The positive character of this prediction made it very, welcome. My wife and myself had been invited by friends in Westchester County to go to their house on Saturday evening, stay all night, and pass the following day—Easter-Sunday—with them. We had nearly made up our minds to do it. They are very pleasant folks to visit, especially about Easter time; for the man of the house has a mania for hens, and, being a dyer by trade, his poultry, using the refuse of the drugs instead of gravel to aid their digestion, lay natural painted eggs of the most varied and delicate tints. If I am strict in any matter of religion, it is with regard to having a blow-out of eggs at Easter. My wife is as fond of eggs as myself, (the yolk sits lightly, she says, which is a joke upon yoke,) and she required no egging on to persuade her to accept the invitation. We were doubtful about the weather, though; but the "Professor's" prediction decided us, and we went. I thought it felt mighty like rain as we walked the short distance from the railway station to our host's. I had rain-pains in my back, and my wife said her corns were shooting. Nor did our punctual aches deceive us. Between that Saturday night and Easter-Sunday morning it began to rain. Easter-Sunday was the wettest day I remember ever to have experienced. There was no "let up" of the deluge throughout that day and Easter-Monday. We—my wife and I—are suffering dreadfully from the effects of Easter-eggs, which we were obliged to devour by the stack merely to kill time, as we could not walk out. Should we die, I will let you know; but really it was too bad of "Professor" THATCHER. WEATHERBOUND. P.S.—Who is "Professor" THATCHER? THE BIRD OF WISDOM IN IOWA. Civilization, it seems, is making some headway in Iowa. Boys are no longer allowed to shoot small birds there, especially song-birds. And so the little warblers can pipe it all day, if they like, and when they grow tired and hungry, they are welcome to refresh their small systems at the strawberry beds. There is one feature of the regulation in question, however, that does pain us. While vocal and fly-gobbling talents are tenderly fostered, dignified Wisdom is not only neglected, but persecuted. Our old friend the Owl is reputed by the people of Iowa to be rather particular in his diet, (as all wise creatures are,) and to prefer a nice young spring chicken to almost any other "delicacy of the season"—a proof of wisdom and refinement that proved too much for the people of Iowa. And so they have left the poor old Owl out of the protective enactment; and it is not only legal to shoot him, but meritorious. The legislators could have stood the wisdom, perhaps by itself; and possibly they might have respected the taste; but the combination troubled them, and could not, of course, be tolerated.