"Yuh certainly scared the daylights outa me," said Timson, looking fascinatedly at the insect.
"Sure is one on us. Wait'll the boys hear this one."
"Let's get goin'. We're losin' time," said Timson, himself again.
"Wait a minute. Hear somethin'?"
Timson listened. "That surely sounds like water. That must be Chapman's Creek."
"Kinda loud for a little creek. Let's go see what it is."
"Short ten minutes a'ready. But we can take a quick look."
We followed the tracks down a hundred feet or so and suddenly the tracks disappeared into an expanse of water. The trestle over Chapman's Creek was gone. What was once a small stream was now a raging, roaring river, flooded by the heavy spring rains.
For a long time we stared down at it unbelievingly, then turned and looked at each other's pale faces. Silently, we walked back to the panting engine.
In shelter of the vaulted yews,
Like alien gods who shun the world,
The flown owls wait with feathers furled;
Darting red eyes, they dream and muse.
In rows unmoving they remain
Till the sad hour that they remember,
When, treading down the sun's last ember,
The towering night resumes its reign.
Their attitude will teach the seer
How wise and needful is the fear
Of movement and of travailment;
For shadow-drunken wanderers bear
On all their ways the chastisement
Of having wished to wend elsewhere.
