The Day it Rained. 
Over the way the robin was calling for rain, 
blit the weather man said, “Fair to-day and to¬ 
morrow,” so in spite of the prognostications of 
the redbreast, the lunch basket was packed, rods, 
reels, creels, rubber boots and such other para¬ 
phernalia as must needs accompany a family 
party on a trout fishing excursion were piled 
in a promiscuous heap on the flo»r. At g o’clock 
a line of yeasty thitnderheads showed above the 
western horizon, but by ten they had sunk sul¬ 
lenly out of sight and we retired secure in the 
prophecy of the Government’s weather man. 
The next morning, May 18, the robin over the 
way was no earlier than we in getting out of 
bed. The line of thunderheads had reappeared 
in the west, and the robin talked of thunder, 
rain, hail, tornadoes—all manner of atmospheric 
disturbances. I hesitated, but Wife said, “It 
will not rain; the weather man knows,” and 
the Little One added her word. “Let’s go, 
Daddie,” said she; “I am sure it won’t rain, 
and if it does we’ll have a good time anyway, 
an’ I waiit to wear my new suit of boy’s clothes.” 
The last argument won me over. We be¬ 
lieve that to fetter a little girl in skirts—or a 
big one either—is the height of folly; so we 
have made for our little girl a loose fitting suit 
of boy’s clothes. This spring we gave her a 
complete rig, rubber boots and all, but stress 
of business had kept me at the desk, so we 
had been unable to get to the woods and she 
had not worn the clothes. 
When I loaded the dunnage into the car¬ 
riage, as a matter of precaution, I tucked a 
large waterproof sheet under the seat. One 
who takes short trips about home cannot add 
a more convenient article to his outfit than one 
of these sheets. Let it be made of common 
cotton sheeting, seven feet wide and sixteen 
feet long. Sew a tape all the way round, at¬ 
taching loops, say every two feet. Waterproof 
it, using any of the standard recipes or better 
yet, get some tent manufacturer to waterproof 
it for you, which he will do for a few cents 
per square foot. I am not in favor of coating 
with oil, for oil rots the material, no matter 
how carefully the work is done. The uses to 
which one will put such a sheet are almost in¬ 
numerable. Try it and see. 
Our destination was a creek seven miles from 
home, a creek which until a short time before 
I did not know contained trout. When a trout 
fisherman learns that his favorite fish are found 
in any stream within reach he is seized by the 
devil of unrest until he can wet his flies in that 
stream. We of Wisconsin are favored mortals, 
for nearly all our creeks contain trout and we 
are always discovering the fish in unlooked-for 
places. We are as jealous of our find as a 
country swain is of his brown-eyed lassie. That 
morning as we drove out of town T hugged my¬ 
self in self-congratulation. Tf the doctor knew, 
if the merchant knew, if the parson knew, but 
they didn’t; not one of them. I, and I alone 
of all the local nimrods knew that X. Creek- 
contained the poetry that swims. Straightway 
I forgot all about the thunderheads and the 
barometric robin. I was “goin’ fishin’.” 
With us May 18 is “Bird Day,” for that day 
marks the high tide of the spring migration. 
Then the warblers, those elusive sweet singers 
of birddom, are everywhere present. Driving 
through a bit of marshland the redwing black¬ 
birds circled about our heads calling continu¬ 
ously. One would know from their liquid notes 
that they are lovers of water and reedy tarns. 
John Burroughs, in writing on fake natural 
history, tells us that the redwings do not nest 
in company, that only one “pair of birds are 
found in a locality.” Now I do not know what 
Mr. Burroughs means by “locality,” but I do 
know that here in Wisconsin we seldom find 
a single pair of birds nesting alone. Last year 
I found seven nests in a little marsh not over 
half a mile long by. a few rods wide. I submit 
that in that locality more than a single pair -if 
redwings had their nests. To my mind few birds 
are more beautiful than the blackbird. Listen 
to his gurgling half-song, “Marsh fo’ me, marsh 
fo’ me.” “Daddy,” said the Little One, “how’d 
he get those red shoulders?” 
How, indeed? A rose-breasted grosbeak next 
claimed our attention. This bird is all too rare 
with us. Last year T saw but a single pair. 
Few handsome birds are handsome singers, but 
the rose-breast is the exception to prove the 
rule. His song is not less striking than his 
dress; once heard it is never forgotten. 
A few rods from our creek the road entered 
an unfenced grove and we drove back among 
the trees so that we were screened from the 
view of any chance passerby. Hardly had the 
carriage wheels ceased to turn when a crash of 
thunder awoke the echoes in the surrounding 
hills and there came a blinding flash of light¬ 
ning. Quickly the horse was freed from the 
buggy and hitched to a tree whose half-born 
leaves offered but little protection. Our tar¬ 
paulin was stretched between two trees and the 
outfit piled beneath. We were none to soon. 
As I was driving the last peg there came a 
flash of lightning, and with it came not rain, 
but hail. Were you ever out with a horse in 
a hail storm? If you have been I need not 
tell you what it is like, and if that experience 
has never been yours 1 need not try. When 
smitten by stinging hail stones even a lazy horse 
is possessed of seven devils of activity. There 
is little that you can do to aid the horse for— 
well, try it. After the hail came rain, a roar¬ 
ing torrent, accompanied by much thunder and 
lightning. The three of us crouched in our 
little shelter and listened. 
The storm passed, the sun came out from 
behind the clouds and we knew that another 
storm was gathering behind the hills which shut 
out the western sky; indeed, we could hear 
the muttering of distant thunder. So, donning 
rubber boots, we began fishing. Wife hooked 
the first fish in a deep hole close up under the 
bank. The fight was pretty, but of short dura¬ 
tion, for the stream was open and the fish at 
a disadvantage. I coaxed a half-pounder out 
from under a curly birch log only to lose him 
in a tangle of brush below. Later I returned, 
hooked and landed my erstwhile victor. When 
one hooks and loses a trout worth while it 
always pays to return in half an hour or so 
and try again. The Little One, afraid of the 
wet, fished from the safe vantage ground of 
logs which everywhere crossed the stream. 
Again as the big rain drops came pattering down 
we ran for the tent, but were soaked before 
we reached it. Comparing notes we found that 
we had six fish to our credit. The rain fell 
COOKING IN THE RAIN. 
