The rain fell
in slanting, hissing sheets upon the ice, and the ice, in lumps and
sheets and blocks, tossed and heaved and spun. At times it was as though
all the ice was driven by some strong movement in one direction, then it
was like the whole pavement of the world slipping down the side of the
firmament into space. Suddenly it would be checked and, with a kind of
quiver, station itself and hang chattering and clutching until the sweep
would begin in the opposite direction!
I could see only dimly through the mist, but it was not difficult to
imagine that, in very truth, the days of the flood had returned. Nothing
could be seen but the tossing, heaving welter of waters with the ice,
grim and grey through the shadows, like "ships and monsters,
sea-serpents and mermaids," to quote Galleon's _Spanish Nights_.
Of course the water came in through my own roof, and it was on that very
afternoon that I decided, once and for all, to leave this abode of mine.
Romantic it might be; I felt it was time for a little comfortable
realism. My old woman brought me the usual cutlets, macaroni, and tea
for lunch; then I wrote to a friend in England; and finally, about four
o'clock, after one more look at the hissing waters, drew my curtains,
lit my candles, and sat down near my stove to finish that favourite of
mine, already mentioned in these pages, De la Mare's _The Return_.
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