This son and two daughters were all that remained to him of a
large family.
"An easterly bank and a westerly glim are certain signs of a wet
skin!" said the fisherman, pointing to the heavy black masses of cloud
that hung over the eastern horizon, one morning when I had risen at
sunrise for a day's fishing. "'T won't do; don't go out to-day!
There's soon such a breeze off shore, as, with the heavy chop, would
make you sick enough! Besides, the old dory won't put up with such a
storm as is coming. No fishing, my boy, to-day."
His old father said, "Stephen is right. There is a blow brewing." And
he came to look, leaning on his cane. "Stay in to-day."
I yielded, and the sky during the morning slowly assumed a dull,
leaden hue. The storm came on in the afternoon, heavily pattering, and
pouring, and blowing against the windows, and obscuring the little
light of an autumn twilight. I wandered through the few small rooms of
the cottage, endeavoring to amuse myself, while the light lasted, with
two funeral sermons and an old newspaper. Then I sat down at a window,
and I well remember the gloomy landscape, seen through the rain, in
the dusk:--the marsh, with the creek dividing it, the bare round
eminence between the house and the beach, or rather the rocky cliffs,
and on either side the wide, lonely sands, with heavy foam-capped
breakers rolling in upon the shore, with a sound like a solemn
dirge.
Pages:
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74