nights, too, it had rained--"rained pitchforks." That is what Father
said, but Marmaduke could see nothing but prongs. There were thousands
of them, coming down through the air. _Where_ were the handles?
He looked a long time, thinking that perhaps they had gotten loose
from the prongs and would come down afterwards, but never a handle
came.

They must be having haying time, the folks in the sky, to use so many
forks, he decided, and the sun must be shining for them, way up above
the clouds, or they wouldn't have haying weather. But maybe, after
all, it was wet there, too, and they had just grown disgusted, and
were throwing their forks away, every last one of them.

Yes, it was pretty lonesome and dull, staying in the house like this.
To be sure, once in a while, when the rain slackened a little and the
pitchforks didn't come down so fast, he could put on his rubber boots
and go out to the barn. But for most of the time he had been a
prisoner--in jail.

He looked out at the Pond. So much water had fallen in it that it was
swelling up like a pouter pigeon, or like the bowl that held the
Chinese Lily, when he dropped pebbles in it.

My, how Duckie the Stepchild must like this weather! There he was now,
and his father and his mother and all his relatives. All just letting
the water run off their backs and having a grand time. But Father
Wyandotte and all his family were sticking pretty close to the coops.
Funny how ducks liked water and chickens didn't, all but the Gold
Rooster on the top of the barn. _He_ never seemed to mind it a
bit. Marmaduke looked for him up in the sky, but he was almost hidden