disagreeable--except myself--and it does make me so wild. And then,
too, somehow I always find myself carrying more things in wet weather
than in dry; and when you have a bag, and three parcels, and a
newspaper, and it suddenly comes on to rain, you can't open your
umbrella.

Which reminds me of another phase of the weather that I can't bear,
and that is April weather (so called because it always comes in May).
Poets think it very nice. As it does not know its own mind five
minutes together, they liken it to a woman; and it is supposed to be
very charming on that account. I don't appreciate it, myself. Such
lightning-change business may be all very agreeable in a girl. It is
no doubt highly delightful to have to do with a person who grins one
moment about nothing at all, and snivels the next for precisely the
same cause, and who then giggles, and then sulks, and who is rude, and
affectionate, and bad-tempered, and jolly, and boisterous, and silent,
and passionate, and cold, and stand-offish, and flopping, all in one
minute (mind, I don't say this. It is those poets. And they are
supposed to be connoisseurs of this sort of thing); but in the weather
the disadvantages of the system are more apparent. A woman's tears do
not make one wet, but the rain does; and her coldness does not lay the
foundations of asthma and rheumatism, as the east wind is apt to. I
can prepare for and put up with a regularly bad day, but these
ha'porth-of-all-sorts kind of days do not suit me. It aggravates me
to see a bright blue sky above me when I am walking along wet through,
and there is something so exasperating about the way the sun comes out
smiling after a drenching shower, and seems to say: "Lord love you,
you don't mean to say you're wet? Well, I am surprised. Why, it was
only my fun."