Schmidt is left alone at the dam, the rain that sounded so dismal at
dawn proves to be a benefactor after all. There will be no woodsplitting
today, no outdoor chores - for if it's too wet to go fishing, as mother
insists, of course it's too wet to carry wood, or weed gardens or pick
cucumbers for pickles. The logic is so obvious and conclusive that even
mother does not press the point when you remind her of it - and you are
free for a whole day in the attic.

Instantly the blessing is manifest - the sadness of that day-break drip,
drip, drip is healed - the whole character of the day is changed, and
the rain-melody becomes not a funeral-march but a dance.

The attic is the place of all places you would most love to be on this
particular calendar day!

How stupid to spoil a perfectly good Saturday by sitting on a hard beam,
with wet spray blowing in your face all the time, and getting all tired
out holding a heavy fish-pole, when here is the attic waiting for you
with its mysterious dark corners, its scurrying mice that suddenly
develop into lions for your bow-and-arrow hunting, and its maneuvers on
the broad field of its floor with yourself as the drum-corps and your
companions as the army equipped with wooden swords and paper helmets!

-

The day has been rich in adventure, and exploration, and the doing of
great deeds.

And it has been all too short, for the attic is growing dim, and mother
is again calling us - telling us to send our little playmates home and