“You’ve got everything out, I fancy?” asked Lambert.
“Everyt’ing,” replied Winklemann, with a deep sigh; “not’ing is left but zee hause.”
“An’ that won’t be left long,” observed Mr Ravenshaw, as a huge mass of ice went against its gable-end like a battering-ram.
It seemed to be the leader of a fresh battalion of the destroyer. A succession of ice-floes ran against the house and trees to which it was fastened. An additional rush of water came down at the same time like a wave of the sea. Every one saw that the approaching power was irresistible. The wave, with its ice-laden crest, absolutely roared as it engulfed the bushes. Two goodly elms bowed their heads into the flood and snapped off. The ropes parted like packthread; the building slewed round, reeled for a moment with a drunken air, caught on a shallow spot, and hung there.
“Ach! mine goot old hause—farvell!” exclaimed Winklemann, in tones of deepest pathos.
The house bowed as if in recognition of the old familiar voice, sloped into deeper water, gurgled out its latest breath, like a living thing, through its doors and windows, and sank beneath the wreck and ruin of its old surroundings.
It was what men aptly term a clean sweep, but Winklemann’s was not the only house that succumbed to the flood on that occasion. Many besides himself were rendered homeless. That night, (the 4th of May), the waters rose four feet, and the settlers even on the higher grounds began to think of flight.