drain the partial swamp, and also to manage the deceitful brook, was
now finished, and I waited for the results. During much of the summer
there was not a drop of water in the wide canal, save where a living
spring trickled into it. The ordinary fall rains could scarcely more
than cover the broad, pebbly bottom, and the unsophisticated laughed
and said that I reminded them of a general who trained a forty-pound
gun on a belligerent mouse. I remembered what I had seen, and bided my
time.

But I did not have to wait till March. One November day it began to
rain, and it kept on. All the following night there was a steady rush
and roar of falling water. It was no ordinary pattering, but a gusty
outpouring from the "windows of heaven." The two swales in the front
and rear of the house became great muddy ponds, tawny as the "yellow
Tiber," and through intervals of the storm came the sullen roar of the
little brook that had been purring like a kitten all summer. Toward
night, Mature grew breathless and exhausted; there were sobbing gusts
of wind and sudden gushes of rain, that grew less and less frequent.
It was evident she would become quiet in the night and quite serene
after her long, tempestuous mood.

As the sun was setting I ventured out with much misgiving. The
deepening roar as I went down the lane increased my fears, but I was
fairly appalled by the wild torrent that cut off all approach to the
bridge. The water had not only filled the wide canal, but also, at a
point a little above the bridge, had broken over and washed away the
high embankment. I skirted along the tide until I reached the part of
the bank that still remained intact, and there beneath my feet rushed
a flood that would have instantly swept away horse and rider. Indeed,
quite a large tree had been torn up by its roots, and carried down