COMMUNITY OF MOTHER NATURE

They saved not temples from the mid year storm harm. The unstoppable force of life simplified work of many places of love. Association Avenue Baptist Church is directly down the road close to the Cooper-Union road crossing point. Tuesday, that congregation looked a ton not the same as the manner in which it used to. 

In the wake of hearing an uproarious accident, this is the manner by which church individuals tracked down their primary asylum. Church part Linda Akin said, "That was the significant harm, that was our significant asylum and that was the place where it blew all the stained glass windows on the west side and some on the east side out." 

Somewhere in the range of eight and nine AM. 

A dim heavy hued mass is crawling ridiculous towards the sun. Red crisscrosses of lightning glimmer to a great extent across it. There is a sound of far-away thundering. A warm wind skips over the grass, twists the trees, and works up the residue. In a moment there will be a spray of May rain and a genuine tempest will start. 

Fyokla, a little transient young lady of six, is going through the town, searching for Terenty the shoemaker. The white-haired, shoeless kid is pale. Her eyes are totally open, her lips are shuddering. 

"Uncle, where is Terenty?" she asks each one she meets. Nobody answers. They are totally distracted with the moving toward tempest and take asylum in their cabins. Finally she meets Silanty Silitch, the sacristan, Terenty's chest companion. He is going along, faltering from the breeze. 

"Uncle, where is Terenty?" 

"At the kitchen-gardens," answers Silanty. 

The hobo young lady runs behind the hovels to the kitchen-gardens and there discovers Terenty; the tall elderly person with a flimsy, scar checked face, extremely long legs, and uncovered feet, wearing a lady's worn out coat, is remaining close to the vegetable plots, looking with sluggish, tanked eyes at the dim tempest cloud. On his long crane-like legs he influences in the breeze like a starling-cote. 

"Uncle Terenty!" the white-headed transient young lady tends to him. "Uncle, sweetheart!" 

Terenty twists down to Fyokla, and his dreary, inebriated face is overspread happily, for example, come into individuals' countenances when they take a gander at something little, stupid, and crazy, however energetically adored. 

"Ok! worker of God, Fyokla," he says, stuttering softly, "where have you come from?" 

"Uncle Terenty," says Fyokla, with a cry, pulling at the lapel of the shoemaker's jacket. "Sibling Danilka has had a mishap! Tag along!" 

"What kind of mishap? Ough, what thunder! Blessed, sacred, heavenly. What kind of mishap?" 

"In the check's brush Danilka stuck his hand into an opening in a tree, and he can't get it out. Go along, uncle, do be benevolent and haul his hand out!" 

"How was it he placed his hand in? What for?" 

"He needed to get a cuckoo's egg out of the opening for me." 

"The day has barely started and right now you are in a tough situation." Terenty shook his head and spat purposely. "Indeed, how am I to manage you now? I should come. I should, may the wolf eat you up, you insidious kids! Come, little vagrant!" 

Terenty emerges from the kitchen-garden and, lifting high his long legs, starts stepping down the town road. He strolls rapidly ceaselessly or looking from one side to another, like he were pushed from behind or terrified of pursuit. Fyokla can barely stay aware of him. 

They emerge from the town and turn along the dusty street towards the tally's brush that lies dim blue somewhere far off. It is about a mile and a half away. The mists have at this point covered the sun, and soon a short time later there isn't a bit of blue left in the sky. It develops dim. 

"Blessed, heavenly, sacred" murmurs Fyokla, hustling after Terenty. The principal downpour drops, large and hefty, lie, dim specks on the dusty street. A major drop falls on Fyokla's cheek and floats like a destroy her jaw. 

"The downpour has started," murmurs the shoemaker, kicking up the residue with his exposed, hard feet. "That is fine, Fyokla, old young lady. The grass and the trees are taken care of by the downpour, as we are by bread. What's more, concerning the thunder, don't you be terrified, little vagrant. For what reason would it be a good idea for it to slaughter an easily overlooked detail like you?" 

When the downpour starts, the breeze drops. The lone sound is the patter of downpour dropping like fine shot on the youthful rye and the dry street. 

"We will get drenched, Fyokla," mumbles Terenty. "There will not be a dry spot left on us. Ho-ho, my young lady! It's overview my neck! However, don't be scared, senseless. The grass will be dry once more, the earth will be dry once more, and we will be dry once more. There is a similar sun for us every one of us." 

A blaze of lightning, nearly fourteen feet in length, sparkles over their head. There is an uproarious ring of thunder, and Fyokla can't help suspecting that something significant, hefty, and round is turning preposterous and tearing it open, precisely over her head. 

"Sacred, blessed, heavenly" says Terenty, crossing himself. "Try not to be apprehensive, little vagrant! It isn't from demonstrate hatred for that it roars." 

Terenty's and Fyokla's feet are covered with pieces of weighty, wet mud. It is dangerous and hard to walk, however Terenty steps on increasingly more quickly. The frail little bum young lady is short of breath and prepared to drop. 

However, finally they go into the check's thicket. The washed trees, blended by a whirlwind, drop an ideal cascade upon them. Terenty staggers over stumps and starts to loosen his speed. 

"Whereabouts is Danilka?" he inquires. "Lead me to him." 

Fyokla drives him into a brush, and, in the wake of going a fourth of a mile, focuses to Danilka. Her sibling, a little individual of eight, with hair as red as ochre and a pale debilitated face, stands inclining toward a tree, and, with his head on one side, taking a gander at the sky. In one hand he holds his pitiful old cap, the other is covered up in an old lime tree. The kid is looking at the blustery sky, and clearly not thinking about his difficulty. Hearing strides and seeing the shoemaker he gives wiped out grin and says: 

"A horrendous part of thunder, Terenty. I've never heard such a lot of roar in for my entire life." 

"Also, where is your hand?" 

"In the red. Haul it out, please, Terenty!" 

The wood had broken at the edge of the opening and stuck Danilka's hand: he could push it farther in, yet couldn't haul it out. Terenty snaps off the messed up piece, and the kid's hand, red and squashed, is delivered. 

"It's horrendous how it's roaring," the kid says once more, scouring his hand. "What makes it thunder, Terenty?" 

"One cloud runs against different," answers the shoemaker. The gathering emerge from the brush, and stroll along the edge of it towards the obscured street. The thunder progressively decreases, and its thundering is heard far away past the town. 

"The ducks flew by here recently, Terenty," says Danilka, actually scouring his hand. "They should settle in the Gniliya Zaimishtcha bogs. Fyokla, would you like me to show you a songbird's home?" 

"Try not to contact it, you may upset them," says Terenty, wringing the water out of his cap. "The songbird is a singing-bird, without transgression. He has had a voice given him in his throat, to applaud God and encourage the core of man. It's just plain wrong to upset him." 

"Shouldn't something be said about the sparrow?" 

"The sparrow doesn't make any difference, he's a terrible, angry bird. He resembles a pickpocket in his manners. He doesn't care for man to be content. At the point when Christ was executed it was the sparrow carried nails to the Jews, and called 'alive! alive!' " 

A brilliant fix of blue shows up in the sky. 

"Look!" says Terenty. "An insect stack burst open by the downpour! They've been overwhelmed, the mavericks!" 

They twist around the insect stack. The deluge has harmed it; the bugs are dashing forward and backward in the mud, upset, and hectically attempting to divert their suffocated colleagues. 

"You needn't be in a particularly taking, you will not bite its dust!" says Terenty, smiling. "When the sun warms you, you'll wake up once more. It's an exercise to you, you stupids. You will not choose low ground some other time." 

They go on. 

"Furthermore, here are a few honey bees," cries Danilka, highlighting the part of a youthful oak tree. 

The doused and chilled honey bees are crouched together on the branch. There are such large numbers of them that neither bark nor leaf can be seen. A large number of them are chosen each other. 

"That is a bee hive," Terenty educates them. "They were flying searching for a home, and when the downpour descended upon them they settled. On the off chance that a multitude is flying, you need just sprinkle water on them to make them settle. Presently if, say, you needed to take the multitude, you would twist the branch with them into a sack and shake it, and they the entire fall in." 

Little Fyokla abruptly scowls and rubs her neck vivaciously. Her sibling sees her neck, and sees a major growing on it. 

"Hello!" chuckles the shoemaker. "Do you know where you got that from, Fyokla, old young lady? There are Spanish flies on some tree in the wood. The downpour has streamed off them, and a drop has fallen on your neck. That is the thing that has made the expanding." 

The sun shows up from behind the mists and floods the wood, the fields, and the three companions with its warm light. The dull threatening cloud has gone far away and taken the tempest with it. The air is warm and fragrant. There is a fragrance of bird-cherry, meadowsweet, and lilies-of-the-valley. 

"That spice is given when your nose drains," says Terenty, highlighting a wooly-looking bloom. "It does great." 

They hear a whistle and a thunder, yet not such a thunder as the tempest mists diverted. A products train races by before the eyes of Terenty, Danilka, and Fyokla. The motor, gasping and puffing out dark smoke, hauls in excess of twenty vans after it. Its force is gigantic. The kids are intrigued to know how a motor, not alive and without the assistance of ponies, can move and drag such loads, and Terenty embraces to disclose it to them: 

"It's all the steam's doing, kids. The steam accomplishes the work. It pushes under that thing close to the wheels, and it works." 

They cross the rail route line, and, going down from the dike, stroll towards the stream. They walk not with any article, but rather exactly aimlessly, and talk as far as possible. Danilka poses inquiries, Terenty responds to them. 

Terenty addresses every one of his inquiries, and there is no mystery in Nature which confounds him. He knows it all. Along these lines, for instance, he knows the names of the multitude of wild blossoms, creatures, and stones. He understands what spices fix illnesses, he has no trouble in telling the age of a pony or a cow. Taking a gander at the nightfall, at the moon, or the birds, he can determine what kind of climate it will be following day. What's more, in reality, it isn't on