“Have some hot spirits, then, an’ listen to this—all set out in Isaiah forty-one—eighteen: ‘I will open rivers in high places and fountains in the midst of the valleys; I will make the wilderness a pool of water and the dry land springs of water.’ Theer! If that ban’t a picter of the present plague o’ rain, what should be?”
“So ’t is; an’ the fountains in the midst of the valleys be the awfullest part. Burnish it all! The high land had the worst of the winter, but we in the low coombs be gwaine to get the worst o’ the spring—safe as water allus runs down-long.”
“’T will find its awn level, which the prophet knawed.”
“I wish he knawed how soon.”
“’T is in the Word, I’ll wager. I may come upon it yet.”
“The airth be damn near drowned, an’ the air’s thick like a washin’-day everywheers, an’ a terrible braave sight o’ rain unshed in the elements yet.”
“’T will pass, sure as Noah seed a rainbow.”
“Ess, ’t will pass; but Monks Barton’s like to be washed to Fingle Bridge fust. Oceans o’ work waitin’, but what can us be at? Theer ban’t a bit o’ land you couldn’t most swim across.”
“Widespread trouble, sure ’nough—all awver the South Hams, high an’ low.”
“By the same token, I met Will Blanchard an hour agone. Gwaine in the dispensary, he was. The li’l bwoy’s queer—no gert ill, but a bit of a tisseck on the lungs. He got playin’ ’bout, busy as a rook, in the dirt, and catched cold.”