we look
to the sky, it seems as if all the water that had been poured down upon
us were as nothing to what is to come. Once in a while, indeed, there is
a gleam of sky along the horizon, or a half-cheerful, half-sullen
lighting up of the atmosphere; the rain-drops cease to patter down,
except when the trees shake off a gentle shower; but soon we hear the
broad, quiet, slow, and sure recommencement of the rain. The river, if I
mistake not, has risen considerably during the day, and its current will
acquire some degree of energy.

In this sombre weather, when some mortals almost forget that there ever
was any golden sunshine, or ever will be any hereafter, others seem
absolutely to radiate it from their own hearts and minds. The gloom
cannot pervade them; they conquer it, and drive it quite out of their
sphere, and create a moral rainbow of hope upon the blackest cloud. As
for myself, I am little other than a cloud at such seasons, but such
persons contrive to make me a sunny one, shining all through me. And
thus, even without the support of a stated occupation, I survive these
sullen days and am happy.

This morning we read the Sermon on the Mount. In the course of the
forenoon, the rain abated for a season, and I went out and gathered some
corn and summer-squashes, and picked up the windfalls of apples and
pears and peaches. Wet, wet, wet,--everything was wet; the blades of the
corn-stalks moistened me; the wet grass soaked my boots quite through;
the trees threw their reserved showers upon my head; and soon the
remorseless rain began anew, and drove me into the house. When shall we
be able to walk again to the far hills, and plunge into the deep woods,
and gather more cardinals along the river's margin? The track along
which we trod is probably under water now. How inhospitable Nature is
during a rain! In the fervid heat of sunny days, she still retains some
degree of mercy for us; she has shady spots, whither the sun cannot
come; but she provides no shelter against her storms. It makes one
shiver to think how dripping with wet are those deep, umbrageous nooks,
those overshadowed banks, where we find such enjoyment during sultry
afternoons. And what becomes of the birds in such a soaking rain as
this? Is hope and an instinctive faith so mixed up with their nature,
that they can be cheered by the thought that the sunshine will return?
or do they think, as I almost do, that there is to be no sunshine any
more? Very di