A 'MATUTINAL HOUR.' 139 



was scared back by the ' Fog and falling feathers ' 

 from the sacred coast of Albion. Far away in the 

 thirsty regions of the South, as sun rolled after sun, 

 in dry and blazing sameness through the sky, un- 

 screened 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 darkest clouds that ever gathered in gloomy 

 council over a November 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 firma- 

 ment, 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 con- 

 trast, 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 November days as she is prone to 

 do to those who persevere with her which have made 



