Rain! rain! think I will give the barometer the full name of R. Stone Wiggins! Have a mind to throw him into the river by way of immersion, but fear he would stick in a sand-bar and never predict another storm, so will just hang him on the wall out side to be sprinkled. The new house is entirely abandoned, fires drowned out, organ, sewing machine, lunch baskets, and bedding protected as well as can be with carpet and rubber coats. How glad I am that I have no luggage along to get soaked. My butter and meat was lost out on the prairie or in the river--hope it is meat cast adrift for some hungry traveler--and some one has used my loaf for a cushion, and how sad its countenance! Don't care if it does get wet! So I just pin my straw hat to the wall and allow it to rain on, as free from care as any one can be under such circumstances. I wanted experience, and am being gratified, only in a rather dampening way. Some find seats on the bed, boxes, chairs, trunk, and wood-box, while the rest stand. We pass the day talking of homes left behind and prospects of the new. Seven other travelers came in for dinner, and went again to their wagons tucked around in the canyons. The house across the river is also crowded, and leaking worse than the _hotel_ where we are stopping. Indeed, we feel thankful for the shelter we have as we think of the travelers unprotected in only their wagons, and wonder where the rest of our party are. The river is swollen into a fretful stream and the sound of the waters makes us even more homesick. "More rain, more grass," "more rain, more rest," we repeated, and every thing else that had a jingle of comfort in it; but oftener heard, "I _do wish_ it would stop!" "When _will_ it clear off?" "Does it _always_ rain here?" It did promise to clear off a couple of times, only to cloud up again, and so the day went as it came, leaving sixteen souls crowded in the cabin to spend the night as best we could. Just how was a real puzzle to all. But midnight solves the question. Reader, I wish you were here, seated on this spring wagon seat with me by the stove, I then would be spared the pain of a description. Did you ever read Mark Twain's "Roughing It?" or "Innocents Abroad?" well, there are a few _innocents abroad_, just now, _roughing it_ to their hearts' content. The landlady, daughter, and maid, with Laura, have laid them down crosswise on the bed. The daughter's husband finds sleep among some blankets, on the floor at the side of the bed. Mr. Ross, almost sick, sticks his head under the table and feet under the cupboard and snores. Mrs. Ross occupies the only rocker--there, I knew she would rock on Mr. Philips who is stretched out on a one blanket just behind her! Double up, Mr. P., and stick your knees between the rockers and you'll stand a better chance.