(Must they go on griping about all their rain, people in California would vote Republican for rain like that, can’t they think about anything else?)  It goes on raining here, well, not actually, yesterday it cleared off in the afternoon and today the sun shone and the milking parlor was a sauna.  The box fan that is intended to give the cows some relief from the flies, and, incidentally, to cool me off while I am milking, was sitting on a bench too high for any of the moving air to pass under whichever cow is in the stanchion, and the bars of sunlight falling through the spaces between the shrunken boards of the barn door lay on my skin like hot, wet fur.  Sweat drips.  No other preliminary could give quite so delicious a savor to the breeze that lifts wet hair from our foreheads on the walk down the cows’ lane to the spring tank, and beyond through the black-locust copse to where a new paddock is already set up for the evening grazing; and the sound of the wind like surf in the trees makes us wonder what we would do, what think, if ever we had to give up this outdoor existence and go back to town life.