“It won’t hurt them,” I replied, “for I have fed them so well that they needn’t go out in the wet for food.”

The clouds gave us a more and more copious downfall as the day advanced, and I sat on the porch, resting and observing with conscious gratitude how beautifully nature was furthering all our labor, and fulfilling our hopes.  This rain would greatly increase the hay-crops for the old horse and the cow; it would carry my vegetables rapidly toward maturity; and, best of all, would soak the raspberry ground so thoroughly that the fruit would be almost safe.  What was true of our little plot was equally so of neighbor Jones’s farm, and thousands of others.  My wife sat with me much of the day, and I truly think that our thoughts were acceptable worship.  By four in the afternoon the western horizon lightened, the clouds soon broke away, and the sun shone out briefly in undiminished splendor, turning the countless raindrops on foliage and grass into gems, literally, of the purest water.  The bird-songs seemed almost ecstatic, and the voices of the children, permitted at last to go out of doors, vied with them in gladness.

“Let July and August—­yes, and bleak January—­bring what they may,” I said to my wife, “nevertheless, this is Eden.”

In spite of the muddy walks, we picked our way around the garden, exclaiming in pleased wonder at the growth made by our vegetable nurslings in a few brief hours, while, across the field, the corn and potato rows showed green, strong outlines.

I found that Brindle in the pasture hadn’t minded the rain, but only appeared the sleeker for it.  When at last I came in to supper, I gave my wife a handful of berries, at which she and the children exclaimed.  I had permitted a dozen plants of each variety of my garden strawberries to bear, that I might get some idea of the fruit.  The blossoms on the other plants had been picked off as soon as they appeared, so that all the strength might go toward forming new plants.  I found that a few of the berries of the two early kinds were ripe, also that the robins had been sampling them.  In size, at least, they seemed wonderful compared with the wild fruit from the field, and I said: 

“There will be lively times for us when we must get a dozen bushels a day, like these, off to Mr. Bogart.”

The children, then, thought it would be the greatest fun in the world.  By the time supper was over, Mr. Jones and Junior appeared, and my neighbor said in hearty good-will: 

“You got your cultivatin’ done in the nick of time, Mr. Durham.  This rain is a good hundred dollars in your pocket and mine, too.”

I soon perceived that our enemies, the weeds, had millions in reserve, and on Monday—­the day after the rain—­with all the children helping, even Mousie part of the time, we went at the garden again.  To Mousie, scarcely an invalid any longer, was given the pleasure of picking the first green peas and shelling them for dinner.  We had long been enjoying the succulent lettuce and the radishes, and now I said to Winnie:  “To-morrow you can begin thinning out the beets, leaving the plants three inches apart.  What you pull up can be cooked as spinach, or ‘greens,’ as country people say.  Our garden will soon enable us to live like princes.”