FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 



XXXII. 



I THINK that it is nearly four weeks since 

 we have had a shower sufficiently heavy 

 to soak through the dust on the roads, and 

 the ground is parched as though it had been 

 baked in an oven. And yet the forests and 

 the meadows remain green, and even where 

 the hay has been harvested, the grass does 

 not seem burned to a crisp. Day after day 

 we watch the storm-clouds forming around 

 us ; we hear the muttering of distant thun 

 der, and, as night approaches, see the elec 

 tric signals flash from cloud to cloud ; it is 

 thunder to right of us, thunder to left of us, 

 thunder in front of us ; occasionally a cool 

 breeze from another valley conies to in 

 form us of the grateful showers that have 

 fallen there. The ladies tell me that the 

 air is laden with moisture, and that conse 

 quently dainty dresses, quietly hanging in 

 the closet, contract their skirts by inches, 

 as if to escape contact with a wet earth ; 

 nevertheless, the would-be welcome rain 

 tarries yet in the offing. 



