Raindrops keep falling on my bed

It was Bachelard, a nice little scribe hailing from Franche, who once said in "The Poetics of Space" that a house only comes into its own in bad weather, when the poetry of shelter receives its fullest expression. Well then, the little red house has come into its own. Just about as gracefully as a competitor in a potato sack race.

It rained on Saturday night. It rained hard. It melted three months worth of snow and sent a host of little creatures crawling towards the light of the little red house. They approached the hearth with high hopes, only to be daunted by a strange site in the living room. It was raining outside of the house, and inside as well. Disheartened, they crept back outside into the muddy night to spend the evening awash in rain and stars.

Beaver and Domo should have done so as well. The Building Inspector told them their roof was in grand shape. But the Building Inspector didn't visit during a rainstorm.