"The day is cold and dark and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall;
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary."
LONGFELLOW.
Drip, drip, drip!
Croak, croak, c-r-o-a-k!
Quack-quack, quack-quack!
"Heigho!" grunted Tom Hawkins, as he turned over sleepily in bed. "Is it ever goin' to stop rainin'?"
For some days a steady rain had been falling, soaking the ground. Every gully was a rivulet, and every depression a lake.
"Tom!" cried a feminine voice from an interior room. "Get up!"
"Bother those frogs an' ducks!" muttered the lad, full of sleep in the grey of the early morning. "Like ter choke 'em! waking fler——"
"Tom!" cried a masculine voice, as a hand rattled the door of the lad's bedroom, and a boot gave a drum-like accompaniment on the lower panel. "Git up this minit an' run the cows in, or I'll——"
But Tom had jumped out of bed as nimbly as one of the frogs, between whose croak and his father's bass voice he seemed unable, in his sleepy condition, to discriminate.