OUT OF BOUNDS 371 



make a water-tight boat of it. If matters grow worse 

 yet, no doubt man will come for his sheep on wings, 

 as, perhaps, he had better do before night and further 

 bewildering invasion of the water. Yesterday a whole 

 stockyard had to be cleared in haste, and the cattle 

 moved to higher ground beyond the reach of all 

 historic floods. The water is in the covered sheds, 

 sucking out the dressing of next year's crops, cleaning 

 out the stable in the lazy and extravagant way that 

 has won for Hercules the contempt of all farmers. It 

 is stifling the wheat in its seed-bed, rotting the beans 

 on their young roots, devitalising the soil, and weaving 

 a garment of despair that it will need a very bene- 

 ficent spring to dispel. 



There is no repentance in the sky of the havoc 

 that is being wrought. There was a mighty gale 

 that might have swept away the eternal clouds, but 

 they still fill the dome with their brown fleece. It 

 is dotted with birds in flocks passing high over the 

 floods in search of some happier hunting-ground. 

 Many of them are sea-gulls driven wailing from the 

 sea-coast by furious seas, and cheated by the waters 

 of their river-side fields. There is a foolish con- 

 sternation among the rooks because the waters have 

 lapped the roots of their elms. At this time of the 

 year rooks have usually very little interest in their 

 rookery. They live elsewhere, and pay the household 

 sticks the briefest of midday visits. But to-day they 

 assemble in the ancient summer village, and discuss 

 the situation in loud and querulous tones, a very 

 clamour of despair that voices the apprehension of 

 the whole valley. It is always the people who are 

 least hurt that make the most noise. Who shall 



