THE clouds are banked up overhead, the thunder rips and roars; the
lightning hits old Jimpson’s shed, and now the torrent pours. The crazy
hens get wet and mad, the ducks rejoice and quack; the patient cow looks
pretty sad, and humps her bony back; the hired man, driven from the
field, for shelter swiftly hies; old Pluvius can surely wield the faucet
when he tries. In half an hour the rain is done, the growling thunder
stops, and once again the good old sun is warming up the crops. In half
an hour more good is wrought to every human cause, than all our
statesmen ever brought by passing helpful laws. Old Pluvius sends down
the juice, when he’s blown off the foam, and once again high hangs the
goose in every happy home. Not all the armies of the earth, nor fleets
that sail the main, can bring us prizes which are worth a half-hour’s
honest rain. No prophet with his tongue or pen, no poet with his lyre,
can, like the rain, bring joy to men, or answer their desire. The
sunflowers have new lease of life, the johnnie-jumpups jump. Now I must
go and help my wife to prime the cistern pump.
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