light in her eye, and a sweeter and more heart-tender tone in her voice; and she too began to confess the power of good St. Valentine. And from that time the whole air around her has ever since breathed of love. Ladies, Love, and Flowers are inseparable. They were linked together when the first golden mornings broke over the garden of Eden, and while "the stars sang together for joy." Flowers are God's messengers, they have descended to us pure as when they were first planted in Paradise, before Eve was tempted and fell. The early dew that then hung upon them is undimmed; rounded pearls which now tremble on their bells in the morning breeze, showed not brighter to her eyes than they now appear to her fair daughters. Fair are they as she herself was, when our first father startled her-gazing at her own sweet shadow in the fountain. A SONG TO MY LOVE. When the gentle morn is breaking, And the misty shadows flee, From a dream of bliss awaking,Then, my love, I sigh for thee. When the noon-day sun shines o'er me, Shaded by thy fav'rite tree, Fancy brings thy form before me; Then, my love, I sigh for thee. When the ev'ning dews are falling, And the moonbeams smile on me, Memory thy sweet smile recallingThen, love, falls the tear for thee! the MY VILLAGE MAID. BY THOMAS MILLER. I MET her in the flowery month When trees put forth their tender leaves, We wandered where the primrose grew, There vowing naught save death should part When Summer came, with sunny days, And soft blue-hanging skies, When Autumn came in solemn gold, I saw that Death had marked my love, I tended her by night and day; But when the gleaners strayed Then Winter came with hollow voice;- But Death would lend no ear to me, Review. PICTORIAL CALENDAR OF THE SEASONS. Edited by MARY HOWITT. Henry G. Bohn. The name of Henry G. Bohn will never die. His innate love for Natural History from boyhood, has led him to spend a large fortune in trying to make others as fond of it as himself; and the books he has issued are so numerous, so choice, so winning,' and withal so exceedingly "cheap," that we do sincerely hope he has not labored in vain. We are proud of him as an ally; and glory in giving an extended publicity to his exertions in the public service. We have said this many times before; but we gladly repeat it. "May his shadow never grow less!" The book to which we would now direct special attention, professes (and performs even more than it promises) to exhibit the pleasures, pursuits, and characteristics of country life, for every month in the year. Moreover, it embodies the whole of that imperishable work-"Aikin's Calendar of Nature." Is this all? No! There are, in addition, more than one hundred beautiful illustrative engravings on wood. Mary Howitt-everybody loves Mary At noon to-day, January 23rd, says Miss Mitford, one of our pleasantest writers on the country, I and my white greyhound, Mayflower, set out for a walk into a very beautiful worlda sort of silent fairy-land-a creation of that matchless magician the hoar-frost. There had been just snow enough to cover the earth and all its colors with one sheet of pure and uniform white, and just time enough since the snow had fallen to allow the hedges to be freed of their fleecy load, and clothed with a delicate coating of rime. The atmosphere was deliciously calm; soft, even mild, in spite of the thermometer; no perceptible air, but a stillness that might almost be felt; the sky rather grey than blue, throwing out in bold relief the snow-covered roofs of our village, and the rimy trees that rise above them; and the sun shining dimly as through a veil, giving a pale, fair light, like the moon, only brighter. There was a silence, too, that might become the moon, as we stood at our gate looking up the quiet street; a Sabbath-like pause of work and play, rare on a work day; nothing was audible but the pleasant hum of frost,-that low, monotonous sound which is perhaps the nearest approach that life and nature can make to absolute silence. The very wagons as they came down the hill along the beaten track of crisp yellowish frost-dust, glide along like shadows; even May's bounding footsteps, at her height of glee and of speed, fall like snow upon snow. * These murmuring cogitations have brought us up the hill, and halfway across the light and airy common, with its bright expanse of snow and its wreaths of smoke sailing up the air, and diffuse clusters of cottages, whose turf-fires send such such aromatic fragrance around. And now comes the delightful sound of childish voices, ringing with glee and merriment almost from beneath our feet. There is a shouting from the deep, irregular pool, all glass now, where, on two long, smooth sli les, half a dozen ragged urchins are slipping along in tottering triumph. Half-a-dozen steps bring us to the bank just above them. May can hardly resist the temptation of joining her friends, "come, May!" and up she springs as light as a for most of the varlets are her acquaintance. But bird. The road is gay now; carts and postchaises, and girls in red cloaks, and afar off, looking almost like a toy, the coach. It meets us fast and soon. How much happier the walkers look than the riders; especially the frost bitten gentleman, and the shivering lady with the invisible face, sole passengers of that commodious machine! Hooded, veiled, and bonneted as she is, one sees from her attitude how miserable she would look uncovered. for more. How we loved the fearless confidence of that fine, frank-hearted creature! And surely he loved us. I wonder the practice is not more general. suspiciously picking up a crumb on the wing, with the little keen bright eye fixed on the window: then they would stop for two pecks; then stay till they were satisfied. The shyer birds, tamed by their example, came next; and at last one saucy fellow of a blackbird-a sad Now we have reached the trees,-the beautiful glutton, he would clear the board in two minutes trees! never so beautiful as to-day. Imagine the used to tap his yellow bill against the window effect of a straight and regular double avenue of oaks, nearly a mile long, arching over head, and closing into perspective, like the roofs and columns of a cathedral, every tree and branch encrusted with the bright and delicate congelation of hoarfrost, white and pure as snow, delicate and defined as carved ivory. How beautiful it is, how uniform, how various, how filling, how satiating to the mind-above all, how melancholy! There is a thrilling awfulness, an intense feeling of simple power in that naked and colorless beauty, which falls on the earth like the thoughts of deathdeath, pure and glorious and smiling-but still death. Sculpture has always the same effect on my imagination, and painting never. Color is life. We are now at the top of this magnificent avenue, and at the top of a steep eminence commanding a wide view over four counties-a landscape of snow. A deep lane leads abruptly down the hill; a mere narrow cart-track, sinking between high banks clothed with fern and furze, and broom, crowned with luxuriant hedgerows, and famous for their summer smell of thyme. How lovely these banks are now-the tall weeds and the gorse fixed and stiffened in the hoar-frost, which fringes round the bright prickly holly, the pendant foliage of the bramble, and the deep orange-leaves of the pollard oak. Oh, this is rime in its loveliest form! And there is still a berry here and there on the holly, "blushing in its natural coral" through the delicate tracery; still a stray hip or haw for the birds, who abound always here. The poor birds, how tame they are, how sadly tame! There is the beautiful and rare crested wren, that shadow of a bird, as White of Selborne calls it, perched in the middle of the hedge, nestling as it were amongst the cold bare boughs, seeking, poor pretty thing, for the warmth it will not find. And there, further on, just under the bank by the slender rivulet, which still trickles between its transparent fantastic margin of thin ice, as if it were a thing of life,-there, with a swift, scudding motion, flits, in short low flights, the gorgeous king-fisher, its magnificent plumage of scarlet and blue flashing in the sun like the glories of some tropical bird. He is come for water to this little spring by the hill side,-water which even his long bill and slender head can hardly reach, so nearly do the fantastic forms of those garland-like icy margins meet over the tiny stream beneath. It is rarely that one sees the shy beauty so close or so long; and it is pleasant to see him in the grace and beauty of his natural liberty, the only way to look at a bird. We used, before we lived in a street, to fix a little board outside the parlor-window, and cover it with bread crumbs in the hard weather. It was quite delightful to see the pretty things come and feedto conquer their shyness, and do away their mistrust. First came the more social tribes, the robin-redbreast and the wren, cautiously and THAW. January 28th.-We have had rain, and snow, and frost, and rain again: four days of absolute confinement. Now it is a thaw and a flood; but our light gravelly soil and country boots, and country hardihood, will carry us through. What a dripping, comfortless day it is! just like the last days of November; no sun, no sky, grey or blue; one low, over-hanging, dark, dismal cloud, like London smoke. Mayflower is out coursing, too. Never mind. Up the hill again! Walk we must. Oh, what a watery world to look back upon! Thames, Kennet, Loddon-all overflowed; our famous town, inland once, turned into a sort of Venice. C. Park converted into an island; and a long range of meadows, from B. to W., one huge, unnatural lake, with trees growing out of it. Oh, what a watery world!-I will look at it no longer I will walk on. The road is alive again. Noise is re-born. Wagons creak, horses splash, carts rattle, and pattens paddle through the dirt with more than their usual clink. The common has its fine old tints of green and brown; and its old variety of inhabitants-horses, cows, sheep, pigs, and donkeys. The ponds are unfrozen, except when some melancholy piece of melting ice floats sullenly on the water; and cackling geese and gabbling ducks have replaced the sliders and skaters. The avenue is chill and dark, the hedges are dripping, the lanes knee-deep, and all nature is in a state of dissolution and thaw. WE know "something" about thaw, this year; but we would much prefer not to go into particulars. The recollection of it sticks to us! But why linger we thus on the threshold? and rabbits, and ponies were well enough, but Let us prove what we say by giving examples. they couldn't say, Georgey, I love you." On the present occasion, we select three Neither could he make them understand what he subjects for extract. The first, "Little was thinking about; so he wearied of them, and Benny," reminds us strongly of an article would often linger in the street, and look after from our own pen, on "Kensall-Green Ce- quite pitied him. I used to think that, with all the little groups of children so wistfully, that I metery" (see Vol. II., p. 154). We called his money, he wasn't half as happy as little Pat attention, we remember, to a poetical tomb- and Neil Connor, two little Irish brothers, who stone, whereon appeared these simple words played hop-scotch every day under my window. "The Graue of ANNIE;" So the simple head-stone said. Why did my eyes fill? I never saw the little creature. I never looked in his laughing eye, or heard his merry shout, or listened for his tripping tread; I never pillowed his little head, or bore his little form, or smoothed his silky locks, or laved his dimpled limbs, or fed his cherry lips with dainty bits, or kissed his rosy cheek as he lay sleeping. I did not see his eye grow dim; or his little hand droop powerless; or the dew of agony gather on his pale forehead. I stood not with clasped hands, and suspended breath, nor watched the look that comes but once, flit over his cherub face. And yet," Little Benny," my tears are falling; for somewhere, I know, there's an empty crib, a vacant chair, useless robes and toys, a desolate hearth-stone, and a weeping mother. "Little Benny!" It was all her full heart could utter; and it wa enough. It tells the whole story. So A LITTLE BOY WITH A BIG HEART. A rich man was little Georgey's father! many houses, and shops, and farms as he owned; so many horses and carriages; such a big house as he lived in, by the Park, and so many servants as he had in it, but he loved little Georgey better than any of them, and bought him toys enough to fill a shop, live animals enough to stock a menagerie, and jackets and trousers enough to clothe half the boys in New York. Georgey was a pretty boy; he had a broad, noble forehead, large, dark, loving eyes, and a form as straight and lithe as a little Indian's. His mother was very proud of him,-not because he was good, but because he was pretty. She was a very foolish woman, and talked to him a great deal about his fine clothes, and his curling hair; but for all that, she didn't manage to spoil Georgey. He didn't care an old marble, not he, for all the fine clothes in Christendom; and would have been glad to have had every curl on his merry little head clipped off. Georgey had no brothers nor sisters. He was so sorry for that he would rather have had such a playmate than all the toys his father bought him. His little heart was brimfull of love, and his birds, It was a very cold day in January. Jack Frost had been out all day on a frolic, and was still busily at work. He had drawn all sorts of pictures on the window panes, such as beautiful trees and flowers, and great towering castles, and tallmasted ships, and church spires, and little cottages (so oddly shaped); beside birds that "Audubon never dreamed of, and animals that Noah Then he festooned never huddled into the ark. all the eaves, and fences, and trees, and bushes with crystal drops, which sparkled and glittered in the sunbeams like royal diamonds. Then he hung icicles on the poor old horses' noses, and tripped up the heels of precise old bachelors, and sent the old maids spinning round on the sidewalks, till they were perfectly ashamed of themselves; and then he got into the houses, and burst and cracked all the water pitchers, and choked up the steady old pump, so that it might as well have been without a nose as with one; and pinched the cheeks of the little girls till they were as red as a pulpit cushion, blew right through the keyhole on grand-pa's poor, rheumatic old back, and ran round the street corner, tearing open folks' cloaks, and shawls, and furred wrappers, till they shook as if they had an ague fit. I verily believe he'd just as quick trip up our minister's heels as yours or mine! Oh, he is a graceless roguethat Jack Frost! and many's the time he's tipped Aunt Fanny's venerable nose with indigo. Goorgey didn't care a penny whistle for the fellow, all muffled up to the chin in his little wadded velvet sack, with a rich cashmere scarf of his mother's wound about his neck, and a velvet cap crushed down over his bright, curly head. How the sleighs did fly past! with their gailyfringed buffaloes, and prancing horses necklaced with little t nkling bells. How merrily the pretty ladies peeped from out their gay worsted hoods! Oh! it was a pretty sight,-Georgey liked it,— everybody moved so briskly, and seemed so happy! What ails Georgey now? He has crossed the street, stopped short, and the bright color flushes his cheeks, till he looks quite beautiful. Ah! he has spied a little apple-girl, seated upon the icy pavement. The wind is making merry with her thin rags,-her little toes peep, blue and benumbed, from out her half-worn shoes,—and she is blowing on her stiffened fingers, vainly trying to keep them warm. Georgey looked down at his nice warm coat, and then at Kate's thin cotton gown. Georgey was never cold in his life, never hungry. His eyes fill-his little breast heaves. Then quickly untwisting the thick, warm scarf from his little throat, he throws it round her shivering form and says, with a glad smile, That will warm you!and bounds out of sight before she can thank him. Old Mr. Prince stands by, wiping his eyes, and |