seal of the rainbow has not faded from the dark

scroll of the storm.

No, it was none of these, but just a whole brood of showerettes-little showers that came one after another, out of the clouds, every other one a sunshine, as if to see how Earth would be pleased with them.

Just the rain that sets the flowers in the garden to dancing and courtseying and nodding-just the rain to render the poet's line no fancy,

"Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,

As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again."

IT RAINS! But don't imagine for a minute that it always does the same thing when it rains. As emphatic little girls say, under their breath, 'it n'hever, n'hever does.' There's the rain impromptu, the rain progressive, the rain premeditated, and the rain with a "to be continued," the oblique, the perpendicular, the driving, the dripping, and the sheet rain; and no body can tell how many more if he tries.

There's your dull, drizzling, dreamy rain, that dampens the day and the spirits, and makes one remember old sunsets, old "flames," and old friends; and there's your right bright, merry living shower, that comes dancing down in sunshine, or moon

shine, or any time, all the same.

Here is one that

comes creeping along stealthily, first a haze, then a mist, then a wet blanket, then one drop, then two, and "so on," as Japhet's Apothecary-was it Japhet's?-was always saying. But here's one-a

clear sky a moment ago, but all at once a cloud—a cloud with an Engine in it; and all at once a shower, that drops exactly down; then intermits, then down again; and the cloud, instead of hanging about like a smuggler, goes right on, and there it is, doing the same by the Corn, that it did, a minute ago, by the Clover. That's a "Summer Cloud;" that's what Shakspeare meant, I guess, by the "o'ercoming" cloud he told of. At all events, the interpretation makes it mean something, which is more than can be said of all expositions, either of Shakspeare or Isaiah. Summer Clouds are busy creatures. Autumn Clouds are lazy and sullen; while those of Winter go hurrying about, ragged as beggars, but your Juneborn cloud is "no such person." It's rounded and downy; like Charity; and shifts its apparel every five minutes all day long. It "lets go" a clearly defined shadow over grain, forest, or meadow, but it

drags anchor," and on it goes with its shadow, over the tops of the corn, and the flukes do not rumple a

tassel! Show me any but a Summer Cloud, that trails its Daguerreotype about, after that fashion.

But the grandest of all rains is that with Scenic and Orchestral accompaniments; and the very sort we were having hereabouts, when I wrote, "it rains." Two hours ago, the sky was as blue and as clear as a Robin's egg. An hour and a half ago, three Macbeth-ish "thunder-heads" lay lurking sullenly in the North-west, behind the woods, and grimly growled at the Sunshine they meant to "put out." There they lay, three Golden Fleeces, worthy a trio of Jasons; for the Sun was doing what he could, to burnish up their dingy and brazen volumes, till they looked the gorgeous Armorial Bearings of the Storm they were.

A moment since, couchant, now rampant, they have

rolled up almost to the Zenith, and behind them, without rent or wrinkle, trails the dark robe of the Storm. A train, it is shaken out over the trees; a sail, it curves from Heaven to Earth; men-of-war, the dark hulls loom up in the offing. There's a jarring of machinery above, as stately and steadily they

sweep up in the very teeth of the wind. There's a

flashing of carabines athwart their dim decks. There are red lights like battle-lanterns swinging aloft. The

drums beat grummer and grummer "to quarters."

They are rounding to; they are lying broadside to broadside; they have opened ports! One blast from a Bugle! The great shotted guns of the gust roar at each other from deck to deck. The roll of the rain on roof and tree rattles bravely on, the while, and at last the battle is ended. The cloudy craft wear away, all sails set, and what pearly and purple signals they show in the setting sun!

A great Rainbow is bent around the world; the half of the signet-ring of the Almighty, the great Admiral of the Fleet, in token of peace and amity 'twixt Heaven and Earth.

The illusion is melting away. That Bridge of Seven is breaking. The violet has grown dim, the indigo has gone, the blue has faded, the green is gray, the yellow is tarnished, but the red rim holds together still. Dim and dimmer; it is gone, and the woods are all splashed with the shattered Bow. Do you remember, years and years ago, how you looked and looked for the fragments? Haven't you done it within a month? Nay, never deny it; every body has, and so it's a family secret;-ADAM's Family— first name not recollected-and so, who cares who knows it?

"Movements."

THERE are movements-believe it—not due to L comotives, not made by fast horses,' not occurring in Markets,' nor noted by Astronomers, nor caught by Dancers. Movements full of grace and beauty; movements full of wonder and mystery; Voyagers without log-books, Travellers without diaries; movements occurring every day, every where, in the quietest nooks you can think of; even here on the Farm, carved out of the woods with an axe, sculptured with a plough, and lettered with a spade.

PINE LAKE, you know, is just out of sight of the Farm, but wouldn't be, if Summer did not lay out

ever so much" in fringe, about and about it, as if green fringe were every thing, and to be seen, nothing! Well, Pine Lake is gemmed with wee bits of Erinsan Archipelago of LILY leaves riding at anchor; whereon creep petite snakes, of species to me unknown, that wind themselves up like watch-springs, and sun themselves to sleep. Occasionally, a silly tobacco-box of a Turtle assays to make a landing, but