IN A FISHING COUNTRY 



pretence of being freighted only with sum- 

 mer showers. Our universe narrowed 

 to a few gray yards of wetness. A long 

 crescendo reached the climax that one 

 knows for a few seconds at the height of a 

 thunderstorm, but the fortissimo passage 

 continued for the better part of an hour — 

 sounding on the roof like the roll of a 

 dozen kettle-drums. We had to shout to be 

 heard through the din. 



It seemed as though Nature must exhaust 

 herself in so furious an outburst, but the 

 slow diminuendo to such rain as we associ- 

 ate for some odd reason with cats and dogs 

 was followed by another crescendo to a 

 roaring culmination. 'Bucketfuls' was no 

 figure of speech, for the water seemed 

 thrown in masses rather than falling 'in 

 drops, forcing a way on all sides into the 

 tight little cabin. Every hollow in the 

 gravelly soil about us instantly brimmed 

 and overran. Thus, again and again, hour 

 after hour, throughout the night and 

 until the next midday, were the heavens 

 opened in thunderous downpour; then the 

 storm began to drizzle away, in manner as 

 it had begun. 



What more natural (to one statistically 

 afflicted) than th'- attempt at estimating 

 116 



