“I say, you boy, it always rains here, doesn’t it?--or ‘whiles snaws’--as the aborigines say. You’re a native, ar’nt you? When do you think the rain will go off?--do you ever have any fine weather here? I don’t see the good of a fine country when it rains for ever and ever! What do you do with yourselves, you people, all the year round in such a melancholy place?” “You see we know no better”--said the farmer of Ramore, who came in at this moment to the porch of his house, where the young gentleman was standing, confronted by young Colin, who would have exploded in boyish rage before now, if he had not been restrained by the knowledge that his mother was within hearing--“and, wet or dry, the…
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