I like the sound of music, birds, and the wind, but the sweetest sound I have ever heard is the sound of rain. I listen to the rain falling on the roof and it calms my troubled heart. It helps me to forget my failures, my fears, and my resentments in my moments of depression. In my moments of happiness the falling rain enhances my pleasure. In my moments of in between, which is generally, the rain lends itself to my melancholy pensive mood of sad happiness and happy sadness.

The rain is so cheerful and yet seemingly so sad. It does make everything so fresh, the air, the grass, the flowers, and the very world itself. And that wonderful, rich, harmonious sound the rain makes when it taps its sweet tones on everything around, the ground, an old tin bucket, a puddle of water, never ceases to delight me.

I listen to the rain with somewhat the same reverence I listen to a prayer being said, or a beautiful ancient song being sung. In the night especially the rain sings melodious songs to my soul. Contentment comes to me when I listen to the rain, though it is often mingled with a sad regret, or a sense of having lost something exquisite.

There is something romantic, mystical, serene, and beautiful about the falling rain. When the rain falls one becomes enraptured by the ageless sound.

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The Smell Of The Rain

I love the smell of the rain,
the fresh, clean smell of the rain,
The wonderful scent of the rain laden air,
Wafted by the rushing wind so fair.

As I hear the torrent flow by,
And the sound of thunder on high,
I take in a breath of the storm,
And feel wonder at its awesome form.

From youthful memories I recall,
As a child taking in it all,
And still I love the smell of the rain,
the fresh, clean smell of the rain.

A glance at the trees, and then at the grass, a glance at the flowers in May and the bird of blue, and there is no beginning or end. Change stops at the edge of the woods. Modernization creeps no farther. They cannot stop the wild grape from twining, or rob the seasons of their charm.

The bulldozers crush and devastate, but the grass peeks through when they are gone. I walk beneath the old sun again as the twigs are all decked in their green finery, and the sky is a replendent blue. I feel the tender caresses of the wind, and hear the hum and silence as to my mind comes a flicker of happiness.

Labor improves the spirit. It wears us down and wrings us out until we haven't anything left that is vile or vicious. Hard work gives us humility rather than vanity, and honest pride rather than conceit. The person who gives himself to tiresome, arduous, and often monotonous labor becomes a little less selfish, for labor is a form of self-sacrifice.

A person must deny himself, his time, his energy, and his pleasures to perform that great oblation, work. The person who comes home at night weary, and gladly flops into bed has paid his debt to society and to himself.

Work heals our wounds, while idleness only aggravates them more. Productive hours pass smoothly, while unproductive hours clog and grind by. Labor is the key in the lock which opens all of life's doors, while for absence of labor all doors remain locked. It is in lifting our load, and tugging at our task where all the honor and happiness lies.

Time races far too fast to suit me. I like to contemplate, but while I am contemplating two or three years pass-a lifetime passes away. I contemplate about life, beauty, truth, goodness, God, the essence of being, wildflowers, kittens, or the sounds in a forgotten valley. I contemplate the stars, the wonders of the universe, the butterflies, the snowflakes, and suddenly I have grown older, much older. Why can't time stop a little while? Why can't time stop and rest awhile? Where is it going so fast? Why is our being locked in time's power?

I hear a blue jay in a nearby tree proclaiming loudly that he is there. The jay crows at the sun, and a happy fellow he seems bathed in the bright morning light. On and on he sings at the top of his lungs-sings, "'tis a glorious day". Across the sky he flies singing even then.

I hear the wind rising and falling, stirring the leaves, and gently flooding my brow with coolness. A momentary silence then, neither jay nor wind, as there is a pause like between heartbeats or between breaths. Now jay and wind both resound with new vigor as if refreshed by their respite.

It is a peaceful day of quiet and simple joys, a kind and gentle day in this place at this time. No ill wind blows this day, and no bird of prey is about for it is a day of innocence as love rules the hour. I wish all days were such as it would make living a simple task, and life seem blessed. The jay is singing once more in even more pleasant mood. His object no doubt is to grant me peaceful thoughts.

I surveyed the various patterns the sunlight made as it filtered through the treetops, and flickered here and there on the ferns and dead leaves that made up the forest floor. The air was damp, and smelled of decayed leaves and wood. It was pleasant there, though an unpleasant member of that realm, a mosquito buzzed about my face. A daddy-longlegs spider shuffled through the leaves at my feet, and then ventured to crawl up my pant's leg. After flicking him off with my finger, I leaned my head back against the rough bark of the tree.

I closed my eyes and listened to the soft whispering of the wind rustling the treetops, and listened to the faint, but steady hum of insects buzzing in those woods. I heard various birds singing in the distance. It was late afternoon with white clouds hanging lazily in the sky, and though it was not yet fall, it was late summer and the leaves had already begun to fall.

Slowly it became darker in that deep valley as the sunlight shone only on the tops of the trees, and barely peeked from the hillside in front of me. I was witness to an ancient scene that generations of my ancestors before me had witnessed.

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