Lower away in the south--a rare thing to
come from the south in our climate--there lay a black
squall-cloud with a rounded outline, like a big windbag,
resembling nothing so much as a fat boy's face with its
cheeks blown out, when he tries to fill a football with
the pressure from his lungs. That was an infallible sign.
The first cloud, which was travelling fast, might blow
over. The second, larger one was sure to bring wind
a-plenty. But still there was hope. So long as it did
not bring outright snow, my wife would not worry so much.
Here where she was, the snow would not drift--there was
altogether too much bush. She--not having been much of
an observer of the skies before--dreaded the snowstorm
more than the blizzard. I knew the latter was what
portended danger.
When I turned back into the house, a new thought struck
me. I spoke to my wife, who was putting up a lunch for
me, and proposed to take her and our little girl over to
a neighbour's place a mile and a half west of the school.
Those people were among the very few who had been decent
to her, and the visit would beguile the weary Sunday
afternoon.
Pages:
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159