'Shepherd or no shepherd,' persisted the girl,—'rain or shine—rheumatism or not—this day fortnight, or you will take the consequence.'
'I suppose I must manage it,' quoth the unfortunate young man. 'Do you remember your Ivanhoe: "Gurth, the son of Beowulf, is the born thrall of Cedric of Rotherwood"? Seems to me that villenage is not extinct, even in this colonial and democratic community.'
'And a very good thing too,' retorts this haughty, undisciplined damsel. 'The feudal system had an amazing deal of good about it. I don't see why we shouldn't revive it out here.'
'Looks rather it at present!' grumbled Harold. 'Good-bye, Mrs. Devereux. Fortunately the rain's general, so we can stand a good deal of oppression and intimidation.'
'In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love,'
sang the laureate. And the parallel is sound. Of course it always rains in spring in England.
But suppose it didn't—as in Australia? He would find that things went differently. The 'wanton lapwing' would not get himself another crest, and the poet would have to furnish himself with another example.
In the absence of rain we can assure our readers that things are much otherwise, even with the dumb and feathered tribes. The wild-fowl do come down in a serious, philosophical sort of way. But what they do in effect is this:—
They say—'We have ciphered this thing out, and have come to the conclusion that it is not going to rain, that it will be a dry spring. That being the case, we are not going to pair, or build, or lay eggs, or going through the ordinary foolishness, in anticipation of rain and certain other adjuncts to matrimony, which will not come.