A "MATUTINAL HOTJE." 165 



Albion. Far away in the thirsty regions of the 

 South, as sun rolled after sun, in dry and blazing 

 sameness through the sky> unscreened by the mercy 

 of a single cloud, I have gasped and pined for an 

 English wetting for one day in the most dripping 

 covert for the murkiest downpour for the dark- 

 est clouds that ever gathered in gloomy council 

 over a November's day till the very memory of 

 it seemed like a dream too delightful to have been 

 ever true ! And often since, when the very 

 drainers (and they stand the waters from above 

 the firmament, and under it, pretty well) have 

 cast up furtive eyes out of their soaking trenches to 

 see 'if " the master budged," giving sundry hints 

 that "it's a'most time to give in" I've stood my 

 ground for hours against the welcome fog and 

 shower and darkness, from the sheer inward force 

 of well-remembered contrast, determined to have it 

 out with Nature, and come to a final arrangement 

 a sort of water-level with her, for having been 

 cheated out of two or three English winters. And 

 I sometimes think she has whispered me a secret, 

 in return, about those dark and mis-abused Novem- 

 ber days as she is prone to do to those who 

 persevere with her which have made me prize 

 her, and them, and the land they love and lave, the 



