136 RIVERSIDE LETTERS XVili 



reports in the morning paper of floods, 

 blizzards, and disastrous storms, but quite 

 another to dwell in the very midst of the 

 scenes of these disasters. 



To wake up in the morning and see the 

 sun rise over a huge lake which the day 

 before was a broad meadow. To start for a 

 walk and find yourself blocked, the footpath 

 having entirely disappeared, or the water 

 rushing over the road in a torrent, leaving its 

 surface afterwards like so much shingle. To 

 see small cottages with the stream running in 

 at their front and out at their back doors, 

 gaps torn out of their garden hedges, and the 

 contents of their rubbish heaps carried away 

 and scattered broadcast over the adjacent 

 meadows, making them look, when the 

 waters have subsided, like a field of battle. 

 Or to find, after one such blizzard as we had 

 last week, bushels of snow driven beneath 

 your doors, or worse still through the cracks 

 between the tiles of your roof, from whence 

 it has to be caught in pails and bath-tubs 



