"I knew the
Lord would find a way to open the windy without me puttin'
my fist through it--I'll have a look at the clouds to
see if they have that white edge on them. No--I won't
either--it isn't my put in. I'll just lave the Lord alone.
Nothin' makes me madder than when I promise Tommy or Mary
or any of them something and then have them frettin' all
the time about whether or not I'll get it done. I'd like
to see the clouds though. I'll bet they're a sight, just
like what Camilla sings about:
Dark is His path on the wings o' the storm.
In the kitchen below the Motherwells gathered with pale
faces. The windows shook and rattled in their casings.
"Keep away from the stove, Tom," Mrs. Motherwell said,
trembling. "That's where the lightnin' strikes."
Tom's teeth were chattering.
"This'll fix the wheat that's standing, every--bit of
it," Sam said. He did not make it quite as strong as he
intended. Something had taken the profanity out of him.
"Hadn't you better go up and bring the kid down, ma?"
Tom asked, thinking of Pearl.
"Her!" his father said contemptuously. "She'll never hear
it." The wind suddenly ceased. Not a breath stirred, only
a continuous glare of lightning. Then crack! crack! crack!
on the roof, on the windows, everywhere, like bad boys
throwing stones, heavier, harder, faster, until it was
one beating, thundering roar.
It lasted but a few minutes, though it seemed longer to
those who listened in terror in the kitchen.
Pages:
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129