little jerks as if they were shrinking from the sunbeams.

And then the man underneath the oak; he lay there gasping for air and
with a melancholy look stared helplessly towards the sky. He tried to
hum a tune, but gave it up; whistled, then gave that up too; turned
round, turned round again and let his eyes rest upon an old mole-hill,
that had become quite gray in the drought. Suddenly a small dark spot
appeared upon the light-gray mold, another, three, four, many, still
more, the entire mole-hill suddenly was quite dark-gray. The air was
filled with nothing but long, dark streaks, the leaves nodded and
swayed and there rose a murmur which turned into a hissing--rain was
pouring down. Everything gleamed, sparkled, spluttered. Leaves,
branches, trunks, everything shone with moisture; every little drop
that fell on earth, on grass, on the fence, on whatever it was, broke
and scattered in a thousand delicate pearls. Little drops hung for a
while and became big drops, trickled down elsewhere, joined with other
drops, formed small rivulets, disappeared into tiny furrows, ran into
big holes and out of small ones, sailed away laden with dust, chips of
wood and ragged bits of foliage, caused them to run aground, set them
afloat, whirled them round and again caused them to ground. Leaves,
which had been separated since they were in the bud, were reunited by
the flood; moss, that had almost vanished in the dryness, expanded and
became soft, crinkly, green and juicy; and gray lichens which nearly
had turned to snuff, spread their delicate ends, puffed up like
brocade and with a sheen like that of silk. The convolvuluses let
their white crowns be filled to the brim, drank healths to each other,
and emptied the water over the heads of the nettles. The fat black
wood-snails crawled forward on their stomachs with a will, and looked
approvingly towards the sky. And the man? The man was standing
bareheaded in the midst of the downpour, letting the drops revel in