Alders and willows waist-deep were bearing up against the current with nervous trembling gestures, as if afraid of being carried away, while supple branches bending confidingly, dipped lightly and rose again, as if stroking the wild waters in play.

Leaving the bridge and passing on through the storm-thrashed woods, all the ground seemed to be moving.

Pine-tassels, flakes of bark, soil, leaves, and broken branches were being swept forward, and many a rock-fragment, weathered from exposed ledges, was now receiving its first rounding and polishing in the wild streams of the storm.

On they rushed through every gulch and hollow, leaping, gliding, working with a will, and rejoicing like living creatures.
Nor was the flood confined to the ground.

Every tree had a water system of its own spreading far and wide like miniature Amazons and Mississippis.
Toward midday, cloud, wind, and rain reached their highest development.
The storm was in full bloom, and formed, from my commanding outlook on the hilltop, one of the most glorious views I ever beheld.