e bark of the birch logs in the fireplace.
This flue of the chimney is almost vertical, with a slant to the
southward, and I have always liked the way it lets in samples of the
weather--a patch of yellow sunshine on clear days, a blur of soft white
light on gray ones, and on stormy ones flicks of rain to make the fire
sputter, or, as on this particular day, to dampen our kindling if it has
been laid ready to light.

The belated postman's buggy, with presumably a postman inside it
somewhere behind the sheathing of black rubber, drove up, our mail-box
grated open and shut, and the streaming horse sloshed on. Jonathan
turned up his collar and dashed out to the box, and dashed in again,
bringing with him a great gust of rainy sweetness and the smell of wet
woolen.

"Jonathan," I said, "let's take a walk."

He was unfolding the damp newspaper carefully so as not to tear it.
"What's that? Walk?"

"That's what I said."

He had his paper open by this time, and was glancing at the headlines.
When a man is glancing at headlines, it is just as well to let him
glance. I gave him fifteen minutes. Then I reopened the matter.

"Jonathan, I said walk."

"What's that?" His tone was vague. It was what I call his newspaper
tone. It suggests extreme remoteness, but tolerance, even benevolence,
if he is let alone. He drifted slowly over to the window and made a
pretense of looking out, but his eyes were still running down the
columns. "My dear," he remarked, still in the same tone, "had you
noticed that it is beginning to rain?"

"I noticed that yesterday afternoon, about three o'clock," I said.

"Oh, all right. I thought perhaps you hadn't."

"Well?" I waited.

"Well--" he hung fire while he finished the tail of the editorial. Then
he threw down the paper. "Don't you think it's rather poor weather for
walking?"

This was what I had been waiting for, and I responded glibly, "Some one
has said there is no such thing as bad weather, there are only good
clothes."

"Do you mean mine?" He grinned down at his farm regimentals.

"Well, then--"

"Why, of course, if you really mean it," he said, and added, as he
looked out reflectively at the puddling road, "You'll get your hair
wet."

"Hope so! Now, Jonathan, aren't you silly, really? Anybody would think
we'd never been for a walk in the rain before in our lives. Perhaps
you'd rather stay indoors and be a tabby-cat and keep dry."

"Who got the mail?"

"You did. But you wan