“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.
“This is what I call delightful!” replied that remarkable woman, tipping her tub until the water ran in and filled it with a deep gurgle. As she sank into the river she clapped her hands, whereupon there was a blinding flash and a peal of sharp thunder. A bigger wave than the rest washed Philippe, cradle and all, upon the shore. He was too dazed to understand for some moments just what had happened, but at length he spied Grandmother, already at some distance, riding the waves and swimming strongly with the current.
“Now I shall be in high time for the reunion!” she called back to him, the growing space between them making her voice very faint.