In the thunder’s rage the sensitive demon perceives a weary note, the voice of defeat. He knows that the clouds cannot conceal the sun—not they!
The wind is sighing; the thunder is pealing. Hundreds of clouds gleam bluish over the precipice of the sea. The sea is catching darts of lightning and smothering them in its bosom. Like serpents of fire the reflections of the lightning are writhing, vanishing one after the other.
The storm is advancing! Another minute and the storm will come with a crash.
It is the intrepid storm-petrel who is proudly careering among the flashes of lightning over the roaring, infuriated sea; it is the prophet of victory who is shouting.
Let the storm blow and roar with all its might!
What Buzz-Saw Morgan Thinks
BY W. S. MORGAN
TRUSTS breed distrust.