AT FLOOD 



WET world this, my masters. 

 Not dank and dripping, but all 

 awash. Saith not the prov- 

 erb, 



"Wind i* the south, 

 It's in the rain's mouth " ? 



How dully it blows reaching humid, lan- 

 guorous fingers in slow caress over all the 

 wakening world. How gray and low the 

 clouds lie, pouring, pelting, till racing run- 

 nels furrow all the hill-sides, till creek, mill- 

 stream, river, dash down at foaming flood. 

 All the level is sheeted water. The swales 

 show each a glimmering pool. Far off you 

 hear the boom of heavy waters ; overhead, 

 all day long, the deep tattoo of big drops 

 on the roof. 



Not a monotonous drip, drip. This rain 

 never slackens, but ever and anon some 

 surcharged cloud sweeps low through the 

 sky, pouring out a thunderous deluge. 



