Vesty of the Basins

Now is it to be rain or a storm of wind at the Basin?
I love that foam out on the sea; those boulders, black and wet along the shore, they are a rest to me; the clouds chase one another; in this dim north country the wind is cool and strong, though it is now midsummer; at sunset you shall see such color!
From a little, low, storm-beaten building comes the sound of a fog-horn. That is the gift of Melchias Tibbitts, deceased, to the Basin school-house. Yonder is his schooner, the Martha B. Fuller, long stranded, leaning seaward, down there in the cove.
It is Sunday afternoon; the fog-horn that Melchias Tibbitts gave—it serves as bell; the battered schoolhouse as church; and for Sunday raiment? some little reverent, aspiring compromise of an unwonted white collar, stretched stiff and holy and uncomfortable about the stalwart neck above a blue flannel shirt, or a new pair of rubber boots—the trousers much tucked in—worn with an air of conscious, deprecating pride.
But the women will be fine. God only knows how! but be sure, in some pitiful, sweet way they will be fine.
There are many panes of glass out of the windows, the panels of the doors are out; so better they can see the clouds pass: it is beautiful.
Oh, naught have I either, nor wisdom, nor fine speech—only a little knowledge of shipwreck out yonder, and mirth, and tears, and love. The windows and panels of my life are no strong plate, polished and glittering to all beholders; they are stained and broken through. Let me come in and sit with ye.
We should like to open our meetin' with singin', said Superintendent Skates; will one of the Pointers lead us in singin'?
The Pointers were the aristocrats of this region, living twelve miles away at the Point, in the midst of two grocery stores and a millinery establishment; there were two of them here for a Sunday drive and pastime. They were silent.
I see, said Elder Skates patiently, that a few of the Crooked Rivers have drove down to-day, too. Will one of the Crooked Rivers lead us in singin'?