The Collected Stories Of Eudora Welty - Plot & Excerpts
He came in his dream and stood just outside the door of her room, his little chin that was like a chicken's clean breastbone tilting upwards. "It has come," the old man said, and he made a complaint of it. Jenny in her bed lay still, waking more still than in the sleep of a moment before. "The river has come back. That Floyd came to tell me. The sun was shining full on the face of the church, and that Floyd came around it with his wrist hung with a great long catfish. 'It's coming,' he said. 'It's the river.' Oh, it came then! Like a head and arm. Like a horse. A mane of cedar trees tossing over the top. It has borne down, and it has closed us in. That Floyd was right." He reached as if to lift an obstacle that he thought was stretched there—the bar that crossed the door in her mother's time. It seemed beyond his strength, she tried to cry out, and he came in through the doorway. The cord and tassel of his brocade robe—for he had put it on—seemed to weigh upon his fragile walking like a chain, and yet it could have been by inexorable will that he wore it, so set were his little steps, in such duty he dragged it.
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