“A follerin’ bürrd,” he said.
I got up, and looked across the blue field we were ploughing into white furrows. Far away a tiny sail scarred the great solitude, and astern came a gull flying slowly close to the water’s breast.
Daddy Whiddon waved his pipe towards it.
“A follerin’ bürrd,” he said, again; and again I waited; questions were not grateful to him.
“There be a carpse there, sure enough, a carpse driftin’ and shiftin’ on the floor of the sea. There be those as can’t rest, poor sawls, and her’ll be mun, her’ll be mun, and the sperrit of her is with the bürrd.”
The clumsy boom swung across as we changed our course, and the water ran from us in smooth reaches on either side: the bird flew steadily on.
“What will the spirit do?” I said.
The old man looked at me gravely.
“Her’ll rest in the Lard’s time, in the Lard’s gude time—but now her’ll just be follerin’ on with the bürrd.”
The gull was flying close to us now, and a cold wind swept the sunny sea. I shivered: Daddy looked at me curiously.