Аня з Авонлеї
XXIV. A Prophet in His Own Country
Shefoundhimsittingbythetable,strokingGinger’sgaydeadbodywithatremblinghand.
“PoorGingerwon’tcallyouanymorenames,Anne,”hesaidmournfully.
AnnecouldneverhaveimaginedherselfcryingonGinger’saccount,butthetearscameintohereyes.
“HewasallthecompanyIhad,Anne...andnowhe’sdead.Well,well,I’manoldfooltocaresomuch.I’llletonIdon’tcare.Iknowyou’regoingtosaysomethingsympatheticassoonasIstoptalking...butdon’t.IfyoudidI’dcrylikeababy.Hasn’tthisbeenaterriblestorm?Iguessfolkswon’tlaughatUncleAbe’spredictionsagain.Seemsasifallthestormsthathe’sbeenprophesyingallhislifethatneverhappenedcameallatonce.Beatsallhowhestrucktheverydaythough,don’tit?Lookatthemesswehavehere.Imusthustleroundandgetsomeboardstopatchupthatholeinthefloor.”
Avonleafolksdidnothingthenextdaybutvisiteachotherandcomparedamages.Theroadswereimpassableforwheelsbyreasonofthehailstones,sotheywalkedorrodeonhorseback.Themailcamelatewithilltidingsfromallovertheprovince.Houseshadbeenstruck,peoplekilledandinjured;thewholetelephoneandtelegraphsystemhadbeendisorganized,andanynumberofyoungstockexposedinthefieldshadperished.
UncleAbewadedouttotheblacksmith’sforgeearlyinthemorningandspentthewholedaythere.ItwasUncleAbe’shouroftriumphandheenjoyedittothefull.
