Amid all this come the rich rains of spring.  The affections of a boy grow up with tears to water them; and the year blooms with showers.  But the clouds hover over an April sky timidly, like shadows upon innocence.  The showers come gently, and drop daintily to the earth,—­with now and then a glimpse of sunshine to make the drops bright—­like so many tears of joy.

The rain of winter is cold, and it comes in bitter scuds that blind you; but the rain of April steals upon you coyly, half reluctantly,—­yet lovingly—­like the steps of a bride to the Altar.

It does not gather like the storm-clouds of winter, gray and heavy along the horizon, and creep with subtle and insensible approaches (like age) to the very zenith; but there are a score of white-winged swimmers afloat, that your eye has chased as you lay fatigued with the delicious languor of an April sun;—­nor have you scarce noticed that a little bevy of those floating clouds had grouped together in a sombre company.  But presently you see across the fields the dark gray streaks, stretching like lines of mists from the green bosom of the valley to that spot of sky where the company of clouds is loitering; and with an easy shifting of the helm the fleet of swimmers come drifting over you, and drop their burden into the dancing pools, and make the flowers glisten, and the eaves drip with their crystal bounty.

The cattle linger still, cropping the new-come grass; and childhood laughs joyously at the warm rain, or under the cottage-roof catches with eager ear the patter of its fall.

——­And with that patter on the roof,—­so like to the patter of childish feet,—­my story of boyish dreams shall begin.

I.

Rain in the Garret.

It is an old garret with big brown rafters; and the boards between are stained darkly with the rain-storms of fifty years.  And as the sportive April shower quickens its flood, it seems as if its torrents would come dashing through the shingles upon you, and upon your play.  But it will not; for you know that the old roof is strong, and that it has kept you, and all that love you, for long years from the rain and from the cold; you know that the hardest storms of winter will only make a little oozing leak, that trickles down the brown stains—­like tears.

You love that old garret-roof; and you nestle down under its slope with a sense of its protecting power that no castle-walls can give to your maturer years.  Aye, your heart clings in boyhood to the roof-tree of the old family garret with a grateful affection and an earnest confidence, that the after-years—­whatever may be their successes, or their honors—­can never re-create.  Under the roof-tree of his home the boy feels SAFE:  and where in the whole realm of life, with its bitter toils and its bitterer temptations, will he feel safe again?