for me Somewhere. 

  

  

       WET WEATHER TALK.     

   It ain't no use to grumble and complain; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice:   When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y, rain's my choice. Men giner'ly, to all intents—     Although they're ap' to grumble some—   Puts most their trust in Providence, And takes things as they come;—       That is, the commonality Of men that's lived as long as me, Has watched the world enough to learn They're not the boss of the concern. With some, of course, it's different—     I've seed young men that knowed it all, And didn't like the way things went On this terrestial ball! But, all the same, the rain some way Rained jest as hard on picnic-day; Er when they railly wanted it, It maybe wouldn't rain a bit! In this existence, dry and wet Will overtake the best of men—   Some little skift o' clouds'll shet The sun off now and then; But maybe, while you're wondern' who You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to, And want it—out'll pop the sun, And you'll be glad you ain't got none! It aggervates the farmers, too—     They's too much wet, er too much sun, Er work, er waiting round to do Before the plowin''s done; And maybe, like as not, the wheat, Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat, Will ketch the storm—and jest about The time the corn 's a-jintin' out! These here cy-clones a-foolin' round—     And back'ard crops—and wind and rain, And yit the corn that's wallered down May elbow up again! They ain't no sense, as I kin see, In mortals, sich as you and me, A-faultin' Nature's wise intents, And lockin' horns with Providence! It ain't no use to grumble and complain; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice:   When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,         W'y, rain's my choice. 

  

  

       WHERE SHALL WE LAND.     

   "Where shall we land you, sweet?"—Swinburne. 

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