The Umbrella That Applauded — Rain ticked on the gutters like tiny pencils, and Hazel stepped outside with both boots aimed at the biggest puddle. Read the full story →
Rain ticked on the gutters like tiny pencils, and Hazel stepped outside with both boots aimed at the biggest puddle. She wanted to give each puddle on Willowbend Lane a proper stomp before supper, so she lifted her swirly umbrella and marched: splosh, slap, squelch. Wet leaves stuck to the sidewalk like orange and brown stickers, and the air smelled of soaked wood and chimney smoke.
At the third puddle, something answered her stomp. Pat-pat-pat! Hazel froze, one boot raised. The sound came from above, not below. Her umbrella was clapping its ribs together, very politely, as if Hazel had just finished a grand concert. “Encore?” she whispered. The umbrella gave a proud little shiver, flinging three cold drops onto her nose.
So Hazel stomped again, and the umbrella applauded harder. A squirrel chattered from the fence. A porch cat blinked in rhythm. Even the rain joined in, drumming on windows and leaves until the whole lane sounded like a marching band that had forgotten its instruments. By the time Hazel reached the puddle by the little house, her joy was too big to keep under one umbrella; next time rain taps your window, listen closely for the applause after the first splosh.
