Many leaves of the cultivated cherry are turned yellow, and a very few leaves of the elm have fallen,—the dead or prematurely ripe. The abundant and repeated rains since this month came in have made the last fortnight and more seem like a rainy season in the tropics,—warm, still copious rains falling straight down, contrasting with the cold, driving spring rains. Now again I am caught in a heavy shower in Moore’s pitch pines on edge of Great Fields, and am obliged to stand crouching tinder my umbrella till the drops turn to streams, which find their way through my umbrella . . .