Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/80



Drip, drip, drip! It tinkles on the fly— The pitiless outpouring of an overburdened sky: Each drooping frond of pine has got a jewel at its tip— First a twinkle, then a sprinkle, and a drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip! They must be shearing up on high. Can't you see the snowy fleeces that are rolling, rolling by? How many bales, I wonder, are they branding to the clip? P'r'aps the Boss is keeping tally with this drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip! while the sodden branches sigh: The jovial jackass dare not laugh for fear that he should cry: The merry magpie's melody is frozen on his lip; He glowers at the showers, with their drip, drip, drip.