Soars the sky-lark-soar thou; leaps the stream-do thou leap;

Learn from nature the splendour of action,

Plough, harrow, and sow, or thou never shalt reap;
Faithful deeds bring divine benefaction.

The red sun has rolled himself into the blue,
And lifted the mists from the mountain;
The young hares are feasting on nectar of dew,
The stag cools his lips in the fountain;
The blackbird is piping within the dim elm,
The river is sparkling and leaping;

The wild bee is fencing the sweets of his realm,
And the mighty limbed reapers are reaping.

To spring comes the budding; to summer the blush ;
To autumn the happy fruition;

To winter repose, meditation and hush;

But to man every season's condition :

He buds, blooms, and ripens, in action and rest,
As thinker, and actor, and sleeper;

Then withers, and wavers, chin drooping on breast,
And is reaped by the hand of a reaper."

THE TOWN-KIRKINTILLOCH.

Since first I wandered hence, the grave
Has swallowed many a saintly face,
And many an honest fool and knave-
God take them all into his grace!
And where are they with whom I played-
Gay schoolmates of my early prime?

Not one now fills his native shade;

To mock the scattering hand of Time;
They voyage wide with restless feet,
Through polar cold and tropic heat.

Ah, comrades! were you here awhile,

Where Kelvin rolls his tremulous flood,
Anew both heaven and earth would smile,

And love's old vintage warm our blood:

Again our laughter and our glee
Would shake the drowsy echoes up;
Our joy would spite cold Destiny,

And spill the poison from his cup:
But far by other vales and streams
Ye seek fulfilment of your dreams.

And where is he, dear son of song,"
Who walked beside me, bright as morn,
Burning to cope with that high throng

Of men, the first and mightiest born?
I heard him sing; I saw him shine,
The moon of love, the sun of truth;
He thrilled me with his tender line,

The beauty of his mortal youth:

God loved him most-the sweet lamb-souledAnd took him to his starry fold.

One joy the less, one grief the more,

Are mine, since Life's pale shadow, Death, Met him on fame's illusive shore,

Wailing to heaven a passionate breath-
"Oh! to be known among my kind!"
That wish was like bewildering fire;
It blurred the beauty of his mind,
And clouded each divine desire,

Said Death-"So be it; yet thou must die
To gain thine immortality."

A sudden and a fearful phrase,

With double scope, and doubly true;
For in his soul was nothing base-
So God made Paradise his due.
And now that he is known in heaven,
His name is dearly loved on earth-
A may-white bloom untimely riven
In the green valley of his birth:
The earnest songs he warbled then
Still sing within the hearts of men.

* David Gray.

He sleeps between his native streams,

In that "Auld Aisle" that fronts the south,
Where he was lapped in living dreams;
Where low he lies with songless mouth,
The Luggie flows by Oxgang woods,
The Bothlin burn by Woodilee,
In whose enchanting solitudes

He woo'd his darling Poesy,
Who, sorrowing, sits by Bothlin burn,
Or broods beside her hero's urn.

John Gibb, Artist,

Was born about 1833, and lived to manhood in the cottage at Merkland, next to that of the parents of David Gray, the poet, who was his companion in youth. He was educated in the Cowgate School, Kirkintilloch, under Mr. Aiton, teacher.

When a youth he served his apprenticeship as a joiner with the late Mr. David Marshall, wright, and was taken to Innellan by the late Mr. George Bennett, builder, to erect a number of villas, as his foreman. Mr. Gibb, however, became a joiner and builder on his own account at

Innellan.

From his boyhood he had an enthusiastic love of art, and for some years of his manhood followed it as an amateur. His liking for it, however, was so great that he latterly took to it as a profession, and his success has marked his genius. He excels in marine subjects, and while at Innellan his pictures were often purchased by the Art Institute of Greenock as prizes.

In 1875 Mr. Gibb went to New Zealand, where he now resides, and where his reputation is gradually growing. In that colony he is now accounted one of the principal artists,

and received the largest price for one of his pictures yet realised by any painter in that country. He depicts the beautiful scenery of New Zealand, his productions being occasionally sent to London and Melbourne for exhibition, where they are much prized, and over £100 is no uncommon price paid for a single one of his pictures.

Among the talented sons of Kirkintilloch Parish it is gratifying to record the name of John Gibb.

Bellfield Cottage, Kirkintillocb.*

WHAT native of Kirkintilloch, now in the "sere and yellow leaf," does not remember the familiar names daily and hourly in use among the inhabitants "when we were young? Mr. Thomson of Bellfield, Mr. Bartholomew of Broomhill, Major Berry of Unthank (now Waverley Park), Mr. Inglis of Walflat, Bailie Freeland, Bailie Gemmil, and Bailie Dalrymple?" the last-named gentleman being now the only survivor.

The beautiful suburb of Bellfield--which was named by Mr. Thomson after an aunt whose maiden name was Bell-although not then studded with handsome villas, had visitors who were afterwards known to fame. Fortunately Dr. Hedderwick was one of these, and he has given us his reminiscences :

"What a host of happy recollections rise to my mind at the name of Bellfield Cottage, Kirkintilloch! It was a hospitable abode, and its proprietor, Mr. William Thomson, a liberal, sagacious, and unique landlord.

He was a bachelor, lame, and limping in his gait, delighting in the society of young people of parts, and

Backward Glances," by James Hedderwick, LL.D.

keeping a singularly open table. At every week's end, from Saturday till Monday, he had seldom fewer than ten or a dozen guests.

To be an artist, a musician, or a man of letters, was an "open sesame" to Bellfield. Of his numerous circle Mr. Thomson was himself the autocratic ruler, very precise and stern in his household regulations, but outside of these allowing the largest amount of freedom, and, even latitude.

Daniel Macnee, pushing to the foremost rank as a portrait-painter, and already renowned for his social qualities, was one of Mr. Thomson's frequent visitors. His rich geniality, and the amazing collection of stories which he told with a dramatic effect amounting to genius, rendered him the delight of all societies. In one of his anecdotes he described himself as brought professionally into contact with a plain-spoken Scotch farmer. A neighbouring gentleman had his horse at the farm, and it was arranged that Macnee should make a sketch of it, with a plough boy on its back, so as to make the effect more picturesque.

On presenting himself, the artist was thus accosted :— "Is't you that's come to tak' aff oor Jock an' the meer?" A reply in the affirmative was of course given.

"Man," continued the farmer, "ye're a big buirdly chiel; ye micht le workin'. The only painter ever I kent was a bit humphy-backit cratur. There was some excuse for him ; but as for you, ye micht be haudin the pleugh.”*

* On one occasion he was standing at a way-side railway station in the north, when a cattle-dealer approached him, and said-"Man, ye're a gudelookin' chap; I wager, noo, ye'll weigh about saxteen stane." "You are quite correct, my dear fellow," said the president with a humorous twinkle in his eye. Ay, I thocht sae!" was the self-satisfied rejoinder. I'm never very far wrang, for I'm the best judge o' swine in the country."