A MOUNTAIN TORRENT.
and it is as fast mended. The waves caused by the rough March winds send great volumes of water splashing over the weak embankment, almost washing the men off their feet. The work is continued all day, force relieving force at night. Thousands of lanterns flashing in the darkness, as the men pass to and fro with wheelbarrows filled with sacks of earth and lumber, present a scene weird and ghostly. At intervals during the night the sound of steam whistles tell of some new break, some new danger to face and overcome. Often the negroes seem little disposed to work, even at good wages, preferring to sit on the levee and fish. But when the danger is fully upon them, they can work furiously. Sometimes, in leading the forlorn hope, some energetic old fellow may shout to his terrified, pious brethren, “Dis is no time for prayin’—go to work!” Out on the border districts where help is not easily obtained, even the wives and daughters of planters—ladies of culture and refinement, it may be—sometimes turn out and toil in the mud and rain, contending with the foe that threatens their homes. If the levees before a great city be threatened, as frequently occurs, the scene becomes still more exciting. Business is almost entirely suspended in the city and the clerks in the dry goods stores, the lawyers, the merchants and the common laborers stand shoulder to shoulder with picks and shovels fighting the common enemy. What the outcome will be no one knows. All are alarmed. Hundreds of boats are moored to back-doors, ready for use when the worst shall come. Merchants have placed their goods high up in their stores, hoping the waters will not reach them when they rise. Housekeepers have packed up their goods out of the way of the water and laid in stores enough to last for weeks, in case it becomes necessary to stay indoors for that length of time. All railway communication with the outside world is cut off, nearly all the tracks being several feet under water. The mails are sent miles away, by boat.
