Not far off was a pigeon-house on a pole, and not far from that still another pole surmounted by a weather-vane, and two little wooden blue-jackets, that whenever the wind blew, went whirling round and round, clashing swords and engaging in a kind of fanatic duel, which seemed terribly real and terribly deadly for the time being.
It was a morning in early spring, and up and down the walk behind the cottage stepped a sturdy, weather-beaten old sailor, with hair and beard of iron-grey, and a face as red as the newest brick that ever was fashioned.
He stood for a moment gazing upwards at the strutting fantails.
“Curr-a-coo—curr-a-coo,” said the pigeons.
“Curr-a-coo—curr-a-coo,” replied the sailor. “I dare say you’re very happy, and I’m sure you think the sun was made for you and you only. Ah! my bonnie birdies, you don’t know what the world is doing. You don’t—hullo?”
“Yes, my dear, you may say hullo,” said a cheerful little woman, with a bright, pleasant face, walking up to him, and placing an arm in his. “Didn’t you hear me tapping on the pane for you?”
“Not I, little wife, not I,” said Silas Grig. “I’ve been thinking, lass, thinking—”
“Well, then,” interrupted his wife, “don’t you think any more; you’ve made your hair all white with thinking. Just come in and have breakfast. That haddock smells delicious, and I’ve made some nice toast, and tried the new tea. Come, Silas, come.”
Away went the two together, he with his arm around her waist, looking as happy, the pair of them, as though their united ages didn’t make a deal over a hundred.
“Come next month,” said Silas, as soon as he had finished his first cup of tea—“come next month, little wife, it will just be two years since I first met the Arrandoon. Heigho?”