A Day of Rain

The Day the Rain Wouldn’t Stop

 

    Rain came to the forest early one morning, long before Pip had opened his eyes.

    It fell softly at first, brushing against the ferns and dripping from the leaves. Soon, it was falling so hard that the trees seemed to disappear behind a curtain of water.

    Pip lived beneath a large brown mushroom in a quiet part of the forest. He was a very small fellow who wore a coat of green moss and a little acorn hat.

    He had planned to spend the morning visiting his friends.

    But now it was raining.

    “Oh, bother,” Pip said, looking out from beneath his mushroom. “I suppose I’ll have to wait.”

    He sat on a soft patch of moss and waited.

    And waited.

    And waited some more.

    By lunchtime, the rain was still falling.

    Pip had counted seventeen beetles crawling beneath the mushroom. He had rearranged his collection of smooth pebbles twice. He had even tried taking a nap.

    But he wasn’t sleepy.

    “I wish this rain would stop,” he grumbled.

    Just then, a large drop of water fell from the edge of the mushroom.

    Plip!

    It landed in a little puddle beside his foot.

    Another drop followed.

    Plop!

    Pip watched the water.

    Plip. Plop. Plip. Plop.

    “That’s a funny sound,” he said.

    He picked up two small sticks and tapped them together.

    Tap, tap, tap.

    Then he tapped one stick against a hollow acorn.

    Tok, tok, tok.

    Pip smiled.

    He tapped the sticks again, keeping time with the raindrops.

    Plip, plop. Tap, tap.

    Plip, plop. Tok, tok.

    Before long, Pip was making a wonderful little tune.

    A mouse who lived beneath a fallen log heard the noise and came to investigate.

    “What are you doing?” she asked.

    “I’m making rain music,” Pip replied.

    “May I help?”

    “Of course!”

    The mouse found two dry leaves and rubbed them together.

    Swish, swish, swish.

    A beetle crawled from beneath a fern.

    “That sounds like fun,” he said.

    He began tapping his feet against a smooth stone.

    Tick, tick, tick.

    Soon, a frog joined them. He sat beside the puddle and added a deep, cheerful croak.

    “Croak! Croak!”

    Even the birds joined in, singing from the branches above.

    Pip began to smile and he waved his sticks like a conductor.

    “Ready, everyone? One, two, three, go!”

    The forest filled with music blending with the sound of the rain.

    The raindrops plipped and plopped. The sticks tapped. The leaves swished. The beetle ticked, and the frog croaked.

    Pip laughed so hard that his acorn hat slipped over one eye.

    They played until the afternoon grew quiet and the shadows beneath the trees began to deepen.

    At last, the little animals said goodbye and hurried home.

    Pip sat beneath his mushroom, listening to the rain.

    It was still falling.

    But now he heard something he had not noticed before.

    The rain was making music all by itself.

    It drummed against the mushroom, whispered through the ferns, and splashed into the puddles.

    Pip curled up on his soft bed of moss and pulled a leaf over himself.

    “Goodnight, rain,” he whispered. “Thank you for the music.”

    Outside, the raindrops continued their gentle song.

    Plip, plop.

    Plip, plop.

    And before long, Pip was fast asleep.

 

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Clyde Verhine ~ October 2026​