The down-pour lasted for three whole days, yet they enjoyed it all. It proved to be a memorable rain to Corydon, for it brought to her a great occasion--the beginning of her poetical career. It happened late one night, when, as usual, the cry of “hoodaloo mungie” awakened her from a sound slumber. The day had been a particularly hard one, and the heaviness of exhaustion was upon her. For a moment she stared up into the darkness, listening to the rain close above her, and trying to nerve herself to put out her arm in the cold. She shuddered at the thought; there came to her a perfectly definite impulse of hatred--hatred of the child, of its noise and its demands. She had felt it before--sometimes as a dull, cold dislike, sometimes as something passionate. Why should she have to sacrifice herself to this insatiable creature, whom she did not love? What did it matter to her if other women loved their children? She had wanted life--and was this life? At that moment the cry of “hoodaloo-mungie” symbolized for her all the sordid cares and nervous agony of her existence. And suddenly, unexpectedly, a daring impulse seized her. “No!” she thought, and set her teeth--“I’ll let him cry! I’ll cure him of this--and I’ll do it to-night!” So she turned and told Cedric to go to sleep; at which, of course, the child began to scream. Corydon lay very still in the dark, her eyes wide and every nerve tense. She could not feel, she could not think; it seemed as though she were deprived of every sense except that of hearing; and in her, through her, and around her rang a senseless din, piercing, intense, increasing in volume every minute, and completely drowning out the beating of the rain. “Can I stand it?” she thought. “Or will his lungs burst? And yet, I must, I must--this can’t go on forever!” And so she clenched her hands and waited. But the sounds did not diminish in the slightest; ten minutes twenty minutes must have passed, and the baby only seemed to gain increased power with each crescendo. It seemed to Corydon at last as though she had always lain like this, and as though she must for endless time. She found herself getting used to it even; her muscles relaxed. There came to her a sense of the ludicrous side of it. “He means to conquer me!” she thought. “Can I hold out? If I only had something to think about, then I’d be a match for him.” And suddenly the inspiration came to her. “I’ll write a poem!” What should it be about? The rain had been increasing in violence, and she became conscious of the steady downpour; it fascinated her, and she concentrated her attention upon it, and began--- “I am the rain, that comes in spring!” So, after a while, she found herself in the throes of composition; she was eager, excited--and marvel of marvels, utterly forgetful of the baby! She had never tried to write verses before; but it did not seem at all difficult to her now.