XXXIX. 



H 



FOR hours past the rain has been falling, until every 

 leaf and spray has become dripping wet, and the whole 

 atmosphere saturated with vapour. The weather to- 

 day is a perfect realisation of Longfellow's poem. 

 There has been no stirring outside the domicile. Not 

 even an invitation from a friend (in waterproofs) to fish 

 eels in the brook could tempt me out of my snuggery, 

 where, deep in " Robert Elsmere," I have been passing 

 the hours of the morning. True, eels will and do bite 

 in wet weather more readily than other denizens of 

 the brook, perhaps, and there is good fun (from an 

 angler's point of view) to be got out of a nice two-feet 

 lively member of that serpent-like race of fishes. But 

 the charms of an enthralling book and the genial 

 warmth of the first fire of the season are together 

 sufficient temptations to remain indoors. There is no 

 sign of a clearing yet. Mr. Piscator is yonder in the 

 meadow whipping the stream. The macadamised road 

 in front of the snuggery has been washed almost bare 

 of its dust and debris, and the side-channels overflow 

 with the downpour from the clouds. 



Looking at that road, one sees something suggestive 

 of bigger things than raindrops, and mightier cur- 

 rents than the streams of the pathway. Observe how, 



