The positive character of this prediction made it very, welcome. My wife
and myself had been invited by friends in Westchester County to go to
their house on Saturday evening, stay all night, and pass the following
day--Easter-Sunday--with them. We had nearly made up our minds to do it.
They are very pleasant folks to visit, especially about Easter time; for
the man of the house has a mania for hens, and, being a dyer by trade,
his poultry, using the refuse of the drugs instead of gravel to aid
their digestion, lay natural painted eggs of the most varied and
delicate tints. If I am strict in any matter of religion, it is with
regard to having a blow-out of eggs at Easter. My wife is as fond of
eggs as myself, (the yolk sits lightly, she says, which is a joke upon
yoke,) and she required no egging on to persuade her to accept the
invitation. We were doubtful about the weather, though; but the
"Professor's" prediction decided us, and we went.

I thought it felt mighty like rain as we walked the short distance from
the railway station to our host's. I had rain-pains in my back, and my
wife said her corns were shooting. Nor did our punctual aches deceive
us. Between that Saturday night and Easter-Sunday morning it began to
rain. Easter-Sunday was the wettest day I remember ever to have
experienced. There was no "let up" of the deluge throughout that day
and Easter-Monday. We--my wife and I--are suffering dreadfully from the
effects of Easter-eggs, which we were obliged to devour by the stack
merely to kill time, as we could not walk out. Should we die, I will let
you know; but really it was too bad of "Professor" THATCHER.

WEATHERBOUND.

P.S.--Who is "Professor" THATCHER?