All the rest
of the universe had gone.
After a time the insistent beat and rush of waters began to wear through
our patience. We willed that this wracking tumult should cease; we
willed it with all the force that was in us. Then, as this proved vain,
we too humped our spiritual backs, cowled our souls with patience, and
waited dumbly for the force of the storm to spend itself. Our faculties
were quite as effectually drowned out by the unceasing roar and crash of
the waters as our bodily comfort would have been had we lacked the
protection of our tent.
Abruptly the storm passed. It did not die away slowly in the diminuendo
of ordinary storms. It ceased as though the reservoir had been tipped
back again. The rapid _drip_, _drip_, _drip_ of waters now made the
whole of sound; all the rest of the world lay breathless. Then, inside
our tent, a cricket struck up bravely.
This homely, cheerful little sound roused us. We went forth to count
damages and to put our house in order. The men hunted out dry wood and
made another fire; the creatures of the jungle and the stars above them
ventured forth.
Next morning we marched into a world swept clean. The ground was as
smooth as though a new broom had gone over it. Every track now was
fresh, and meant an animal near at hand. The bushes and grasses were
hung with jewels. Merry little showers shook down from trees sharing a
joke with some tiny wind.
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