Thus the sodden, sunless, steaming days followed each
on the last until farming folk began to grow grave before a steady increase
of water on the land. Much hay stood in danger and some ricks had been
already ruined. Many theories were rife, Uncle Chirgwin's being, upon the
whole, the most fatuous.
"Tis a thunder-planet," he told his nieces, "an' till us get a rousin'
storm o' crooked forks an' heavy thunder this rain'll go on fallin'. But
not so much as a flap o' the collybran [Footnote: _Collybran_--Sheet
lightning.] do us get for all the heat o' the air. I should knaw, if any,
for I be out turnin' night into day an' markin' the water in the valley
every evenin' long after dark now. I'm fearin' graave for the big stack;
an' theer's three paarts o' last year's hay beside, an' two tidy lil mows
of the aftermath. So sure's the waters do rise another foot and a half,
'tis 'good-by' to the whole boilin'. Not but 'twill be a miracle for the
stream to get much higher. The moor's burstin' wi' rain, but the coffins
[Footnote: _Coffins_--Ancient mining excavations.] do hold it up, I s'pose,
an' keep it aloft. A penn'orth o' frost now would save a pound of
produce from wan end o' Carnwall to t'other."
Joan spent many long days in the house at this time and practiced an
unskillful needle, while her thoughts wandered far and near through the
sullen weather to this old cross and that.
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