The trio huddled together close under the two umbrellas. The rain was pounding down through the gooseberry screen now and the carpet was decidedly damp on the edges. Little streams of water ran down the furrows in the garden about them. They had eaten all the cookies but one, which got wet and dissolved in a gluey paste. Katy read away valiantly but the story didn’t seem as absorbing as it had been the night before—the children found their attention wandering.
Gertie’s eyes kept straying to the forked streaks of lightning that were cutting the black clouds overhead.
“It’s getting pretty close,” she complained finally.
But the others’ courage was still good.
“Pooh, who minds a little lightning,” said Katy scornfully.
“I’m not afraid of lightning,” said Chicken Little valiantly, “but I wish it wouldn’t thunder so hard.”
“Bet you are afraid, Jane Morton.”
“I am not, Katy Halford. I never said a word about going in. I just said I wished it wouldn’t thunder so much—and I do.”
A long reverberating roll gave point to her wish.
Gertie and Chicken Little both squirmed uneasily, but Katy caught her breath and went on reading, scrooging up a little closer under the umbrellas. The continuous drip from one of the umbrella points down on her back was making her nervous, she said. She could feel a little damp spot coming through her gossamer. Gertie drew her bare feet up under her and cast longing looks toward the house. She was getting cold and the drifting smoke from the kitchen chimney looked wondrously inviting. She did wish Katy would stop reading. But Katy read on as steadily as the rain pattered, rolling out the big words reckless of mistakes and lifting her shrill little voice almost to a shriek when it thundered, as if she defied the elements to do their worst.