92 THE CARNATION. 



soil, I returned to my study, with as little inclina- 

 tion to write about flowers, as a sick person usual- 

 ly has to partake of a substantial meal. 



On a sudden, and most unexpectedly, a dark 

 cloud which had rapidly overspread the sky, burst, 

 in one of those downright soaking rains that bid 

 fair to penetrate even to the roots of the earth. 

 This was accompanied by a breeze, so rough as to 

 bend low the lighter trees, and to toss with some 

 violence the branches of the more stable. Thus, 

 while the rain freshened all that retained life, the 

 wind separated what was dead, bearing it far 

 away, and leaving the exhilarated scene to sparkle 

 in its summer beauty. Who could look on this, 

 and fail to apply the expressive acknowledgement 

 — " Thou, Lord, sentest a gracious rain upon 

 thine inheritance, and refreshedst it when it was 

 weary." 



I now can augur well for my carnations, plant 

 ed rather unadvisedly, I confess, in that unshaded 

 south border. Some will wonder that I should 

 suffer them to droop for lack of moisture, while 

 the simple contrivance of a watering-pot is within 

 reach. But, though I do occasionally give the 

 garden such artificial refreshments, I find that the 

 hard spring water, which alone is at hand, affords 

 a very insufficient substitute for the distillations ot 

 the sky. This, too, is good for me — it teaches me 

 to look up and to acknowledge my soul's continue 



