Billy disliked to acknowledge even to himself that old age was creeping on apace, and that it was necessary to have extra care if he would enjoy good health.
“Who can explain why all the people are hurrying and scurrying so? They act as crazy as loons, and that is no exaggeration.”
Just then a raindrop hit Billy spitefully on the tip of the nose, and others pelted him on the back.
“Ah, ha! So this is the trouble, is it? I’ve been so deep in thought that I’ve not cast a glance at the sky, but the outlook is that we will have a little rain storm. Clouds like that great black bank there in the west mean something to me. Ho, ho! And some Fourth of July effects thrown in!” chuckled the goat as a vivid flash of lightning was quickly followed by a reverberating roll of thunder.
“The greatest fun I know is watching a crowd caught in a storm. I’ll stroll along and enjoy it to the full extent.”
Billy did not realize how impolite it is to make light of another’s distress. His mother, I fear, had been negligent in his training on this point of etiquette.
“Did you ever see anything one-half so laughable as that old lady? See her picking her way along, skirts held high, revealing her gaudy hosiery. They look as Dutch as my old master Hans—red and dark blue is the color combination I do believe! Why doesn’t the goosie put up her umbrella instead of holding it so tightly under her arm? Forgotten that she was wise enough to bring it, I suppose. Guess I will follow her a way and see the excitement she’s bound to create.”
Taking up his position immediately behind her, he began the chase, for he found it such, experiencing some difficulty to keep at her heels as she dodged first this way and then that, in and out, in a frantic attempt to push her way quickly through the hurrying throng, all jostling, all wet, all bedraggled, but all good-humored, taking the sudden downpour in good part.
In fact, there is nothing more infectious than the good spirits of a fair-day crowd. Nothing is sufficient to upset their equanimity, and although in nine seasons out of ten there is a shower or a steady, cold drizzle which plays havoc with new fall millinery, suits and footwear, each year sees everyone bravely arrayed in their best bibs and tuckers as if tempting the weather man to do and send his worst.
Country maidens were there, all bedight in bright colored finery, blushing under the escort of brawny farm lads whose genial faces wore the ruddy glow of perfect health, youth and happiness peeping through the thick coat of tan left by old Sol’s summer visits as they toiled harvesting the golden wheat and later in cornfield and potato patch.