IN THE RAIN 145 



and &quot;brought it together,&quot; as the painters 

 say. 



&quot;Well,&quot; said Jonathan, &quot;woods or open?&quot; 



&quot;Which is the wettest?&quot; 



&quot;Woods.&quot; 



&quot;Then woods.&quot; 



And we plunged in under the big chestnuts, 

 through a mass of witch-hazel and birch. 



Jonathan was quite right. Woods were the 

 wettest. One can hardly fancy anything 

 quite so wet. Solid water, like a river, is not 

 comparable, because it is all in one lump; 

 you know where it is, and you can get out of 

 it when you want to. But here in the woods 

 the water was everywhere, ready to hurl itself 

 upon us, from above, from beside us, from 

 below. Every step, every motion, drew upon 

 us drenching showers of great drops that had 

 been hanging heavily in the leaves ready to 

 break away at a touch. Little streamlets of 

 water ran from the drooping edges of my hat 

 and from my chin, water dashed in my eyes 

 and I blinked it out. 



Jonathan, pausing to hold back a dripping 

 spray of blackberry, heavy with fruit, re 

 marked, &quot;Are n t you getting a little damp?&quot; 



