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Updated: June 6, 2025
The field of trampled clover looked as if a windstorm had swept over it, strewing the contents of a dozen dismantled houses. There were stacks of arms and piles of cooking utensils, knapsacks, half emptied, lay beside the charred remains of fires, and loose fence rails showed red and white glimpses of playing cards, hidden, before the fight, by superstitious soldiers.
She seemed to love to float, wings outspread and eyes half closed, on one of those tranquil air-plateaux that lie between drifting air-currents. She was an adept, apparently, at finding the little nodule of quiet space that forms the center of every windstorm. Standing upright in it, flaming wings erect, she would whirl through space like an autumn leaf.
Towards evening the wind was blowing very hard, and it increased in strength every minute until it blew a perfect hurricane. Then what my friends had said to me came to mind. It was indeed a fearful windstorm! The gale had become such that the horse at times did not seem to have strength enough to pull our sleigh.
"Great Scott! How we're pounding it! Fifty miles an hour. Where are we?" he cried, aghast. He could scarcely keep his feet, so terrific was the speed and so sickening the motion. She got to her feet and lurched to his side. "Don't fall out!" she almost shrieked. He drew back with her. Together they swayed like reeds in a windstorm, staring dizzily at the wall before them.
The boxes were filled with straw and hay, and had homespun blankets or sheepskins, and eider down or feather pillows. The sofa-like beds were all along the walls, for there was a large family. It was well that I was at the farm. A more terrific windstorm than all those I had seen before, arose during the night.
What will become of me in this terrific windstorm, in the midst of these great towering mountains that surround me on every side? An answer to my question, as dark as my thought, said: "Starvation! Starvation! Death! Death!" Suddenly I thought I heard, through the storm, the same voice from the friends at home shouting to me, "Be of good cheer, Paul; go on; go on! No harm will befall you!"
His passage along the green aisle was very slow, and when at last he reached the extreme end by the little beaten path and felled the last stalk on his left side he straightened himself for a moment's rest, and stood, bareheaded, gazing over the broad field, which looked as if a windstorm had blown in an even line along the edge, scattering the outside plants upon the ground.
There was only an inch of it showing, and if it had not been for Tom's sharp eyes, it would certainly have been overlooked and passed by. The next windstorm would have covered it up, and all that afterward happened never would have occurred. "Look, sir," he said, as he struck the sand from it, "it hath writing on it." "Let me see it," said Parson Jones.
Late one April there came a windstorm from the northwest, and the next morning the lawn was strewn with the bodies of hundreds of little Warblers who had become confused in the darkness and unable to reach shelter. "You see how many troubles and risks Citizen Bird has to endure at best, so that we House People should do everything we can to protect him and make his life among us happy.
Some writer tells that "a geologist has estimated that a single windstorm across the Sahara once carried nearly 2,000,000 tons of dust from Africa and deposited it over Italy, Austria, France and Germany." At the end of four months spent in Tripolitania, John Cornwall's contract for a year's service with the Y expired and he asked for transportation to America.
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