  THE queerest things rained down all over our street, With long legs, like spiders, and muddy brown feet; They must have rained down, for I saw them all run Through puddles and mud ere the shower was done. They’re some sort of Waders, and all over town Through pools and deep gutters they splash up and down, Bareheaded, barelegged, barefooted and wet, The Waders of Frogpond—I hear them splash yet. The rain fell in torrents, the gutters’ deep tides Were black, and the rain barrels ran o’er their sides, The frothy white waters whirled from the eavespout, But with the first lull all the Waders came out. They danced in the frogponds, they sounded the streams In gutters and made the air shrill with their screams, They rolled up their dresses and trousers and dashed Through mud, froth and water, and waded and splashed. And forth with the Waders came all kinds of dogs, Came sailors with bark boats, came navies of frogs. Came big rubber boots on such tiny brown legs, Came floating armadas of cans and half-kegs; Unseaworthy boxes made over to rafts, I wonder if ever in my life again I’ll see so much gladness come down with the rain. They must have rained down, for a minute ago The frogpond was dry and deserted, you know; There wasn’t a Wader, a dog or a craft, A pair of gum boots, a bark boat or a raft; The eave’s but done dripping, scarce dry is the spout, When lo, all the navy of Waders is out! The pond’s full of ships as the old Spanish Main. Who’d think so much fun could come down with the rain? |
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