180 THE END OF THE DROUGHT 
This, however, does not alarm Joseph and me. It 
has stood here too long and weathered too many 
gales to topple over now. But by the wood-border 
we hear crack ! crack ! and know that the limbs of 
trees are falling. 
“Have they stinjck the hepaticas?” Joseph asks. 
“Do you think the wild gingers are Injured?” 
I cannot answer. It Is alarming to think what 
such a storm as this can do. 
One curious thing Is the way the storm appears 
to have taken the colours out of the garden. The 
yellow popples, which have been like flecks of gold, 
look grey and dull. 
“Will It last long?” Joseph asks anxiously, and 
I answer, “I do not know.” 
The poor birds ! where have they gone? There 
is not a sign of one anywhere. The bird-houses 
are swinging from the trees as never before, so- 1 do 
not think they are inside. Probably they have 
hidden themselves somewhere under the leaves of 
the trees. 
“The only birds that would feel at home In our 
garden now,” Joseph says, “would be water fowls.” 
We left the window to take breakfast, during 
which time the wind howled piteously In the chim- 
ney. Perhaps we should have noticed It less had 
it not been for the garden. 
“Timothy Pennell was right,” Joseph said to 
Mrs. Keith. “The rain is here In less than twenty- 
four hours.” 
