THERE is a drought and it has lasted for weeks past: the earth has cried for rain, the earth is burnt up, the flowers are withered, the forest trees hang their leaves, the cattle are dying, the, birds perish for lack of moisture, and the bees follow in the gardener’s steps to lave their wings where he waters his drooping flowers. But there is hope in the heavens. The wind has arisen, it drives the loose clouds across the sky. How we all look to those clouds―those clouds dark and laden with that for which we long. Ah! they are clouds without water, vain promises, deceivers, like the Christless Christian―mere show. In them is no blessing.