"I knew it," said Susan grimly. "It is a cyclone!" She faced the worst—standing erect.
The next instant the storm was on them all. It lifted Mrs. Lathrop's old-gold-plush stationary rocker and hurled it at that good lady, smashing her hard against the post. It raised the roof of Mrs. Macy's house and dropped it like an extinguisher over the fleeing form of Gran'ma Mullins.
"Oh, Gran'ma Mullins, it is a cyclone!" Susan shrieked. But Gran'ma Mullins answered not.
A second mighty burst of fury blew down two trees, and it blew Susan herself back against the side wall of the house which shook and swayed like a bit of cardboard.
"Oh, yes, it's a cyclone," Susan screamed over and over. "Oh, Mrs. Lathrop, it's a real cyclone! It isn't a tornado; you can see the difference now. It's a cyclone; look at the roof; it's a cyclone!"
Mrs. Lathrop could see nothing. She and the old-gold-plush stationary rocker were all piled together under the piazza post.
And now came the third and worst burst of fury. It crashed on the blacksmith's shop; it carried the sails of the windmill swooping down the road, and then "without halting, without rest" lifted Mrs. Macy with her outspread skirts and carried her straight up in the air. "Oh! Oh!" she shrieked and sailed forth.
Susan gave a piercing yell. "Oh, Mrs. Macy, it's a tornado, it's a tornado!" But Mrs. Macy answered not.
Tipping, swaying, ducking to the right or left, she flew majestically away over her own roof first and then over that of Gran'ma Mullins' woodshed.
"Help! Help!" cried Gran'ma Mullins from under the roof.