So Robert Robin flew up to the top of his big basswood tree to sing his “Dry Weather” song, in the rain.
Mister Jim Crow was sitting in his tall hemlock tree. He was wishing that the rain would stop falling, for he was as wet as water could make him. From over the tops of the tall forest trees came the sound of Robert Robin singing his “Dry Weather” song:
“Dry up the crick!
Dry up the crick!
Dry up the beetles!
Dry up the beetles!
Dry up the crick!”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed Jim Crow. “That funny Robert Robin is singing his ‘Dry Weather’ song! He is saying ‘dry up the crick!’—he means ‘creek’ of course, but could anything be funnier than that wet bird sitting in the rain, and singing about dry weather? The creek is roaring down through the sheep pasture, like a yellow river! ‘Dry up the crick!’ Ha! Ha! Ha!” and Jim Crow laughed so hard that he forgot all about being wet.
“Dry up the crick!” screamed Robert Robin over and over again, until he was too tired to sing any more. Then he perched near Mrs. Robin and said, “I sang it seven times, but the rain is coming down harder than ever!”
“Well! You did your best, dear!” said Mrs. Robin. “It isn’t your fault if it rains,” and she could smell his feathers, they were so wet.
Suddenly the sky grew lighter, and with a roar that shook the earth a mighty wind swept through the woods; the clouds began to break away; the blue sky shone in patches between the torn clouds, and the rain was over.
No more rain fell, but all that night the fierce wind raved and roared, and when the sun came up in the east once more, the fierce gusts were whipping the branches of the elms, and twisting the tops of the tall pines, but Robert Robin’s big basswood tree stood on the northeast side of the forest, so that the wind scarcely touched it.
During the night four little baby robins had pecked their way out of the blue eggs, and when daylight came, Mrs. Robin had cleared the nest of broken shells and was covering her babies with her warm feathers. Robert Robin was sitting on the big branch close by. He was oiling and arranging his feathers with great care.
“You did make it stop raining, didn’t you, dear?” said Mrs. Robin.