MILORD THE WEATHER 



at dawn and I walk out and see a gentle tropical 

 rain coming like a veritable mist across the bay — 

 the lines appearing long before there is any sound 

 or movement. I am still in shadow but the velvety 

 drops have caught the first rays of the sun high in 

 air and splintered them into a rather inadequate 

 rainbow. This happens quite often in late summer 

 and I have found a way of holding and enjoying its 

 beauty long after the shower has passed and has left 

 only the pungent, exciting smell of freshly-damp- 

 ened, long-dried soil and foliage. I lower my sloping 

 jalousie a few inches and there appear between the 

 slats several hundred large diamond drops, wedged 

 between the narrow bits of wood and afire from the 

 sun rising just behind them. They last for an aston- 

 ishing time, and only one by one are evaporated by 

 the heat. I have come to watch with interest for the 

 last living bead upon my elemental abacus. I have 

 a favorite one which almost wins, but is usually 

 beaten by another not perfect globe, which has the 

 advantage of a slight nick in the slat which gives 

 it an increase of content. One day I saw my pet drop 

 striving to last, straining with all its surface ten- 

 sion to keep from losing its individuality and again 

 to become an infinitesimal trinity of atoms. I could 

 not stand being an idle pacifist any longer and 

 reaching forward I deposited a finger-tip of shaving 

 soap upon my particular jewel, which thereupon 

 assumed a greater girth and a glory of iridescence, 

 and was still a skim of beautiful water long after the 

 site of its vanished rival had become dusty. 



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