Perhaps this is the logical way to define words, since human beings hold widely divergent opinions. But there ought to be a special category for spring rain. When the season has worked along to the point where green peas make colorful lines above the garden's brown soil and the rhubarb stalks are a foot high, a spring rain produces magical results. Meadows and sidehills that were predominantly brown suddenly turn green. In perennial borders beneath farm kitchen windows, jonquils lift pennants of gold to the soft, steady rain.
Husbandmen stand in open barn doorways and watch the rain fall to earth.
A spring rain in the city means splashes from speeding wheels and more difficulty in hailing a taxi. But out on the land where men live intimately with the weather, it is a welcome thing. There is no conclusion in Nature's cycle. The times of birth, growth, and rest blend imperceptible into one another. When man's reckoning of time shows the approach of May and a spring rain blesses the country side, he who is attuned to the heart lift of the seasons knows that even as the cold of winter must pass so in due time comes the season of new growth.