"It is going to storm," murmured Grace. "I hope no dead limbs fall from the trees on our camp." Pulling the blankets over her head to shut out the sounds she tried to go to sleep, but sleep would not come, so Grace uncovered her head and lay listening.
The wind seemed to die down for a while, but it soon sprang up with renewed strength, and was sweeping violently over the tops of the pines, which were creaking and groaning under the strain. A distant crash told of some forest giant that had gone down under the blast; then the rain fell, a deluge of it, which finally beat through the little tents and trickled down over the sleeping Overland girls.
"Are you all right in there?" called Tom from the outside.
"Yes, but we are getting wet. Is it going to last long?" asked Grace.
"Not being able to get a view of the sky, I can't say positively. It seems like only a shower to me."
"Wait a moment. I'll join you."
Grace hurriedly dressed and, throwing on her rubber coat, stepped out.
"I don't just like the way some of these trees are acting," said Tom. "Perhaps you haven't noticed how the ground is heaving."
"Yes I have, but I did not know that it meant anything alarming."
"It shows that the wind is throwing a great strain on the trees and that there is too much play in the roots for the good of the trees—and ourselves," he added. "I hope our supplies do not fall down under the whipping they are getting."