There’s a lame boy--now why couldn’t that boy have been straight? There’s a rooster driving round a harem of hens; what do the foolish things run for? If they didn’t run, he couldn’t chase them--of course not. Now it’s beginning to rain; every drop perforates my heart. I could cry tears enough to float a ship. Why _need_ it rain?--patter--patter--skies as dull as lead--trees nestling up to each other in shivering sympathy; and that old cow--I hate cows--they always make a dive at me--I suppose it is because they are females; that old cow stands stock still, looking at that pump-handle just where, and as she did, when I went to bed last night. Do you suppose that a cow’s tail ever gets tired lashing flies from her side; do you suppose her jaws ever ache with that eternal munching? If there is any place I like, it is a barn; I mean to go a journey this summer, not “to see Niagara”--but to see a barn. Oh, the visions I’ve had on haymows! oh, the tears I’ve shed there--oh, the golden sunlight that has streamed down on me through the chinks in the raftered roof--oh, the cheerful swallow-twitterings on the old cross-beams--oh, the cunning brown mice scampering over the floor--oh, the noble bay-horse with his flowing mane, and arching neck, and satin sides, and great _human_ eyes. Strong as Achilles--gentle as a woman. Pshaw! women were never half so gentle to me. _He_ never repulsed me when I laid my head against his neck for sympathy. _Brute_ forsooth! I wish there were more such brutes. Poor Hunter--he’s dead, of course, because I loved him;--the _trunk-maker_ only knows what has become of his hide and my books. What of that? a hundred years hence and who’ll care? I don’t think I love any thing--or care for any thing to-day. I don’t think I shall ever have any feeling again for any body or any thing. Why don’t somebody turn that old rusty weather-cock, or play me a triumphant march, or bring me a dew-gemmed daisy? There’s funeral--a _child’s_ funeral! Oh--what a wretch I am! Come here--you whom I love--you who love me; closer--closer--let me twine my arms about you, and God forgive me for shutting my eyes to his sunshine. PEEPS FROM UNDER A PARASOL. People describe me, without saying “by your leave;” a little thought has just occurred to me that two can play at that game! I don’t go about with my eyes shut--no tailor can “take a measure” quicker than I, as I pass along.