The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1897-12-09
THE CYCLONES PATH.
A Scene of Beauty and Peace Changed
Into One of Destruction.

AhtO Ohe OI OeSIructIOn.
As you stand here on this hill and
look down into the valley, your eyes
never rested on more peaceful scene.
1t is five miles down 20 where you see
the Skinner of the waters of the lake
underlthis afternoon sun. 1t is a mile
from this hill across to the sides of the
wooded mountain.
How quiet everything is! The smoke
curls lazily up from half dozen farm
house chimneys; you see cattle and
horses grazing in the fields; now and
then you catch sight of farmer NOV
ing about. Down there in that grove is
school house, and a dozen or more
children have just been called in from
recess. Heaven never created a more
perfect June day. 1t would be hard to
find in all the world a more beautiful
spot. Every tree in that valley is in full
bloom. There is just faint stir of air
now and then, and ii brings up to US the
odor of flowers and blossoms.
What's that We face down the valley
with start of surprise. No one has
shouted. No one is near. There was no
sound. And yet there was something
to alarm. The blue bird has ceased her
song, the chirping of the cricket beside
the great rock is heard no more. You
can almost feel something like a
shudder in these trees, up which the
wild grape vines are climbing in such
profusion. There is no change down in
the valley. No shadow of danger has
crept into the open door of the school
house to give warning.
Down beyond the lake a cloud sud.
denly appears in the blue afternoon
sky. 1t seems at first as if one of the
tree tops had suddenly been thrust up
ward, but it rapidly enlarges Once be-
fore you saw a similar cloud, and the
recollection makes you chill. Its center
is blue-black; its edges are frayed and
ragged and tangled. As you gaze at it,
your breath coming faster and your
pulses throbbing, it seems as if a giant
hand, holding a giant pen, was thrust
forward to write the word DEATH" in
letters of fire across the face of the
cloud.
You look down into the valley and cry
out, but it is in vain. Your voice is
lost before it reaches the fields and
farmhouses. Old men sleep on; young
men whistle as they work. With that
blue sky overhead, and that glad sun
shine bathing the earth, even the boom
of a great cannon would not startle
man or beast.
1t is coming! Scarcely minute has
passed since you saw the cloud. 1t
seemed hanging like a balloon in a still
sky at first. Now it is moving-whirl-
ing about like a great whecl-advanc-
ing up the valley! There is a distant
moaning nearer--nearer-a now
Death himself bounds over the tree
tops hiding the lake and strikes into the
valley with a mad Shrek to sound the
alarm.
A cannon ball could scarcely have
kept pace with it, And now you look
down into the valley again It is still a
valley, shut in by the rugged ranges
which have defied the wrath of Heaven
for centuries, but what of the houses.
trees-those who slept and those who
worked? Wreck-ruin-deat there
are a few wounded, there are many
dead Not a house. tree or fence j.
left standing. Even the headboards
marking the graves in the little GENE
terry have been rent and riven and
carried afar.
The plague of fire or sword would
have wrought less destruction. The
wrath of the cyclone is the wrath of the
Creator-DetrOit Free Press.