It is the autumnal equinox. The hurricane sweeps with hot breath the leaves of the olive and the vine in the provinces of the south, and directs its course, howling, towards the Basque Mountains. The night is dark; the woods of Biscaya, the precipitous cliffs of Guipuzcoa, and the arid plains of Alava, are full of those tremendous echoes which appeal the manliest spirit. The homesteads and granges are stirred to their foundations; the lofry chimneys are shaken; and the proud chestnuts which grow near the doors shake their branches in a furious manner as though engaged in a noble wrestling with the wind. The hurricane continues its unbridled march. On meeting with the boulders of rocks overtopping the mountains it seems to wish, in its fury, to wrench them suddenly and cast them wrathfully down; and then, turning round in its impotent rage, encircles the huge bulks with mighty spirals of whirlwinds; and on witnessing how futile are all its efforts, it casts itself headlong, roaring, into the valleys. Then with that fearful noise is mingled the pitiful cries of nature assailed and beaten.
Autor: Arthur Lasenby Liberty (1843-1917)Fecha: 22/10/1901