ad changed into a passionate and
pulsing beat of rain, whipped and lashed by the wind that shook the
timbers about us. The air, however, was cooler by this time, and it
was easier to breathe. So I found it hard to understand why Whinnie,
as he stood in the half-light by one of the windows, should wear such
a look of protest on his morose old face which was the color of a
pigskin saddle just under the stirrup-flap.

Even when I heard one solitary thump on the roof over my head, as
distinct as the thump of a hammer, I failed to understand what was
worrying my hired man. Then, after a momentary pause in the rain, the
thumps were repeated. They were repeated in a rattle which became a
clatter and soon grew into one continuous stream of sound, like a
thousand machine-guns all going off at once.

I realized then what it meant, what it was. It was hail. And it meant
that we were being "hailed out."

We were being cannonaded with shrapnel from the skies. We were being
deluged with blocks of ice almost the size of duck-eggs. So thunderous
was the noise that I had no remembrance when the window-panes on the
west side of the house were broken. It wasn't, in fact, until I beheld
the wind and water blowing in through the broken sashes that I
awakened to what had happened. But I did nothing to stop the flood. I
merely sat there with my two babes in my arms and my Dinkie pressed in
close between my knees, in a foolishly crouching and uncomfortable
position, as though I wanted to shield their tender little bodies with
my own. I remember seeing Struthers run gabbing and screaming about
the room and then try to bury herself under her mattress, like the
silly old she-ostrich she was, with her number sevens sticking out
from under the bedding. I remember seeing Whinnie picking up one of
the white things that had rolled in through the broken window. It was
oblong, and about as big as a pullet's egg, but more irregular in
shape. It was clear on the outside but milky at the center, making me
think of a half-cooked globe of tapioca. But it was a stone of solid
ice. And thousands and thousands of stones like that, millions of
them, were descending on my wheat, were thrashing down my half-ripened
oats, were flailing the world and beating the life and beauty out of
my crops.

The storm ended almost as abruptly as it had begun. The hammers of
Thor that were trying to pound my lonely little prairie-house to
pieces were withdrawn, the tumult st