The hills jarred at the rumbling of God's
chariots. Blinding sheets of rain drove the cattle to the bars, and
beat against the window-pane as if to dash it in. The corn-fields
crouched in the fury, and the ripened grain-fields threw their crowns
of gold at the feet of the storm-king. After the night shut in, it
was a double night. Its black mantle was rent with the lightnings, and
into its locks were twisted the leaves of uprooted oaks, and shreds
of canvas torn from the masts of the beached shipping. It was such a
night as makes you thank God for shelter, and bids you open the door
to let in even the spaniel howling outside with the terror. We went
to sleep under the full blast of heaven's great orchestra, and the
forests with uplifted voice, in choiring hosts that filled all the
side of the mountains, praising the Lord.
We waked not until the fingers of the sunny morn touched our eyelids.
We looked out and. Housatonic slept as quiet as a baby's dream.
Pillars of white cloud set up along the heavens looked like the
castles of the blest, built for hierarchs of heaven on the beach of
the azure sea.
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