The nation mourned. The whole wide world mourned. Project Rain Dance was discontinued. It would have been discontinued in any event, for Rosemary had obviated any further need for it. She had done her job well, Rosemary had, and in the doing of it, she had placed the weather in the palm of mankind's out-stretched hand. * * * * * That spring, the rains were soft and warm and the flowers grew riotously upon the face of the earth. Grass knew a greenness it had never known before, and trees dressed each day in lovelier and lovelier dresses. The rains fell in the cities and on the plains. In valleys and in little towns. On fields and forests and lawns. And when the land had drunk its fill, the sun came out as warm and as bright as Rosemary's hair, and the sky turned as blue as her eyes. Yes, you know Rosemary, and you are in love with her in a way. If you are not, you should be. She is the sun coming up in the morning and the sun going down at night. She is the gentle rain against your face in spring. She is the snow falling on Christmas Eve. She is every glorious rainbow you see in the rain-washed sky. She is that pattern of tree-shade over there. Each morning, when you are lying fast asleep in your trundle bed, she tiptoes into your room, her golden sandals soundless on the bedroom floor, and wakes you with a golden kiss. Sunlight is her laughter, her voice the patter of the rain--Soft you now!--she speaks: _I am the daughter of the earth and water, And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die...._