Roughing it in the Bush
Chapter XXIV: The Whirlwind
(For the poem that heads this chapter, I am indebted to my brother, Mr. Strickland, of Douro, C.W.)
Dark, heavy clouds were gathering in the west,
Wrapping the forest in funereal gloom;
Onward they roll’d, and rear’d each livid crest,
Like Death’s murk shadows frowning o’er earth’s tomb.
From out the inky womb of that deep night
Burst livid flashes of electric flame.
Whirling and circling with terrific might,
In wild confusion on the tempest came.
Nature, awakening from her still repose,
Shudders responsive to the whirlwind’s shock,
Feels at her mighty heart convulsive throes,
And all her groaning forests to earth’s bosom rock.But hark!—What means that hollow, rushing sound,
That breaks the death-like stillness of the morn?
Red forked lightnings fiercely glare around,
Sharp, crashing thunders on the winds are borne,
And see yon spiral column, black as night,
Rearing triumphantly its wreathing form;
Ruin’s abroad, and through the murky light—
Drear desolation marks the spirit of the storm.S.S.
The 19th of August came, and our little harvest was all safely housed. Business called Moodie away for a few days to Cobourg. Jenny had gone to Dummer, to visit her friends, and J. E—— had taken a grist of the new wheat, which he and Moodie had threshed the day before, to the mill. I was consequently left alone with the children, and had a double portion of work to do. During their absence it was my lot to witness the most awful storm I ever beheld, and a vivid recollection of its terrors was permanently fixed upon my memory.
The weather had been intensely hot during the three preceding days, although the sun was entirely obscured by a blueish haze, which seemed to render the unusual heat of the atmosphere more oppressive. Not a breath of air stirred the vast forest, and the waters of the lake assumed a leaden hue. After passing a sleepless night, I arose, a little after day-break, to superintend my domestic affairs. E—— took his breakfast, and went off to the mill, hoping that the rain would keep off until after his return.
“It is no joke,” he said, “being upon these lakes in a small canoe, heavily laden, in a storm.”
Before the sun rose, the heavens were covered with hard-looking clouds, of a deep blue and black cast, fading away to white at their edges, and in the form resembling the long, rolling waves of a heavy sea—but with this difference, that the clouds were perfectly motionless, piled in long curved lines, one above the other, and so remained until four o’clock in the afternoon. The appearance of these clouds, as the sun rose above the horizon, was the most splendid that can be imagined, tinged up to the zenith with every shade of saffron, gold, rose-colour, scarlet, and crimson, fading away into the deepest violet. Never did the storm-fiend shake in the face of a day a more gorgeous banner; and, pressed as I was for time, I stood gazing like one entranced upon the magnificent pageant.
As the day