It was full dark outside, and the wind had died down. Cloudy, quiet, a fingernail crescent of a moon hovering over the treetops and barely visible behind the clouds.
And then suddenly, an unfamiliar sound: an insistent drumming on roofs, on the stone wall, on leaves, and on the ground.
Stumbling, half-asleep, from their snug beds and out into the open, everyone immediately realized what the sound meant. For the first time in many weeks, it was finally raining. They were all soon drenched but wide awake, and in a mood to celebrate.
So when Crow started to hum a jaunty tune, Old Possum was persuaded to lead everyone through the steps of the festive polkas his grandmother had taught him when he was a boy.