“’S mud,” was the response.
Down went the barometer—down, down, slowly, uncompromisingly down! ’Twas shocking to the nerves to consult it.
“An’ I’m tellin’ you this, lads,” said a man on my father’s wharf, tugging uneasily at his sou’wester, “that afore midnight you’ll be needin’ t’ glue your hair on!”
This feeling of apprehension was everywhere—on the roads, in the stages, in the very air. No man of our harbour put to sea. With the big wind coming, ’twas no place for punt, schooner or steamer. The waters off shore were set with traps for the unwary and the unknowing—the bluffs veiled by mist, the drift ice hidden, the reefs covered up. In a gale of wind from the east there would be no escape.
Through the dragging day my mother had been restless and in pain. In the evening she turned to us.
“I’m tired,” she whispered.
Tired? Oh, ay! She was tired—very, very tired! It was near time for her to rest. She was sadly needing that.
“An’ will you try t’ sleep, now?” my sister asked.
“Ay,” she answered, wanly, “I’ll sleep a bit, now, if I can. Where’s Davy?”