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himself on the leg, and vehemently invited Dave to "Look, look at him!" But Dad battled along to the haystack, buried his head in it, and stayed there till the storm was over—Wriggling and moving his feet as though he were tramping chaff.
Shingles were dislodged from the roof of the house, and huge hailstones pelted in and put the fire out, and split the table, and fell on the sofa and the beds.
Eain fell also, but we did n't catch any in the cask—the wind blew the spout away. It was a curled piece of bark. Nevertheless, the storm did good. We did n't lose all the potatoes. We got some out of them. We had them for dinner one Sunday.
