Don't be
uneasy. I shan't go popping into the water the minute your back's
turned. What was it you said early this morning about sniffing rain
in the air?"
"Thunderstorms today, sure as my name's Brown. Been threatening
rain for nearly a week. Got to come some time, and I figure today's--"
"Threats are all we get," growled the young man peevishly. "Lord,
I never dreamed I could get so sick of white skies and what you call
fresh air. You farmers go to bed every night praying for rain, and
you get up in the morning still praying, and what's the result?
Nothing except a whiter sky than the day before, and a greater
shortage of fresh air. Don't talk to me about country air and
country sunshine and country quiet. My God, it never was so hot
and stifling as this in New York, and as for peace and quiet,--why,
those rotten birds in the trees around the house make more noise
than the elevated trains at the rush hour, and the rotten roosters
begin crowing just about the time I'm going to sleep, and the
dogs bark, and the cows,--the cows do whatever cows do to make a
noise,--and then the crows begin to yawp. And all night long the
katydids keep up their beastly racket, and the frogs in the pond
back of the barns,--my God, man, the city is as silent as the grave
compared to what you get in the country."
"I manage to sleep through it all," said the old man drily.
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