A Double Story

A DOUBLE STORY

I.

There was a certain country where things used to go rather oddly. For instance,you could never tell whether it was going to rain or hail, or whether or notthe milk was going to turn sour. It was impossible to say whether the next babywould be a boy, or a girl, or even, after he was a week old, whether he wouldwake sweet-tempered or cross.

In strict accordance with the peculiar nature of this country of uncertainties,it came to pass one day, that in the midst of a shower of rain that might wellbe called golden, seeing the sun, shining as it fell, turned all its drops intomolten topazes, and every drop was good for a grain of golden corn, or a yellowcowslip, or a buttercup, or a dandelion at least;—while this splendidrain was falling, I say, with a musical patter upon the great leaves of thehorse-chestnuts, which hung like Vandyke collars about the necks of the creamy,red-spotted blossoms, and on the leaves of the sycamores, looking as if theyhad blood in their veins, and on a multitude of flowers, of which some stood upand boldly held out their cups to catch their share, while others cowered down,laughing, under the soft patting blows of the heavy warm drops;—whilethis lovely rain was washing all the air clean from the motes, and the badodors, and the poison-seeds that had escaped from their prisons during the longdrought;—while it fell, splashing and sparkling, with a hum, and a rush,and a soft clashing—but stop! I am stealing, I find, and not that only,but with clumsy hands spoiling what I steal:—

“O Rain! with your dull twofold sound,
The clash hard by, and the murmur all round:”

—there! take it, Mr. Coleridge;—while, as I was saying, the lovelylittle rivers whose fountains are the clouds, and which cut their own channelsthrough the air, and make sweet noises rubbing against their banks as theyhurry down and down, until at length they are pulled up on a sudden, with amusical plash, in the very heart of an odorous flower, that first gasps andthen sighs up a blissful scent, or on the bald head of a stone that never says,Thank you;—while the very sheep felt it blessing them, though it couldnever reach their skins through the depth of their long wool, and the veriesthedgehog—I mean the one

BU KİTABI OKUMAK İÇİN ÜYE OLUN VEYA GİRİŞ YAPIN!

Sitemize Üyelik ÜCRETSİZDİR!