Late in the afternoon, there was a sunny shower,
which came down so like a benediction that it seemed ungrateful to take
shelter in the cabin or to put up an umbrella. Then there was a rainbow,
or a large segment of one, so exceedingly brilliant and of such long
endurance that I almost fancied it was stained into the sky, and would
continue there permanently. And there were clouds floating all about,--
great clouds and small, of all glorious and lovely hues (save that
imperial crimson which was revealed to our united gaze),--so glorious
indeed, and so lovely, that I had a fantasy of heaven's being broken into
fleecy fragments and dispersed through space, with its blest inhabitants
dwelling blissfully upon those scattered islands.
February 7th, 1840.--What beautiful weather this is!--beautiful, at
least, so far as sun, sky, and atmosphere are concerned, though a poor,
wingless biped is sometimes constrained to wish that he could raise
himself a little above the earth. How much mud and mire, how many pools
of unclean water, how many slippery footsteps, and perchance heavy
tumbles, might be avoided, if we could tread but six inches above the
crust of this world.
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