Philippe felt guilty, and was about to apologize when Grandmother Rain put him at rest. “That is not quite true. There are others,” she said, “who do a good deal of complaining about me; they say that I am an old spoil-sport just because I try to make myself pleasant at their parties and picnics. But if I were to leave them forever——” she made an odd little gesture of despair. “Would you like me to sing you a song?” she asked unexpectedly. “It might serve to pass the time.” “Please,” said Philippe, who was getting a bit tired of floating aimlessly and never arriving anywhere. “Very well.” And this is what she sang: _GRANDMOTHER RAIN’S SONG_ _“Pitapat, pitapat, drip, drip, drip— Pitapat, pitapat, slip, slip, slip, Over roofs and windows, over garden walls, Over fields and meadows—the gray rain falls!_ “I fall upon the countryside, upon the city square; I tap the silk umbrellas that are opened everywhere; I wash away the dirt and dust that cloud the flower’s face; I fall on royal palaces, and in the market place—— For no one is too regal, and no one is too low To receive the crystal blessing that I scatter as I go. I freshen up the thirsty world, and make it clean and green, The grass grows tall, and flowers bloom wherever I have been. Although I lie in gutters, and slip through hole and crack, And sometimes have my little joke by running down your back, I make small children happy, for on me they may float Their shiny bright, their red and white, their little new toy boat. So think not that because I fall like tears I may be sad: The sparkle in each drop of me is proof that I am glad! “_Pitapat, pitapat, drip, drip, drip— Pitapat, pita——_ “Ah! _There_ he comes!” cried Grandmother Rain excitedly, forgetting to finish her song. “Who?” asked Philippe, curious, like most boys. “Who indeed?” replied Grandmother. “Look up the shore. Now we will have some sport!” Philippe did as he was told, and saw a small figure hurrying toward them at a great pace. As the figure drew nearer, he saw that it was Uncle Pablôt, running along the edge of the water and stirring it to frenzy. “Hold tight!” warned Grandmother from her tub. Philippe needed no warning, for as Uncle Pablôt drew opposite to them, waves broke the smooth surface of the river and tossed his little crib about like a cockle shell. He could see, as he was twisted about, that the rising waves were creeping over the edge of Grandmother Rain’s tub and swamping it—it was sinking lower and lower. “Be careful, Grandmother!” he cried frantically.