The Tornado. 
25 
rumbled and muttered, and flashes of the broadest 
sheets inclosed fork and chain lightning; the lift- 
fire zigzagged in tangled skeins here of chalk-white 
threads, there of violet wires, to the surface of 
earth and sea. Presently nimbus-step, tier and 
canopy, gradually breaking up, formed a low arch 
regular as the Bifrost bridge which Odin treads, 
spanning a space between the horizon, ninety 
degrees broad and more. The sharply cut soffit, 
which was thrown out in darkest relief by the dim 
and sallow light of the underlying sky, waxed 
pendent and ragged, as though broken by a torrent 
of storm. What is technically called the “ ox-eye,” 
the “ egg of the tornado,” appeared in a fragment 
of space, glistening below the gloomy rain-arch. 
The wind ceased to blow; every sound was 
hushed as though Nature were nerving herself, 
silent for the throe, and our looks said, “In five 
minutes it will be down upon us.” And now it 
comes. A cold blast smelling of rain, and a few 
drops or rather splashes, big as gooseberries and 
striking with a blow, are followed by a howling 
squall, sharp and sudden puffs, pulsations and 
gusts ; at length a steady gush like a rush of steam 
issues from that awful arch, which, after darkening 
the heavens like an eclipse, collapses in fragmentary 
torrents of blinding rain. In the midst of the 
spoon-drift we see, or we think we see, “ La Junon ” 
gliding like a phantom-ship towards the river 
