the edges of pack-ice--this one with true aim right into the bight
of the Bay of Biscay, that other upon the fiords of Norway, across
the North Sea where the fishermen of many nations look watchfully
into my angry eye. This is the time of kingly sport."

And the royal master of high latitudes sighs mightily, with the
sinking sun upon his breast and the double-edged sword upon his
knees, as if wearied by the innumerable centuries of a strenuous
rule and saddened by the unchangeable aspect of the ocean under his
feet--by the endless vista of future ages where the work of sowing
the wind and reaping the whirlwind shall go on and on till his
realm of living waters becomes a frozen and motionless ocean. But
the other, crafty and unmoved, nursing his shaven chin between the
thumb and forefinger of his slim and treacherous hand, thinks deep
within his heart full of guile: "Aha! our brother of the West has
fallen into the mood of kingly melancholy. He is tired of playing
with circular gales, and blowing great guns, and unrolling thick
streamers of fog in wanton sport at the cost of his own poor,
miserable subjects. Their fate is most pitiful. Let us make a
foray upon the dominions of that noisy barbarian, a great raid from
Finisterre to Hatteras, catching his fishermen unawares, baffling
the fleets that trust to his power, and shooting sly arrows into
the livers of men who court his good graces. He is, indeed, a
worthless fellow." And forthwith, while the West Wind meditates
upon the vanity of his irresistible might, the thing is done, and
the Easterly weather sets in upon the North Atlantic.

The prevailing weather of the North Atlantic is typical of the way
in which the West Wind rules his realm on which the sun never sets.
North Atlantic is the heart of a great empire. It is the part of