140 CHRONICLES OP A CLAY FARM. 



me prize her, and them, and the land they love and 

 lave, the better ; and feel that there is a rough poetry 

 and truth in its iron-grey mists and showers, which 

 have made true of the Farmer what was said of the 

 good and brave man under life's trials : 



" He does not run all helter-skelter 

 To seek a temporary shelter ; 

 Nor does he fume and fret and foam 

 Because he's distant far from home ; 

 For well he knows, each trouble past, 

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



It was to some such inward thought I was indebted, 

 and as a faithful chronicler I ought to tell it, for 

 the courage with which, after tossing off 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 Best. 



One universal soaking drizzle seemed to have takeu 

 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 continu- 

 ance, 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, pregnant with mali- 



