For three consecutive mornings of a certain month of May not far distant, Blanch and I had opened our diaries to write, "Wind E. N. E."
Every body knows what that means in Boston. It means chill and grayness and drizzle; it means melancholy-shining sidewalks and puddles à surprise just where the foot is most confidingly planted; it means water dripping over gutters, flowing frothily from spouts, and squishing from shoes of poor folks at every step they take; it means draggled skirts, and cross looks, and influenza, and bronchitis, and a disposition to believe in the total depravity of inanimate things.
Yes; but also it means an effervescence of spirit in those rare souls, like incarnate sunshine, kindred in some sort of "Epictetus, a slave, maimed in body, an Irus in poverty, and favored by the immortals."
But—three whole days of drizzle!
On the first day, Blanch and I glanced approvingly skyward, and said, "A fine rain!" then went about that inevitable clearing out of drawers and closets and reading of old letters, which a rainy day suggests to the feminine mind.
On the second morning, we donned water-proofs and over-shoes, and boldly sallied forth, coming in later breathless, glowing, drenched, and with our hair curled up into kinks. Then, subsiding a little, we drew down the crimson curtains, lighted a fire, lighted the gas, and, shutting ourselves into that rosy cloister, read till we were sleepy.
But sometimes water looks a great deal wetter than it does at other times; and on the third morning it looked very wet indeed. The damp, easterly gloom entered between our eyelids and penetrated to our souls. We struck our colors. Like the Sybarite who got a pain in his back from seeing some men at work in the field, we shivered in sympathy with every passing wretch.
That prince of blunderers, Sir Boyle Roche, used to say that the best way to avoid danger is to meet it plumb. Acting on that principle, Blanch and I took each a chair and a window, and, seating ourselves, stared silently in the face of the enemy.
After an hour or so, I began to feel the benefit of the baronet's prescription.
"Blanch," said I, brightening, "let's go on a lark down to Maine, to the northern part of Hancock County, to a place I know."