CHAPTER VII.THE RAIN POWER.

AFTER the children had gone to school, the next day, Marcus made a letter-box, and fastened it against the wall, in the entry. While he was at work upon it, a young lady from another part of the town called in to invite the family to a husking party. On learning the design of the box, she solicited the privilege of inaugurating it, which was readily granted. So, begging a sheet or two of paper, she sat down and wrote notes of invitation to Kate, Otis and Ronald, and dropped them into the box.

“Hurrah! here’s the post office box, and some letters in it!” exclaimed Ronald, when he came home from school in the afternoon.

“I’m going to have the first one, let me see if I’m not,” cried Kate, rushing for the post office.

“No, the first one is for me, but here’s one you may have,” replied Ronald, handing Kate the note directed to her.

“Well, there’s one rule broken, the very first thing—it isn’t sealed,” said Kate; “and it is written with a lead pencil, too—I don’t think that’s fair.”

She opened the billet, and read:—

“Miss Jenny Marsh requests the pleasure of Miss Katharine Sedgwick’s company at a husking party on Friday evening.

“Oct. 16th.”

The notes addressed to Ronald and Otis were in the same form as Kate’s. The invitation was quite gratifying to all of the children, and the proposed party occupied a large share of their thoughts and tongues, for the rest of the day. Their ardor was somewhat dampened, however, by Mrs. Page, who told them she thought a storm was near, which might interfere with their arrangements.

“I don’t see any signs of a storm—I think it looks real pleasant,” said Kate.

“The water boiled away from the potatoes veryfast, this noon, and that is a pretty good sign of rain,” replied Mrs. Page.

“I don’t see what that has to do with rain,” said Ronald.

“I can’t explain it very clearly,” replied Mrs. Page, “but I know it is so. I suppose there is something peculiar in the state of the atmosphere, just before a storm, which makes boiling water evaporate, or fly off into steam, more rapidly than at other times.”

The sun rose clear, the next morning, and the children laughed at Mrs. Page for her prediction of rain. But in an hour or two, clouds began to gather, and early in the afternoon a heavy rain commenced. The children came home from school, wet, disappointed, and cross. Every thing seemed to go wrong with them, the rest of the day. Kate had wet her feet, and a grumbling tooth-ache admonished her that she had taken cold. Otis had left his new kite out doors, and found the paper upon it reduced to a handful of pulp, when he came home. The cows chose the luckless day to take a stroll into the neighbors’ enclosures, and led Ronald on a long and provoking tramp throughthe wet grass and soft, spongy lowlands, in search of them. Nor did Oscar escape his share of the ill-luck which seemed to brood over the household; for while milking, one of the cows, nettled perhaps by her long walk and the unpleasant state of the weather, gave him a slap across his eyes with her wet tail that almost took away his sight for a few minutes, at the same time leaving upon his face an embrocation that was not exactly calculated to soothe his ruffled feelings.

“What is the matter? have you all got the blues?” inquired Marcus, at the tea-table, as he observed how gloomy and silent the younger portion of the family appeared.

“O dear, I should think this horrid weather was enough to give any one the blues,” exclaimed Kate.

“It doesn’t affect me very unpleasantly,” replied Marcus.

“Well, you don’t care anything about the husking party, I suppose,” said Kate.

“Oh, it’s the disappointment, and not the weather, that troubles you,” observed Marcus.

“Not altogether that, but I think it’s too bad we can’t go to-night,” replied Kate.

“Itistoo bad that all the affairs of this world can’t be ordered to suit your convenience,” added Marcus.

“No, I don’t wish that; but when I make up my mind to go any where, I do want to go,” said Kate.

“Which is pretty much the same thing as wishing that Providence would lay all his plans with special reference to your private interests, without regard to the rest of the world.”

Kate made no reply, but Ronald came to her rescue.

“I don’t believe anybody wants it to rain, now,” he said; “the crops are all in, and what good-will it do?”

“I think the owners of mills on the rivers could give you a good reason why it ought to rain now,” replied Marcus; “and perhaps we should find another reason at the bottom of our wells, after we have used up all the water, a few months hence.”

“Well, then, I don’t think it need rain so much at a time,” said Ronald. “Just hear how it’s pouring down now, and it has been raining so almost all the afternoon.”

“How much water do you suppose has fallen?” inquired Marcus.

“About a foot, I guess,” replied Ronald.

“A foot of rain!” exclaimed Marcus, with astonishment.

“Well, half a foot, certainly,” said Ronald.

“No; halve it again, and you will come nearer to the truth,” added Marcus.

“What, only three inches? it’s more than that, I know,” said Ronald.

“I doubt whether you have any idea how much three inches of rain is,” replied Marcus. “After tea we will go into a little calculation about it.”

When the tea table was cleared away, Marcus proposed that all the children should provide themselves with paper or slates, and see if they could ascertain how much water had fallen in Highburg that day.

“We will assume,” he said, “that three inches of rain has fallen, on a level, which I think may be very near the true quantity. The town contains about thirty square miles. Now, the first question is, how many hogsheads of water have fallen on this surface, to-day?”

For a few moments nothing was heard but the clicking and scratching of pencils, and the rustling of the leaves of the arithmetic, by those who were not quite sure they knew the “tables.” Those who finished the work first were requested to keep silent till the others had got through. When all were ready, the answers were read off. The solutions of Marcus, Oscar and Kate agreed, and were assumed to be correct; while those of Ronald and Otis were different, and were voted incorrect. Marcus then proposed several other questions in regard to the rain, which led to a series of calculations. The children soon became quite interested in the problems, and were not a little surprised at the facts brought out. Marcus noted down the several answers, on a clean sheet of paper, and the following is a copy of the record:—

“WHAT THE CLOUDS DID IN HALF A DAY.

“The water that has fallen this afternoon and evening, in this town alone, would fill 24,826,775 hogsheads.

“It would measure 209,088,000 cubic feet.

“Its weight is 5,833,928 tons.

“Were this water all in a pond, thirty feet deep, it would be sufficient to float 3,484 vessels, allowing 2,000 square feet to each, or about one-sixth of all the steam and sailing vessels of every class in the United States.

“It would take a man 13,792 years to distribute this water, with a watering pot, supposing he distributed 6 hogsheads a day, and worked 300 days in a year.

“To distribute it in the same time as the clouds, half a day, would require 8,275,590 men, or more than twice as many as voted at the Presidential election of 1856, in the United States.

“It would take $6,206,692 to pay these men for their services, at the rate of $1.50 per day.

“If this water had all fallen to the earth in one solid mass, from a height of one mile, it would have struck the ground with a force of 3,389,512,500 tons.”

“There,” said Marcus, after reading aloud the foregoing record, “who would have imagined that the clouds were carrying on such an extensive business as that? Isn’t it wonderful? And then just think that this storm has extended over perhaps half of the United States. What a deluge ofwater must have fallen! And this, you must remember, is an account of only one storm—only three inches of rain, out of thirty or forty that we have every year.”

“Why! do we have as much rain as that in a year?” inquired Kate.

“Yes,” replied Marcus, “our average in this part of Vermont is, I believe, about thirty-two inches, including snow reduced to water. Along the sea coast they have more—in Boston, for instance, about forty inches. There are some parts of the world where they have almost as many feet of rain as we have inches, and nearly all of it falls in about two months of the year, too.”[4]

4.According to Prof. Guyot, rain falls at Paramaribo, in Dutch Guiana, to the amount of 229 inches, or 19 feet, annually. There is a place in Brazil where 276 inches, or 23 feet, have fallen in a year. But the greatest quantity ever observed is at an elevated point in British India, south of Bombay, where the enormous amount of 302 inches, or over 25 feet, has fallen in a year. At Cayenne, 21 inches of rain have been known to fall in a single day, or nearly as much as falls in a whole year in the northern latitudes. The annual average fall in tropical America, is 115 inches; in temperate America, 39 inches. The average for the entire surface of the globe is about five feet. These figures may afford the young arithmetician a basis for a variety of curious calculations, some rainy day, when he is at a loss for amusement, and is disposed to look a little more curiously into the wonderful results of “the rain power.”

“What do people do there? I should think they would be all washed away,” said Kate.

“No,” said Marcus, “it isn’t so bad as it seems. It is soon over with, and they have more pleasant days in the year than we do. I suppose they pity us because we have so many stormy days, and yet get so little rain after all. Besides, they know about when their rainy days are coming, and can be prepared for them.”

“But, after all,” said Aunt Fanny, “I think our arrangement of the weather is best, if it does sometimes interfere with our plans. We generally have all the rain we want, and it is given to us a little at a time, as we need it. This is better for us and for vegetation than to have all our rain fall in two months of the year, and then to have three or four times as much as we really need.”

“Then why doesn’t God make it rain so every where, if that way is best?” inquired Ronald.

“For wise and good reasons, no doubt,” replied Aunt Fanny. “What is best for the temperate zones may not be best for the tropics. People whogo from this latitude to tropical countries find the rainy season very unhealthy, but it is different with those who were born there.”

“I suppose one object of these heavy rains between the tropics is to supply the great rivers of South America and Africa,” said Marcus. “We all know how Egypt is fertilized by the overflowing of the Nile; but the Nile would not overflow were it not for these immense rains in the country where it rises. So with the great rivers of South America, which overflow in the rainy season, and form inland seas, that serve as reservoirs in the dry months.”

“And it is so with all the rivers in the world—they are nothing but drains to carry away the surplus rain-water,” said Mrs. Page.

“Well,” said Marcus, glancing at the figures before him, “we have ascertained that nearly six million tons of water have fallen in our town to-day. Otis, can you explain how this immense body of water was raised into the air?”

“I can explain it,” said Kate, seeing that her brother hesitated.

“Let Otis try first,” replied Marcus.

“Was it drawn up from the ocean by the sun?” inquired Otis.

“Yes, that is the correct explanation,” continued Marcus. “Now, Kate, can you tell us any more about it?”

“The heat of the sun,” said Kate, “causes a vapor to go up into the air from the ocean, and lakes, and rivers, and from everything that contains water. This is called evaporation. You can’t see this vapor, as it flies away into the air, but when the atmosphere grows cold, it forms clouds, and falls in rain.”

“I should think the vapor would all dry up, and be lost, when the air is so warm,” said Ronald.

“What do you mean by drying up?” inquired Marcus.

“Why, you know,—I mean drying up,—I can’t think of any other way to explain it,” replied Ronald.

“When the water in a puddle dries up,” said Marcus, “it flies into the air, in the form of a vapor, and that is evaporation. That is all the drying up there is about it. The air steals the water from the puddle, and then keeps it a close prisoner tillthe cold releases it. The water doesn’t dry up again in the air, but remains there. The warmer the air, the more water it will hold. In the tropics, where they have such fierce heats, the air is always full of moisture, and the plants draw it out by means of their large leaves, and so they manage to flourish the year round, although they have no rain or even clouds for months in succession. It is so with us, on a very sultry day,—there is more water than usual in the air, at such a time, although we cannot see it. Now, Kate, can you explain why this vapor which heat produces, flies away to the region of the clouds?”

“Because it is lighter than the air,” replied Kate.

“Right,” said Marcus.

“You said you couldn’t see this moisture rise from the earth,” said Aunt Fanny, “but that is not always the case. We see it in our breath, on a cold day, when it looks like steam issuing from our mouths. I have seen a river steaming as though there were a fire under it, in a very cold day, before ice had formed over it. We see this process going on, too, in the vapors or fogs which often collect over ponds, and rivers, and the ocean. But commonly,as Kate says, we see nothing of these vapors until they are condensed into clouds by the cold air above, although they are continually flying off from our bodies, and from the ground, and every thing that grows in it. When we hang out our clothes to dry, after washing them, the water in them goes to help make clouds.”

“There is one other agent in this business, that has not been mentioned,” said Marcus. “The sun draws the water, the atmosphere holds it as in a sponge, and the cold squeezes the sponge and returns the water to the earth. But the rain is not needed where it is first collected—it must be transported to distant parts of the earth; and how is this done?”

“By the winds,” replied Oscar.

“Yes,” resumed Marcus, “the winds are the great water-carriers, that distribute the rain over the earth. Here, then, we have the whole list of forces employed in this wonderful rain power, viz.:

“1. The sun, to draw the water by its heat.

“2. The atmosphere, to hold it.

“3. The winds, to transport it over the continents.

“4. The cold, to discharge it from the clouds when it has reached its destination.”[5]

5.Strictly speaking, these agents may be reduced to two; for the wind is only air in motion, and cold is not a substance, but merely the absence of heat, as darkness is the absence of light.

“How does the cold make the rain fall?” inquired Ronald.

“It contracts the air,” replied Marcus, “and the vapor is consequently condensed, or crowded together, so that its particles unite and form drops of rain, which are heavier than the air, and fall to the earth. As I said before, the atmosphere may be compared to a sponge, which holds a certain quantity of water, in minute particles. When the air sponge is contracted, these particles mingle together and run out, and then it rains.”

“What a squeezing the sponge must have had to-day!” exclaimed Ronald.

“When the vapor freezes before it falls to the earth,” said Kate, “it becomes snow; and when very cold and very hot and moist air come together, they make hail, or ice.”

“I know a riddle about that,” said Ronald, repeating:—

“My father is the Northern Wind,My mother’s name was Water:Old Parson Winter married them,And I’m their hopeful daughter.”

“My father is the Northern Wind,

My mother’s name was Water:

Old Parson Winter married them,

And I’m their hopeful daughter.”

“Did you know that snow-flakes are usually crystals of regular and beautiful forms?” inquired Marcus.

Kate and Oscar had read of this, but it was new to the other children. Marcus took down a volume from the library, and showed to them some drawings of these snow crystals, as seen under a microscope, a few of which are here given. There is anendless variety of these crystals, the most beautiful of which are found in the polar regions; but sometimes the flakes present no traces of crystallization.

“My geography says it never rains in the Great Desert of Sahara; what is the reason of that?” inquired Ronald.

“The Sahara,” replied Marcus, “is a vast ocean of sand, in the torrid zone. The air which arises from it is so scorching hot, that it burns up, as it were, the clouds of rain that blow towards it from the Mediterranean, as soon as they come within its reach. There are several other deserts in Africa, and in North and South America. Some of these are cut off from their supply of rain by mountains. When the clouds come in contact with a chain of high mountains, they are driven up their sides, into a colder region, and the vapor is pretty thoroughly wrung out of them. By the time the current of wind reaches the other side of the mountains, the clouds have all disappeared, and there is nothing left but a cold, dry air. That explains why it is that there is a desert region on the western coast of South America, on the very borders of the PacificOcean. The eastern sides of the Andes rob the clouds of all the rain brought from the Atlantic by the trade wind, and as the dry wind keeps on its course, the vapors of the Pacific are driven back to the ocean, before they can discharge themselves. Thus there is a paradise on one side of the mountains, and a desert on the other.”

“Five minutes of nine,” said Mrs. Page, warningly.

“Is it so late?” inquired Marcus. “Well, we will have a bit of poetry to wind up with, and I will appoint Kate to read it aloud, as it is a beautiful piece, and I’m afraid none of the rest of us would do it justice.”

“O, you flatterer!” exclaimed Kate.

“No, it isn’t flattery,—itisa capital poem, if I’m any judge,” added Marcus, turning over the leaves of a book in search of the piece. “It’s by Bryant—ah, here it is. Now, Miss Kate, let us hear what the poet says about rain, so that we may have something pleasant to dream about, when we go to bed.”

Kate took the book, and read in an admirable manner the following lines:—

A RAIN DREAM.BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

A RAIN DREAM.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THESEstrifes, these tumults of the noisy world,Where Fraud, the coward, tracks his prey by stealth,And Strength, the ruffian, glories in his guilt,Oppress the heart with sadness. Oh, my friend,In what serener mood we look uponThe gloomiest aspects of the elementsAmong the woods and fields! Let us awhile,As the slow wind is rolling up the storm,In fancy leave this maze of dusty streets,For ever shaken by the importunate jarOf commerce, and upon the darkening airLook from the shelter of our rural home.Who is not awed that listens to the RainSending his voice before him? Mighty Rain!The upland steeps are shrouded by their mists;The vales are gloomy with thy shade; the poolsNo longer glimmer, and the silvery streamsDarken to veins of lead at thy approach.Oh, mighty Rain! already thou art here;And every roof is beaten by thy streams,And as thou passest, every glassy springGrows rough, and every leaf in all the woodsIs struck and quivers. All the hilltops slakeTheir thirst from thee; a thousand languishing fields,A thousand fainting gardens are refreshed;A thousand idle rivulets start to speed,And with the graver murmur of the stormBlend their light voices, as they hurry on.Thou fill’st the circle of the atmosphereAlone; there is no living thing abroad,No bird to wing the air, nor beast to walkThe field; the squirrel in the forest seeksHis hollow tree; the marmot of the fieldHas scampered to his den; the butterflyHides under her broad leaf; the insect crowdsThat made the sunshine populous, lie closeIn their mysterious shelters, whence the sunWill summon them again. The mighty RainHolds the vast empire of the sky alone.I shut my eyes, and see, as in a dream,The friendly clouds drop down spring violetsAnd summer columbines, and all the flowersThat tuft the woodland floor, or overarchThe streamlet:—spiky grass for genial June,Brown harvests for the waiting husbandman,And for the woods a deluge of fresh leaves.I see these myriad drops that slake the dust,Gathered in glorious streams, or rolling blueIn billows on the lake or on the deep,And bearing navies. I behold them changeTo threads of crystal as they sink in earth,And leave its stains behind, to rise againIn pleasant nooks of verdure, where the child,Thirsty with play, in both his little handsShall take the cool clear water, raising itTo wet his pretty lips. To-morrow noonHow proudly will the water-lily rideThe brimming pool, o’erlooking, like a queen,Her circle of broad leaves. In lonely wastes,When next the sunshine makes them beautiful,Gay troops of butterflies shall light to drinkAt the replenished hollows of the rock.Now slowly falls the dull blank night, and still,All through the starless hours, the mighty RainSmites with perpetual sound the forest leaves,And beats the matted grass, and still the earthDrinks the unstinted bounty of the clouds,Drinks for her cottage wells, her woodland brooks,Drinks for the springing trout, the toiling beeAnd brooding bird, drinks for her tender flowers,Tall oaks, and all the herbage of her hills.A melancholy sound is in the air,A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wailAround my dwelling. ’Tis the wind of night;A lonely wanderer between earth and cloud,In the black shadow and the chilly mist,Along the streaming mountain side, and throughThe dripping woods, and o’er the plashy fields,Roaming and sorrowing still, like one who makesThe journey of life alone, and nowhere meetsA welcome or a friend, and still goes onIn darkness. Yet awhile, a little while,And he shall toss the glittering leaves in play,And dally with the flowers, and gaily liftThe slender herbs, pressed low by weight of rain,And drive, in joyous triumph, through the sky,White clouds, the laggard remnants of the storm.

THESEstrifes, these tumults of the noisy world,

Where Fraud, the coward, tracks his prey by stealth,

And Strength, the ruffian, glories in his guilt,

Oppress the heart with sadness. Oh, my friend,

In what serener mood we look upon

The gloomiest aspects of the elements

Among the woods and fields! Let us awhile,

As the slow wind is rolling up the storm,

In fancy leave this maze of dusty streets,

For ever shaken by the importunate jar

Of commerce, and upon the darkening air

Look from the shelter of our rural home.

Who is not awed that listens to the RainSending his voice before him? Mighty Rain!The upland steeps are shrouded by their mists;The vales are gloomy with thy shade; the poolsNo longer glimmer, and the silvery streamsDarken to veins of lead at thy approach.Oh, mighty Rain! already thou art here;And every roof is beaten by thy streams,And as thou passest, every glassy springGrows rough, and every leaf in all the woodsIs struck and quivers. All the hilltops slakeTheir thirst from thee; a thousand languishing fields,A thousand fainting gardens are refreshed;A thousand idle rivulets start to speed,And with the graver murmur of the stormBlend their light voices, as they hurry on.

Who is not awed that listens to the Rain

Sending his voice before him? Mighty Rain!

The upland steeps are shrouded by their mists;

The vales are gloomy with thy shade; the pools

No longer glimmer, and the silvery streams

Darken to veins of lead at thy approach.

Oh, mighty Rain! already thou art here;

And every roof is beaten by thy streams,

And as thou passest, every glassy spring

Grows rough, and every leaf in all the woods

Is struck and quivers. All the hilltops slake

Their thirst from thee; a thousand languishing fields,

A thousand fainting gardens are refreshed;

A thousand idle rivulets start to speed,

And with the graver murmur of the storm

Blend their light voices, as they hurry on.

Thou fill’st the circle of the atmosphereAlone; there is no living thing abroad,No bird to wing the air, nor beast to walkThe field; the squirrel in the forest seeksHis hollow tree; the marmot of the fieldHas scampered to his den; the butterflyHides under her broad leaf; the insect crowdsThat made the sunshine populous, lie closeIn their mysterious shelters, whence the sunWill summon them again. The mighty RainHolds the vast empire of the sky alone.

Thou fill’st the circle of the atmosphere

Alone; there is no living thing abroad,

No bird to wing the air, nor beast to walk

The field; the squirrel in the forest seeks

His hollow tree; the marmot of the field

Has scampered to his den; the butterfly

Hides under her broad leaf; the insect crowds

That made the sunshine populous, lie close

In their mysterious shelters, whence the sun

Will summon them again. The mighty Rain

Holds the vast empire of the sky alone.

I shut my eyes, and see, as in a dream,The friendly clouds drop down spring violetsAnd summer columbines, and all the flowersThat tuft the woodland floor, or overarchThe streamlet:—spiky grass for genial June,Brown harvests for the waiting husbandman,And for the woods a deluge of fresh leaves.

I shut my eyes, and see, as in a dream,

The friendly clouds drop down spring violets

And summer columbines, and all the flowers

That tuft the woodland floor, or overarch

The streamlet:—spiky grass for genial June,

Brown harvests for the waiting husbandman,

And for the woods a deluge of fresh leaves.

I see these myriad drops that slake the dust,Gathered in glorious streams, or rolling blueIn billows on the lake or on the deep,And bearing navies. I behold them changeTo threads of crystal as they sink in earth,And leave its stains behind, to rise againIn pleasant nooks of verdure, where the child,Thirsty with play, in both his little handsShall take the cool clear water, raising itTo wet his pretty lips. To-morrow noonHow proudly will the water-lily rideThe brimming pool, o’erlooking, like a queen,Her circle of broad leaves. In lonely wastes,When next the sunshine makes them beautiful,Gay troops of butterflies shall light to drinkAt the replenished hollows of the rock.

I see these myriad drops that slake the dust,

Gathered in glorious streams, or rolling blue

In billows on the lake or on the deep,

And bearing navies. I behold them change

To threads of crystal as they sink in earth,

And leave its stains behind, to rise again

In pleasant nooks of verdure, where the child,

Thirsty with play, in both his little hands

Shall take the cool clear water, raising it

To wet his pretty lips. To-morrow noon

How proudly will the water-lily ride

The brimming pool, o’erlooking, like a queen,

Her circle of broad leaves. In lonely wastes,

When next the sunshine makes them beautiful,

Gay troops of butterflies shall light to drink

At the replenished hollows of the rock.

Now slowly falls the dull blank night, and still,All through the starless hours, the mighty RainSmites with perpetual sound the forest leaves,And beats the matted grass, and still the earthDrinks the unstinted bounty of the clouds,Drinks for her cottage wells, her woodland brooks,Drinks for the springing trout, the toiling beeAnd brooding bird, drinks for her tender flowers,Tall oaks, and all the herbage of her hills.

Now slowly falls the dull blank night, and still,

All through the starless hours, the mighty Rain

Smites with perpetual sound the forest leaves,

And beats the matted grass, and still the earth

Drinks the unstinted bounty of the clouds,

Drinks for her cottage wells, her woodland brooks,

Drinks for the springing trout, the toiling bee

And brooding bird, drinks for her tender flowers,

Tall oaks, and all the herbage of her hills.

A melancholy sound is in the air,A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wailAround my dwelling. ’Tis the wind of night;A lonely wanderer between earth and cloud,In the black shadow and the chilly mist,Along the streaming mountain side, and throughThe dripping woods, and o’er the plashy fields,Roaming and sorrowing still, like one who makesThe journey of life alone, and nowhere meetsA welcome or a friend, and still goes onIn darkness. Yet awhile, a little while,And he shall toss the glittering leaves in play,And dally with the flowers, and gaily liftThe slender herbs, pressed low by weight of rain,And drive, in joyous triumph, through the sky,White clouds, the laggard remnants of the storm.

A melancholy sound is in the air,

A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail

Around my dwelling. ’Tis the wind of night;

A lonely wanderer between earth and cloud,

In the black shadow and the chilly mist,

Along the streaming mountain side, and through

The dripping woods, and o’er the plashy fields,

Roaming and sorrowing still, like one who makes

The journey of life alone, and nowhere meets

A welcome or a friend, and still goes on

In darkness. Yet awhile, a little while,

And he shall toss the glittering leaves in play,

And dally with the flowers, and gaily lift

The slender herbs, pressed low by weight of rain,

And drive, in joyous triumph, through the sky,

White clouds, the laggard remnants of the storm.

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