We wither from our youth, we waste away, Sick, sick, unfound the boon—unslaked the thirst. BYRON. In summer time there are few things more delightful than an occasionally wet day to “out-of-towners.” Then we of the country, in our almost noiseless homes, may delight and rejoice in the strange and pleasant quietness attending a still, steadily-falling rain; we can watch with admiring eyes how the fields and the well-draperied woods grow bright and cleanly, ’neath the hand of that pattern housekeeper, Dame Nature; we can listen undisturbed by the multitudinous noises which infest a city, to the dear wild-birds, who, impatient of the long-continued weeping of the skies, occasionally break forth into the merriest songs, as if questioning each other as to how they stand the charges of the elements. And then there is the generous Sun King, (I acknowledge, however, he does not shine for country-people _only_,) glancing out at intervals from between the heavy clouds, smiling upon us joyously, and looking for all the world as though he would say if he could, “never mind, children, the storm will soon be passed!” And then the after-part of a summer shower! the freshened fragrance of the flowers—the purified atmosphere—the bright blue sky—the increased glory of the setting-sun—the rainbow in the east—the drops of water glistening on the flowers and on the grass, so pure and bright, that one might almost imagine them the tears of spirits—the glad songs of innumerable birds—the groups of children exhibiting in various ways their nautical daring on and about the newly-formed lakelets in the roads and fields—the many evidences of life awakened out of doors—then the holy calmness of the ensuing summer night—the soft light of the stars—and after that the trembling glory of the new moon! Oh, beautiful, beautiful summer! with thy rain-storms and thy sunshine, hasten to us again! But—a rainy day in winter! its horrors encircle me at this moment; I forbear entering into its details. However much _you_ may delight in a day like unto this, oh, listen to the humble voice now emerging from the way-side, _I_ have no courage to speak even of the stubborn, hard-headed, cheerless figure Nature presents when she stands gazing in such mute dismay upon her domicil. It is in human nature, at least in mine, and I claim to be human, to be always looking for _a something better_, and despite all this dreariness without, my heart is even now continually singing, “Spring is coming! spring is coming!” but a few weeks! and then, instead of the dismal trappings of winter, how beautiful and bright all without and around us will be! the very thought is enough to make every soul shout, “Hasten the time! Amen!” There is such a desolateness in the court of the white-headed old king which people very naturally shrink from as they grow older in years!