Anyone who has ever grown tired of talking about the weather will sympathize with the milkman who dreamed that all the housewives danced around him and sang: ""Mister Milkman, we'd like to know Will it rain, hail, thunder or snow."" The very next morning, he does not stop in front of any house but rolls right out to the country. When he needs gas and oil, he trades milk and cream; when he comes to a fork in the road, he tosses a coin. At last the coin leads him to the side of a lake, where he swims and catches fish and picks blueberries and chases bears. In a few days, when the ice cream has melted and the cheese has molded, the milkman begins to miss the streets and his customers and their talk--even about the weather. They, in turn, have missed the missing milkman, ""And they were so happy to see each other that they talked about the weather, in town and up there in the forest."" The cream of this mild little homily is all at the beginning, and the rest is skimmed milk, with illustrations to match.