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Kingston
Monday January 14, 1907.
I was seated at a little table, every window and door of the room was wide open, the heat was oppressive.
Picture a cloudless sky, a temperature of 92 or 95 degrees fahrenheit in the shade, relieved about mid-day by a cooling
breeze that increased in power until about three o'clock, when it had attained the violence almost of a gale.
Doors were repeatedly banging, blinds on every window were for ever waving in the wind; at each violent gust they would
snap like the crack of a whip. Lace curtains breaking loose from their lower fastenings were streaming continuously on the
breeze; on the windward side they were often level with the ceiling itself.
The strong breeze began to lose force until, at about 3.30, it had faded into nothingness. For two minutes there was not
a breath of wind, no doors banged, no blinds moved, curtains fell back to their places, not a sigh lifted a leaf on any bough.
Nature had seemingly withdrawn for her afternoon siesta.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And then without murmur or warning, from the Blue Mountains beyond, or the still bluer heavens above, or the ground beneath
our feet, there steals down upon us some intangible, impalpable monster, before whom the very earth reels and groans in violent
agony and despair.
The heightening roar is of eternal memory - it was as though some vast herd of tigers, with warm blood already on their
tongues, had been robbed of their prey.
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