“And I have loved thee, ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne like thy bubbles onward ...
I wantoned with thy breakers ...
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane,
As I do now.”
But let us return to that evening when, in the gloaming, we found young Barclay Stuart marching along from the cliffs with his fish on a string, and singing a bit of a song to himself.
There is always some good in the heart of that boy who can sing, unless indeed he sings the low, non-melodious chants of music-halls.
Presently Barclay stopped and looked at his catch.
“One, two, three—why, eleven altogether, all codlings, except two little red rock piggies;[1] won’t mother be pleased! The piggies mother and sister Phoebe can have; I’ll have a codling all to myself, and poor Priscilla won’t be forgotten.” He walked along at a brisker rate now till he remembered that he had not paid a visit to an old disused windmill that stood on a lonesome bluff some five hundred yards from Fisherton.
“I’ll just have time to run that distance and see if the great white owl is at home. She knows that I know of her nest and her round white eggs, but she knows I won’t take them.”
Off he set.
There was twilight enough to see about him yet.
“They do say,” he muttered to himself, “there is a ghost in the old windmill. But my mother says, ‘It is all nonsense, child,’ and I would rather believe her than all the old wives in Fisherton.”
It will be observed that Barclay had a habit of talking to himself, as most sentimental lads who have few companions have.