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Scott, Michael, 1789-1835

"Tom Cringle's Log"


As yet there was no lightning nor rain, and in the expectation of escaping
the shower, as the wind was with me, I made more sail, pushing the horse
into a gallop, to the great discomposure of the negro who sat beside me.
"Massa, you can't escape it, you are galloping into it; don't massa hear
de sound of de rain coming along against de wind, and smell de earthy
smell of him like one new--made grave?"
"The sound of the rain." In another clime, long, long ago, I had often
read at my old mother's knee, "And Elijah said unto Ahab, there is a sound
of abundance of rain, prepare thy chariot, and get thee down, that the
rain stop thee not; and it came to pass, in the meanwhile, that the heaven
was dark with clouds and wind, and there was a great rain."
I looked, and so it was, for in an instant a white sheet of the heaviest
rain I had ever seen (if rain it might be called, for it was more like a
water--spout) fell from the lower edge of the black cloud, with a strong
rushing noise, that increased as it approached to a loud roar like that of
a waterfall. As it came along, it seemed to devour the rocks and trees,
for they disappeared behind the watery screen the instant it reached them.
We saw it a--head of us for more than a mile coming along the road,
preceded by a black line from the moistening of the white dust, right in
the wind's eye, and with such an even front, that I verily believe it was
descending in bucketsful on my horse's head, while as yet not one drop had
reached me.


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