water in the lamp to raise the kerosene to the wick, but that did n't last
long, and, as there was no fat in the house, Dad squatted on the floor and
read by the firelight.

He plodded through the paper tediously from end to end, reading the
murders and robberies a second time. The clouds that old Bob said were
gathering when he came in were now developing to a storm, for the wind
began to rise, and the giant iron-bark tree that grew close behind the
house swayed and creaked weirdly, and threw out those strange sobs and
moans that on wild nights bring terror to the hearts of bush children. A
glimmer of lightning appeared through the cracks in the slabs. Old Bob
said he would go before it came on, and started into the inky darkness.

"It's coming!" Dad said, as he shut the door and put the peg in after
seeing old Bob out. And it came--in no time. A fierce wind struck the
house. Then a vivid flash of lightning lit up every crack and hole, and a
clap of thunder followed that nearly shook the place down.

Dad ran to the back door and put his shoulder against it; Dave stood to
the front one; and Sarah sat on the sofa with her arms around Mother,
telling her not to be afraid. The wind blew furiously--its one aim seemed
the shifting of the house. Gust after gust struck the walls and left them
quivering. The children screamed. Dad called and shouted, but no one
could catch a word he said. Then there was one tremendous crack--we
understood it--the iron-bark tree had gone over. At last, the shingled
roof commenced to give. Several times the ends rose (and our hair too)
and fell back into place again with a clap. Then it went clean away in
one piece, with a rip like splitting a ribbon, and there we stood,
affrighted and shelterless, inside the walls. Then the wind went down and
it rained--rained on us all night.