Bergen cared deeply about providing for his wife. He pondered the free flowing advice of his neighbors, but he doubted whether the modest water level would ever swell enough to threaten his house. Instead of a wall, he planed oak boards for a porch with a swing. The possibility of enjoying the flowering dogwoods seemed more appealing than hauling stones for a wall that might be superfluous. 

 

Two years came and went with only a hint of real snow. The temperatures sank below zero for a week or two but the skies stayed blue. 

 

In the third fall, though, November blasted the village with whipping winds. December dumped four feet of heavy vanilla snow, then iced it with powder. January added another layer to P.B., but Lillian and Bergen stayed cozy in their trim house, and kept the fireplace roaring. 

 

March thaws chased the white from the mountain, and the drifts slid into drips. Sunshine melted more snow and the river swelled to a thick ribbon racing past the sleeping trees.  

 

Bergen watched as the streams began to rise. He hurriedly piled wet stones like a wedge, stomping in the icy water up to his boot tops. He yelled to Lillian to come help, as he hefted small boulders against the rising flow. Lillian came and was shocked to see how swiftly it was pounding against her husband's legs and the cobbled wall.  

 

Together they tried to barricade their home, but the force of the water overpowered them. It rose to the threshold of their cottage, laughed at them and swelled inside the door. Crying, Lillian grabbed a chair, some books, pottery, a quilt. Bergen thrashed against the stream with soaking trousers, but it was futile. 

 

He slumped, watching helplessly as the water flooded his home. He heard the echo of what his neighbors had told him.

 

"Start settin' stones long before you need them."