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Pretty
soon it darkened up, and begun to thunder and lighten; so the birds
was right about it. Directly it begun to rain, and it rained like all
fury, too, and I never see the wind blow so. It was one of these regular
summer storms. It would get so dark that it looked all blue-black outside,
and lovely; and the rain would thrash along by so thick that the trees
off a little ways looked dim and spider-webby; and here would come a
blast of wind that would bend the trees down and turn up the pale underside
of the leaves; and then a perfect ripper of a gust would follow along
and set the branches to tossing their arms as if they was just wild;
and next, when it was just about the bluest and blackest - FST! it was
as bright as glory, and you'd have
a little glimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about away off yonder in the
storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before; dark
as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go
with an awful crash, and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling, down
the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels
down stairs -- where it's long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you
know.
"Jim, this is nice," I says. "I wouldn't want to be nowhere else but here. Pass me along another hunk of fish and some hot corn-bread." Mark Twain (1884): "Huckleberry Finn" |