“Certainly you wouldn’t go in such a storm?”
“Yes I would: I don’t care for the storm!”
Such was the reply of Frederic, and nothing could be said by his father or mother, to pacify him or little Philip. They both became sulky, and were sent out of the room. Cherry now came to them, and began to talk in her cheerful way with them.
“Why, what’s the matter now?”
“We want to go to Chelsea Beach; father promised to take us there,” said Frederic.
“Yes,” said Cherry; “he promised to take us, but it was under the idea that it would be pleasant weather. I am as sorry as you are not to go. I wished very much to pick up some shells along the beach; and to see the blue ocean; and to observe the white gulls, skimming and screaming over the water; and to watch the vessels, with white sails, gliding by in the distance. I love the ocean, and every time I see it, it makes my heart beat, as if I had met some dear friend, whom I had not seen for a long time.”
“And so do I love the ocean, and wish this dirty rain had kept away,” said Frederic, with a very sour face.
“And so do I love the ocean, and the rain is very naughty!” said Philip, in the same temper as his brother; for it is to be observed that one child is very apt to reflect the feelings of another.
“Well, well!” said Cherry; “you may call the rain all the hard names you please: you cannot mend the matter. The rain does not come or go at your bidding. Do you know who makes the rain, Frederic?”
“Yes, God makes it,” was the answer.