Blue eyes, all of a flash with fishing and the joy of hauling 'em in; now on the luff of the sail (out of habit, there being hardly a sail-full of air), now to wind'ard, and again smiling on the child;
Big pendulous russet hands, white in the palms from salt water, and splashed with scales—
Hands that seem implements rather, appearing strangely no part of the man, but something, like the child, that has grown away from him and has taken a life of its own—
Strong for a sixteen-foot sweep, delicate to handle the silken snood of a line—
A man that the winds and the spray have blown on, gnarled and bent to the sea's own liking,
The Father!
And the boy—
Like delicate dawn to the sunset was the child to his father—
A sturdy slight little figure, as straight as the mast,
A grey and more gently coloured figure, glancing round with the father's self-same gestures softened, and with childish trustful sea-blue eyes;