There are steadfast friends, the same today and the same tomorrow, enduring, unchangeable. And there are the other kind—as good, maybe, in the long run, but hard to put up with. Mean and uppity, a chip on their shoulder, one day, and so good and friendly that butter wouldn't melt in their mouth, the next. Good friends, proved so, but difficult. The world and the weather belong to these.
For instance, here was snow piled as high as houses, here was cold-hearted wind, an uppity moon, a sulky sun, for days, and weeks. Here was sickness smelling horribly, death, grief, despair, for what seemed too long to stand. And what happened? You know what happened as well as I do. All of a sudden the sky softened deliciously into baby blue and baby pink. The birds blew in tuneful and loud and settled down to stay, letting bygones be bygones. Branches of green reached down to pat the hatless head, shake the hand, grasses reared up with the flattery of a cat around the knee. The moon turned into a cooing pigeon, the sun to somebody that would give you his last sou, his bottom dollar, without a scratch of the pen and no security.
— From The Peaceable Kingdom