Leaving the bridge and passing on through the
storm-thrashed woods, all the ground seemed to be moving. Pine-tassels,
flakes of bark, soil, leaves, and broken branches were being swept
forward, and many a rock-fragment, weathered from exposed ledges, was
now receiving its first rounding and polishing in the wild streams of
the storm. On they rushed through every gulch and hollow, leaping,
gliding, working with a will, and rejoicing like living creatures.
Nor was the flood confined to the ground. Every tree had a water system
of its own spreading far and wide like miniature Amazons and
Mississippis.
Toward midday, cloud, wind, and rain reached their highest development.
The storm was in full bloom, and formed, from my commanding outlook on
the hilltop, one of the most glorious views I ever beheld. As far as the
eye could reach, above, beneath, around, wind-driven rain filled the air
like one vast waterfall. Detached clouds swept imposingly up the valley,
as if they were endowed with independent motion and had special work to
do in replenishing the mountain wells, now rising above the pine-tops,
now descending into their midst, fondling their arrowy spires and
soothing every branch and leaf with gentleness in the midst of all the
savage sound and motion.
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