All Spring it rained to beat the band, and o’er the saturated land, the
water stood in pools; old Pluvius, who runs the rain, it seemed, had
water on the brain, and busted all the rules.
The farmers had to sail in boats when they went forth to feed their
shotes, their ostriches and cows, and when they went to sow their beans
they had to go in submarines, they couldn’t use their plows.
And in the cities things were worse, and gloomy as a country hearse was
nearly every face; men stood around in dripping crowds, and viewed the
stretch of leaking clouds, and called them a disgrace.
Contractors, when they called on Hoar, who runs the corner lumber
store, would make an awful fuss; “this is the blinkest, blankest
Spring! We cannot do a doggone thing! It’s getting wuss and wuss! It
keeps on raining all day long, the mud goes through to old Hong Kong,
it will not dry till fall; unless the gods give us a show, out to the
poorfarm we must go, our families and all!”
But Hoar, the cheerful lumberman, is one who always ties a can to every
gloomy thing; his optimism then he voiced, as he wrapped up a big oak
joist, and tied it with a string.
“The rain,” he said, “is coming yet, and I admit it’s pretty wet, in
fact it’s almost damp; but you should hail it with delight, and shoo
your troubles out of sight, and bid your griefs decamp. The ground is
soaked clear through, you say, down to the center of Cathay, and that
is joyous news; it means good crops for sundry years, so it’s a sin to
sprinkle tears, or languish in the blues. The moisture stored in yonder
soil will make our divers kettles boil, and bring us coin galore;
you’ll have more palaces to build because the air with rain is filled,
so please cut out the roar.”
The man who sees the good in things, who chirps around and smiles and
sings, and chortles by the year, not only boosts his private trade, but
sees the ghosts of others laid--the ghosts of doubt and fear.