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 wanted the paper--and you ran." The fact was, as I very well knew, Jonathan really wanted to go, but he didn't want to start. When people really enjoy doing a thing, and mean to do it, and yet won't get going, something has to be done to get them going. That was why I spoke of tabby-cats. Jonathan assumed an alert society tone. "I should enjoy a walk very much, thank you," he said; "the weather seems to me perfect. But," he added abruptly, "wear woolen; that white thing won't do." "Of course!" I went off and made myself fit--woolen for warmth, though the day was not cold, a short khaki skirt, an old felt hat, and old shoes. Out we went into the drenched world. Whish! A gust of rain in my eyes half blinded me, and I ran under the big maples. I heard Jonathan chuckle. "I can't help it," I gasped; "I'll be wet enough in a few minutes, and then I shan't care."