XI.

A RAINY RHAPSODY.

Gently, idly, lazily, as petals from an over-blown rose, while I write,
the welcome rain is falling. The sky is neutral tinted, save in the
east, where a faint blush lingers. All along the country roadways a
thousand fainting clovers uplift their purple crests, and in the dusky
spaces of the dense June woods a host of grateful leaves wait and
beckon. A voice comes from the garden bed; it is the complaint of the
pansy. "Here I lie," it says, "with all my jewels low in the dust.
Where is the purple of my amethysts, the yellow of my topaz, the
inimitable sheen of my milk-white pearls? Alas and alack for pansies
when the rain beats them earthward!" The marigold, like a
yellow-haired boy with his straw hat well back from his flying mane,
whistles softly to himself for joy, and buries his hands in the pockets
of his green breeches. The peonies burn low their tinted globes of
light, and the sweet peas swing like idle girls upon the tendrils of
their drooping vines. The dog lifts his nose and sniffs the moist air
approvingly, while poor Old Tom, the cat, blinks benignly upon the
scene. In the poultry yard the hens pose in the same indescribable
amaze that has bewildered their species since the dawn of time. I
think the first chicken that was ever hatched in Eden must have
experienced some great nervous shock that has descended along the
infinite line of its progeny. The monotonous rooster chants ever and
anon from the top of the fence his unalterable convictions. The ducks