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there is another, and another. See that 

 big black oak at the field's edge, riven 

 into long splinters ! Thunder -clouds fol- 

 low water. The oak stood just in this 

 one's path to the creek. Boom ! boom ! 

 boom ! how the thunder rolls and crashes ! 

 But fainter, farther, every time. 



The first flurry is over. We shall have 

 no more sharp lightning, nor drops heavy 

 as hail. The real rain, though, is just be- 

 ginning a slow, steady fall that means 

 "greenness to the grass and glory to the 

 flower." 



Not to-day, perhaps, but to-morrow and 

 for many morrows. It is the "gentle rain " 

 that is the true rain from heaven, that 

 feeds the thirsty land, and at last wells up 

 in springs of living waters. The sky is a 

 dome of gray vapor, without fold or break. 

 We will have an hour of watery enchant- 

 ment. 



Along the creek boys are out with hook 

 and line. How or why no man can tell, but 

 fish bite their best upon a gray, rainy day. 

 That barefoot lad, whose patched shirt is 

 soaked through, has one big trout already. 

 His pole is a pawpaw from the near thicket, 

 his float an old cork, his line a length of 

 granny's black flax thread, his bait earth- 



