The trees were bending and cracking around us, and the air was completely filled with the wild-fowl screaming and _quacking_ as they made their way southward before the blast.

Our tent was among the trees not far from the river.

My husband took me to the bank to look for a moment at what we had escaped.

The wind was sweeping down from the north in a perfect hurricane.

The water was filled with masses of snow and ice, dancing along upon the torrent, over which were hurrying thousands of wild-fowl, making the woods resound to their deafening clamor.
Had we been one hour later, we could not possibly have crossed the stream, and there would have been nothing for us but to have remained and starved in the wilderness.