See him sail along in the joy and pride of his power till he gets to New England, and then see his tail drop.  He doesn’t know what the weather is going to be in New England.  Well, he mulls over it, and by and-by he gets out something about like this:  Probably northeast to southwest winds, varying to the southward and westward and eastward, and points between, high and low barometer swapping around from place to place; probable areas of rain, snow, hail, and drought, succeeded or preceded by earthquakes, with thunder and lightning.  Then he jots down his postscript from his wandering mind, to cover accidents.  “But it is possible that the programme may be wholly changed in the mean time.”  Yes, one of the brightest gems in the New England weather is the dazzling uncertainty of it.  There is only one thing certain about it:  you are certain there is going to be plenty of it—­a perfect grand review; but you never can tell which end of the procession is going to move first.  You fix up for the drought; you leave your umbrella in the house and sally out, and two to one you get drowned.  You make up your mind that the earthquake is due; you stand from under, and take hold of something to steady yourself, and the first thing you know you get struck by lightning.  These are great disappointments; but they can’t be helped.  The lightning there is peculiar; it is so convincing, that when it strikes a thing it doesn’t leave enough of that thing behind for you to tell whether—­Well, you’d think it was something valuable, and a Congressman had been there.  And the thunder.  When the thunder begins to merely tune up and scrape and saw, and key up the instruments for the performance, strangers say, “Why, what awful thunder you have here!” But when the baton is raised and the real concert begins, you’ll find that stranger down in the cellar with his head in the ash-barrel.  Now as to the size of the weather in New England—­lengthways, I mean.  It is utterly disproportioned to the size of that little country.  Half the time, when it is packed as full as it can stick, you will see that New England weather sticking out beyond the edges and projecting around hundreds and hundreds of miles over the neighboring States.  She can’t hold a tenth part of her weather.  You can see cracks all about where she has strained herself trying to do it.  I could speak volumes about the inhuman perversity of the New England weather, but I will give but a single specimen.  I like to hear rain on a tin roof.  So I covered part of my roof with tin, with an eye to that luxury.  Well, sir, do you think it ever rains on that tin?  No, sir; skips it every time.  Mind, in this speech I have been trying merely to do honor to the New England weather—­no language could do it justice.  But, after all, there is at least one or two things about that weather (or, if you please, effects produced by it) which we residents would not like to part with.  If we hadn’t our bewitching