THE RIVER FLOODS 267 



force to the purposes of beautiful and delicate life. 

 Calms like sleep come upon landscapes, just as 

 they do on people and trees, and storms awaken 

 them in the same way. In the dry midsummer of 

 the lower portion of the range the withered hills 

 and valleys seem to lie as empty and expression 

 less as dead shells on a shore. Even the highest 

 mountains may be found occasionally dull and un 

 communicative as if in some way they had lost 

 countenance and shrunk to less than half their real 

 stature. But when the lightnings crash and echo in 

 the canons, and the clouds come down wreathing 

 and crowning their bald snowy heads, every fea 

 ture beams with expression and they rise again in 

 all their imposing majesty. 



Storms are fine speakers, and tell all they know, 

 but their voices of lightning, torrent, and rushing 

 wind are much less numerous than the nameless 

 still, small voices too low for human ears; and 

 because we are poor listeners we fail to catch much 

 that is fairly within reach. Our best rains are 

 heard mostly on roofs, and winds in chimneys; 

 and when by choice or compulsion we are pushed 

 into the heart of a storm, the confusion made by 

 cumbersome equipments and nervous haste and 

 mean fear, prevent our hearing any other than 

 the loudest expressions. Yet we may draw en 

 joyment from storm sounds that are beyond hear 

 ing, and storm movements we cannot see. The 

 sublime whirl of planets around their suns is as 

 silent as raindrops oozing in the dark among the 

 roots of plants. In this great storm, as in every 

 other, there were tones and gestures inexpressibly 



