threads behind; they make of themselves a silver bank of
miniature sea at the bottom of the pane; and, while they do this, other
millions are set pearl-wise at the top, to crowd, blend, glide down in
their turn, and overflow the miniature sea. This is one pane, a few inches
square; and rooms have many windows of many panes. And looking past this
spectacle, out of our windows, how is it that we do not each rainy day
weep with pleasure at sight of the glistening show? Every green thing,
from tiniest grass-blade lying lowest, to highest waving tips of elms,
also set thick with the water-pearls; all tossing and catching, and
tossing and catching, in fairy game with the wind, and with the rain
itself, always losing, always gaining, changing shape and place and number
every moment, till the twinkling and shifting dazzle all eyes.

Then at the end comes the sun, like a magician for whom all had been made
ready; at sunset, perhaps, or at sunrise, if the storm has lasted all
night. In one instant the silver balls begin to disappear. By countless
thousands at a time he tosses them back whence they came; but as they go,
he changes them, under our eyes, into prismatic globes, holding very light
of very light in their tiny circles, shredding and sorting it into blazing
lines of rainbow color.

All the little children shout with delight, seeing these things; and call
dull, grown-up people to behold. They reply, "Yes, the storm is over;" and
this is all it means to most of them. This kingdom of heaven they cannot
enter, not being "as a little child."

It would be worth while to know, if we only could, just what our
betters--the birds and insects and beasts--do on rainy days. But we cannot
find out much. It would be a great thing to look inside of an ant-hill in
a long rain. All we know is that the doors are shut tight, and a few
sentinels, who look as if India-rubber coats would be welcome, stand
outside. The stillness and look of intermission in the woods on a really
rainy day is something worth getting wet to observe. It is like Sunday in
London, or Fourth of July in a country town which has gone bodily to a
picnic in the next village. The strays who are out seem like accidentally
arrived people, who have lost their way. One cannot fancy a caterpillar's
being otherwise than very uncomfortable in wet hair; and what can there be
for butterflies and dragon-flies to do, in the close corners into which
they creep, with wings shut up as