y's the time she has
coaxed me out of a good, warm bed, wheedled me into the fields in a
white dress and thin shoes, and then sent me home wet as a drowned
kitten, with a snapping headache, to a cold breakfast.

Yes--I used to "go a-Maying."

Such a watching of the clouds and weather-cock the night before; such a
fixing of sashes, and wreaths, and hats, and dresses; so many charges
to Betty, the cook, to wake us up by daylight; such a wondering how
mother and father could lie a-bed of a May morning;--such a tossing,
and twisting, and turning, the night before; such a putting aside of
muslin curtains, to see if it wasn't "most daylight;" such surprise
when Aunt Esther came creeping up stairs, shading her night-lamp and
saying, "it was only ten o'clock!" Such broken slumbers as we had--such
funny dreams--and such a galvanic jump out of bed the next morning,
when Betty gave us one of her pump-handle shakes. Then such a time
washing, and combing, and dressing! such long faces when a great
thumping rain drop fell upon the window! such a consultation as to the
expediency of wearing our "best clothes;" such clapping of hands when
the sun finally shone out again; such fears lest Anna Maria and Sarah
Sophia's mother wouldn't let them come to meet us as they promised.
Such a tip-toeing over wet sidewalks, out into the country; such a talk
after we got off the brick pavements, as to which was the prettiest
road; such a wondering what _had_ become of all the flowers; such
regrets that we didn't think to fill our pockets with crackers; such a
picking out of pebble stones from thin shoes; such a drawing up of thin
shawls over shivering shoulders; such a dismay when a great black cloud
emptied itself down on our "best clothes;" such congratulations when
our good-natured, rosy-faced, merry milkman meeting us, stowed and
wedged us away amid his milk-cans, to bring us safely back to the city.
Such a creeping in the back way, lest "that torment of a Tom" should
laugh at us; such a coaxing of Betty to cook us a good, hot breakfast;
and such a gaping and yawning in school for a week after.

Oh! you know all about it,--everybody knows that it is just as sure to
rain on a May morning, as it is to thaw when your schoolmaster attempts
to treat himself and you to a sleigh-ride on _your_ hoarded ninepences!

So take my advice and turn your back on May--she is a fickle little
gypsey. Ask the first Irishman you meet if June isn't the month to go