ted the paper--and you ran."

The fact was, as I very well knew, Jonathan really wanted to go, but he
didn't want to start. When people really enjoy doing a thing, and mean
to do it, and yet won't get going, something has to be done to get them
going. That was why I spoke of tabby-cats.

Jonathan assumed an alert society tone. "I should enjoy a walk very
much, thank you," he said; "the weather seems to me perfect. But," he
added abruptly, "wear woolen; that white thing won't do."

"Of course!" I went off and made myself fit--woolen for warmth, though
the day was not cold, a short khaki skirt, an old felt hat, and old
shoes. Out we went into the drenched world. Whish! A gust of rain in my
eyes half blinded me, and I ran under the big maples. I heard Jonathan
chuckle. "I can't help it," I gasped; "I'll be wet enough in a few
minutes, and then I shan't care."

From the maples I made for the lee of the barn eaves, disturbing the
hens who were sulking there. They stepped ostentatiously out into the
rainy barnyard with an air of pointedly _not_ noticing me, but of
knowing all the time whose fault it was. They weren't liking the
weather, anyhow, the hens weren't, and showed it plainly in the wet,
streaky droop of their feathers and the exasperated look in their red
eyes. "Those hens look as if they thought I could do something about it
if I only would," I said to Jonathan as we passed them.

"Yes, they aren't a cordial crowd. Here, we'll show them how to take
weather!"

We were passing under an apple tree; Jonathan seized a drooping bough,
and a sheet of water shook itself out on our shoulders. I gasped and
ducked, and a hen who stood too near scuttered off with low duckings of
indignation.

"Now you're really wet, you can enjoy yourself," said Jonathan; and
there was something in it, though I was loath to admit it at the moment.
A moment before I had felt rather appalled at the sight of the
rain-swept lane; now I hastened on recklessly.

"I think," said Jonathan, "it's the back of my neck that counts. After
that's wet I don't care what happens."

"Yes," I agreed, "that's a stronghold. But I think with me it's my
shoulders."

It did not really matter which it was; neck and shoulders both were
wet,--back, arms, everything. We tramped down across the hollow, over
the brook, whose flood was backing up into the swamp on each side. I
paused to look off across the huckleberry hillside beyond.

"How the rain changes eve