166 CHRONICLES OF A CLAY FAKM. 



better ; and feel that there is a rough poetry and 

 truth in its iron-gray mists and showers, which 

 have made true of the Farmer what was said of the 

 good and brave man under life's trials : 



" lie does not run all helter-skelter 

 To sock a temporary shelter ; 

 Nor does ho fume and fret and foam 

 Because he 's distant far from home ; 

 For well ho knows, each trouble past, 

 He 's sure to find a HOME at last ! " 



It was to some such inward thought I was in- 

 debted and as a faithful chronicler I ought to tell 

 it for the courage with which, after tossing oif the 

 blankets an hour earlier than usual, I threw my 

 window open to such a Monday morning! pre- 

 falsified by the brightest stars and clearest sky that 

 ever closed the day of Christian Rest. 



One universal, soaking drizzle seemed to have 

 taken secure possession of earth, sky, and the day. 

 The small rain gathering on the trees dripped larger 

 from leaf to leaf, falling in the most hopeless and 

 measured way, taking it easy as though for a week's 

 continuance, and no hurry at all about the matter. 

 A single red streak, much too red, lay along one 

 part of the horizon, like a long-drawn smile, preg- 

 nant with malicious warning for the afternoon, and 



