CHAPTER XVII 
BEE-KEEPING AND THE SIMPLE LIFE 
T is a quality of English sunshine that it comes 
and goes capriciously, so that no man may be 
sure of the comradeship of his shadow from 
day to day. But when there is sunshine in 
England, it always seems an abiding, permanent 
force. The grey of yesterday, and the patter-song 
of the rain on the leaves, were only adream. You 
were sleeping under the changeless blue of a 
summer night, and had but a vision of weeping, 
drab skies, gone now with the joy that comes in 
the morning. And to-morrow, when perhaps the 
old wild scurry of storm-cloud is alive overhead, 
and all the house resounds with the runnel-music 
from the pouring eaves, still it will be only a 
dream. Of a surety you will tell yourself so, as 
the sun breaks through the griddle of cloud, and 
the wind relents, and the Dutchman can get to 
his tailoring; and when you are stepping out 
amidst the swamp and glitter and rehabilitation of 
life, as glad of it all as the finches and butterflies 
that sweep on before you down the lane. The 
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