Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Drought
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through the service as if unconscious—but at those
broken words, that hoarse despair, every one awoke.
“If there is still a way of redress for me, give us
rain!”
He was silent. The doors stood open. There
came a sudden gust of wind. It sped along the
ground, whirled up against the church, and sent a
cloud of dust inside, full of sticks and bits of straw.
The pastor could not continue; he stumbled down
from the pulpit.
The people shuddered. Could this be an answer?
But the gust of wind was only the forerunner of the
thunderstorm. It came on with unparalleled rapidity.
When the hymn had been sung, and the pastor
stood at the altar, the lightning was already flashing,
and the thunder drowned the sound of his words.
When the sexton played the voluntary, the first
drops of rain pattered upon the green window-panes,
and all the people rushed out to look at it.
But they were not content only to look at it; some
wept, some laughed, while they let the sharp
thunder-shower stream over them. Oh, how great had
been their need! How unhappy they had been! But
God was good! God had sent rain. Oh, what joy,
what joy!
The Broby parson was the only one who did not
go out into the rain. He lay on his knees at the
altar and did not rise. The joy had been too great
for him. He was dead.
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