LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
and teetering across the sloppy links like a couple of prize cakewalkers. When at last the goal was reached, we looked at each other in speechless amazement. Such an uproar was never heard outside of bedlam. Accustomed to a plastered ceiling, with a garret above, this pounding of the rain upon a roof directly over our heads was positively deafening. It was not at all like rain,—more like a downpour of rattling bullets or cobblestones. Through the open windows came the tumult from outside. Deer Leap, out of its banks, was roaring like Niagara; the wind was writhing and swishing through the fir boughs; the spring at the kitchen was a mighty cataract, throwing a big stream of water halfway across the porch.
Avoiding the eye of my fellow-sufferer, I remarked indifferently, “Sort of boisterous, isn’t it?”
“It does seem a little so,—just at first.”
“Yes, I meant just at first.”
Truly, we could scarcely hear each other’s voices. After the lights were out, the turmoil and bluster were even more terrifying. The dampness of the room was something awful. After a while Tom shouted through the darkness, “Isn’t it sweet, this gentle patter of the rain upon the roof?”
“Fine!” I shrieked; “so soothing,—like a lullaby!”
“Oh, yes! And this Cataract of Lodore, too, just under a fellow’s head, is a mighty nice thing! To-morrow let’s make us some megaphones.”
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