“Because the animals there are all burrowers,” he answered, “—like the field-mice and the moles here.—They will be, for ages to come.”
“How do you know that, if I may be so bold?” I rejoined.
“As any one would who had been there to see,” he replied. “It is a great sight, until you get used to it, when the earth gives a heave, and out comes a beast. You might think it a hairy elephant or a deinotherium—but none of the animals are the same as we have ever had here. I was almost frightened myself the first time I saw the dry-bog-serpent come wallowing out—such a head and mane! and SUCH eyes!—but the shower is nearly over. It will stop directly after the next thunder-clap. There it is!”
A flash came with the words, and in about half a minute the thunder. Then the rain ceased.
“Now we should be going!” said the raven, and stepped to the front of the porch.
“Going where?” I asked.
“Going where we have to go,” he answered. “You did not surely think you had got home? I told you there was no going out and in at pleasure until you were at home!”
“I do not want to go,” I said.
“That does not make any difference—at least not much,” he answered. “This is the way!”
“I am quite content where I am.”