is even worse, allegorical, and as these are tendencies to be fought
against as long as possible, I'll go into the garden and play with the
babies, who at this moment are sitting in a row on the buttercups,
singing what appear to be selections from popular airs.



June


June 3rd.--The Man of Wrath, I observe, is laying traps for me and being
deep. He has prophesied that I will find solitude intolerable, and he is
naturally desirous that his prophecy should be fulfilled. He knows that
continuous rain depresses me, and he is awaiting a spell of it to bring
me to a confession that I was wrong after all, whereupon he will make
that remark so precious to the married heart, "My dear, I told you so."
He begins the day by tapping the barometer, looking at the sky, and
shaking his head. If there are any clouds he remarks that they are
coming up, and if there are none he says it is too fine to last. He has
even gone the length once or twice of starting off to the farm on hot,
sunny mornings in his mackintosh, in order to impress on me beyond all
doubt that the weather is breaking up. He studiously keeps out of my way
all day, so that I may have every opportunity of being bored as quickly
as possible, and in the evenings he retires to his den directly after
dinner, muttering something about letters. When he has finally
disappeared, I go out to the stars and laugh at his transparent wiles.

But how would it be if we did have a spell of wet weather? I do not
quite know. As long as it is fine, rainy days in the future do not seem
so very terrible, and one, or even two really wet ones are quite