THE GLADSOME SPIEL
All Spring it rained to beat the band, and o’er the saturated land, the water stood in pools; old Pluvius, who runs the rain, it seemed, had water on the brain, and busted all the rules.
The farmers had to sail in boats when they went forth to feed their shotes, their ostriches and cows, and when they went to sow their beans they had to go in submarines, they couldn’t use their plows.
And in the cities things were worse, and gloomy as a country hearse was nearly every face; men stood around in dripping crowds, and viewed the stretch of leaking clouds, and called them a disgrace.
Contractors, when they called on Hoar, who runs the corner lumber store, would make an awful fuss; “this is the blinkest, blankest Spring! We cannot do a doggone thing! It’s getting wuss and wuss! It keeps on raining all day long, the mud goes through to old Hong Kong, it will not dry till fall; unless the gods give us a show, out to the poorfarm we must go, our families and all!”
But Hoar, the cheerful lumberman, is one who always ties a can to every gloomy thing; his optimism then he voiced, as he wrapped up a big oak joist, and tied it with a string.
“The rain,” he said, “is coming yet, and I admit it’s pretty wet, in fact it’s almost damp; but you should hail it with delight, and shoo your troubles out of sight, and bid your griefs decamp. The ground is soaked clear through, you say, down to the center of Cathay, and that is joyous news; it means good crops for sundry years, so it’s a sin to sprinkle tears, or languish in the blues. The moisture stored in yonder soil will make our divers kettles boil, and bring us coin galore; you’ll have more palaces to build because the air with rain is filled, so please cut out the roar.”
The man who sees the good in things, who chirps around and smiles and sings, and chortles by the year, not only boosts his private trade, but sees the ghosts of others laid—the ghosts of doubt and fear.