CHAPTER XIII 

 BIRDS AND THE LIGHTNING 



NOTHING in nature, except perhaps the rising 

 and setting of the sun, has impressed mankind 

 more than the fearsome phenomena of a thun- 

 der-storm. Such a storm in the Rocky Mountains, or 

 among the Californian Sierras, is truly terrifying in its 

 magnificence, and it is none the less so in the Alps or 

 Himalayas or on the volcanic summits of Central 

 Africa. The lightnings dart about the darkly clouded 

 peaks, and the thunder-crashes leap from cliff to cliff 

 in echoes that stun one, for they seem like vast iron 

 missies hurled by Titanic strength, and rebounding from 

 crags that are falling in prodigious ruin — perhaps on 

 your head. 



On the plains, too, such a storm may be fearfully 

 grand, for amid rolling thunders and a tremendous 

 downpour of rain come an incessant flash and sparkle 

 of lightnings that illuminate the prairie with a violet 

 flame almost blinding in its glare. A person who did 

 not comprehend the physical meaning of such a display 

 might well be excused for trembling in awe and terror — 

 moreover, the danger is real. 



I believe that almost from the first there were wise 

 men, the philosophers of their time, who understood that 

 the clouds were fleeting masses of fog, that rain was 

 the water pressed out of them, and that the lightning 

 and its associated rumble were somehow as natural as 



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