Things do go so contrary-like with me. I wanted to hit upon anespecially novel, out-of-the-way subject for one of these articles.

"I will write one paper about something altogether new," I said tomyself; "something that nobody else has ever written or talked aboutbefore; and then I can have it all my own way." And I went about fordays, trying to think of something of this kind; and I couldn't. AndMrs. Cutting, our charwoman, came yesterday--I don't mind mentioningher name, because I know she will not see this book. She would notlook at such a frivolous publication. She never reads anything butthe Bible and _Lloyd's Weekly News_. All other literature sheconsiders unnecessary and sinful.

She said: "Lor', sir, you do look worried."I said: "Mrs. Cutting, I am trying to think of a subject thediscussion of which will come upon the world in the nature of astartler--some subject upon which no previous human being has eversaid a word--some subject that will attract by its novelty, invigorateby its surprising freshness."She laughed and said I was a funny gentleman.

That's my luck again. When I make serious observations peoplechuckle; when I attempt a joke nobody sees it. I had a beautiful onelast week. I thought it so good, and I worked it up and brought it inartfully at a dinner-party. I forget how exactly, but we had beentalking about the attitude of Shakespeare toward the Reformation, andI said something and immediately added, "Ah, that reminds me; such afunny thing happened the other day in Whitechapel." "Oh," said they,"what was that?" "Oh, 'twas awfully funny," I replied, beginning togiggle myself; "it will make you roar;" and I told it them.

There was dead silence when I finished--it was one of those longjokes, too--and then, at last, somebody said: "And that was thejoke?"I assured them that it was, and they were very polite and took my wordfor it. All but one old gentleman at the other end of the table, whowanted to know which was the joke--what he said to her or what shesaid to him; and we argued it out.

Some people are too much the other way. I knew a fellow once whosenatural tendency to laugh at everything was so strong that if youwanted to talk seriously to him, you had to explain beforehand thatwhat you were going to say would not be amusing. Unless you got himto clearly understand this, he would go off into fits of merrimentover every word you uttered. I have known him on being asked the timestop short in the middle of the road, slap his leg, and burst into aroar of laughter. One never dared say anything really funny to thatman. A good joke would have killed him on the spot.

In the present instance I vehemently repudiated the accusation offrivolity, and pressed Mrs. Cutting for practical ideas. She thenbecame thoughtful and hazarded "samplers;" saying that she never heardthem spoken much of now, but that they used to be all the rage whenshe was a girl.

I declined samplers and begged her to think again. She pondered along while, with a tea-tray in her hands, and at last suggested theweather, which she was sure had been most trying of late.

And ever since that idiotic suggestion I have been unable to get theweather out of my thoughts or anything else in.

It certainly is most wretched weather. At all events it is so now atthe time I am writing, and if it isn't particularly unpleasant when Icome to be read it soon will be.

It always is wretched weather according to us. The weather is likethe government--always in the wrong. In summer-time we say it isstifling; in winter that it is killing; in spring and autumn we findfault with it for being neither one thing nor the other and wish itwould make up its mind. If it is fine we say the country is beingruined for want of rain; if it does rain we pray for fine weather. IfDecember passes without snow, we indignantly demand to know what hasbecome of our good old-fashioned winters, and talk as if we had beencheated out of something we had bought and paid for; and when it doessnow, our language is a disgrace to a Christian nation. We shallnever be content until each man makes his own weather and keeps it tohimself.

If that cannot be arranged, we would rather do without it altogether.

Yet I think it is only to us in cities that all weather is sounwelcome. In her own home, the country, Nature is sweet in all hermoods. What can be more beautiful than the snow, falling big withmystery in silent softness, decking the fields and trees with white asif for a fairy wedding! And how delightful is a walk when the frozenground rings beneath our swinging tread--when our blood tingles in therare keen air, and the sheep-dogs' distant bark and children'slaughter peals faintly clear like Alpine bells across the open hills!

And then skating! scudding with wings of steel across the swaying ice,making whirring music as we fly. And oh, how dainty is spring--Natureat sweet eighteen!

When the little hopeful leaves peep out so fresh and green, so pureand bright, like young lives pushing shyly out into the bustlingworld; when the fruit-tree blossoms, pink and white, like villagemaidens in their Sunday frocks, hide each whitewashed cottage in acloud of fragile splendor; and the cuckoo's note upon the breeze iswafted through the woods! And summer, with its deep dark green anddrowsy hum--when the rain-drops whisper solemn secrets to thelistening leaves and the twilight lingers in the lanes! And autumn!

ah, how sadly fair, with its golden glow and the dying grandeur of itstinted woods--its blood-red sunsets and its ghostly evening mists,with its busy murmur of reapers, and its laden orchards, and thecalling of the gleaners, and the festivals of praise!

The very rain, and sleet, and hail seem only Nature's useful servantswhen found doing their simple duties in the country; and the East Windhimself is nothing worse than a boisterous friend when we meet himbetween the hedge-rows.

But in the city where the painted stucco blisters under the smoky sun,and the sooty rain brings slush and mud, and the snow lies piled indirty heaps, and the chill blasts whistle down dingy streets andshriek round flaring gas lit corners, no face of Nature charms us.

Weather in towns is like a skylark in a counting-house--out of placeand in the way. Towns ought to be covered in, warmed by hot-waterpipes, and lighted by electricity. The weather is a country lass anddoes not appear to advantage in town. We liked well enough to flirtwith her in the hay-field, but she does not seem so fascinating whenwe meet her in Pall Mall. There is too much of her there. The frank,free laugh and hearty voice that sounded so pleasant in the dairy jarsagainst the artificiality of town-bred life, and her ways becomeexceedingly trying.

Just lately she has been favoring us with almost incessant rain forabout three weeks; and I am a demned damp, moist, unpleasant body, asMr. Mantalini puts it.

Our next-door neighbor comes out in the back garden every now and thenand says it's doing the country a world of good--not his coming outinto the back garden, but the weather. He doesn't understand anythingabout it, but ever since he started a cucumber-frame last summer hehas regarded himself in the light of an agriculturist, and talks inthis absurd way with the idea of impressing the rest of the terracewith the notion that he is a retired farmer. I can only hope that forthis once he is correct, and that the weather really is doing good tosomething, because it is doing me a considerable amount of damage. Itis spoiling both my clothes and my temper. The latter I can afford,as I have a good supply of it, but it wounds me to the quick to see mydear old hats and trousers sinking, prematurely worn and aged, beneaththe cold world's blasts and snows.

There is my new spring suit, too. A beautiful suit it was, and now itis hanging up so bespattered with mud I can't bear to look at it.

That was Jim's fault, that was. I should never have gone out in itthat night if it had not been for him. I was just trying it on whenhe came in. He threw up his arms with a wild yell the moment becaught sight of it, and exclaimed that he had "got 'em again!"I said: "Does it fit all right behind?""Spiffin, old man," he replied. And then he wanted to know if I wascoming out.

I said "no" at first, but he overruled me. He said that a man with asuit like that bad no right to stop indoors. "Every citizen," saidhe, "owes a duty to the public. Each one should contribute to thegeneral happiness as far as lies in his power. Come out and give thegirls a treat."Jim is slangy. I don't know where he picks it up. It certainly isnot from meI said: "Do you think it will reall............