Quake & After-Quake

San Emigdio, San Gennaro and Santa Barbara are the saints whose job it is to tame earthquakes. Perhaps they were caught napping. Or perhaps too few prayers had recently reached their ears. Last week in southern Peru a subterranean mutter grew into a growl. For almost three minutes the earth juggled the ancient town of Nazca, while houses crumbled. The nearby village of Palpa was flattened, as if by an iron, and a deathly ague shook Ica, toppling the steeple of the Church of Our Lord of Luren in a foam of dust. In Lima, 250 miles to the north, thousands who remembered the terrible quake of 1940 were driven into the streets by a frightening temblor.

At the port of Lomas the sea sucked back 600 feet from shore, then heaved a tidal wave that smashed warehouses and seethed into the town. The people of Lomas scuttled into nearby hills. There, after nightfall, they pointed to a fresh terror: a great shadow slowly passed over the face of the moon.

Morning came and throughout the area the earth was once more quiet. For the scores of injured came caravans of supply-laden trucks, with doctors and nurses aboard. For the dead, church bells tolled and newly lit candles glowed before many altars.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.