By midmorning the cobbler on Maple Street had a tape measure in one hand and a puddle in the other. He would not call it an invention. He called it a fitting. The galoshes came out no larger than teacups, with tiny bows that refused to get soggy.
We asked at the kiosk. A woman with pears said she had greeted her own hat in the water, and the hat had nodded back, then stepped aside so her socks could stay dry. In the little notebook by the stall someone had written, very neatly, that the left galosh squeaks, but only in a friendly way, and should not be returned.
The park keeper posted a polite card on the nearest lamp: reflections may nod, yet they would rather you did not wipe your feet on them. By dusk the shy puddle at the corner had a pair of its own, and the cobbler went home with wet cuffs and a very satisfied needle.