clinging insistent to field and hedgerow so that when her veil is
withdrawn greenness may make us glad.

The river has been uniformly grey of late, with no wind to ruffle
its surface or to speed the barges dropping slowly and sullenly
down with the tide through a blurring haze. I watched one
yesterday, its useless sails half-furled and no sign of life save
the man at the helm. It drifted stealthily past, and a little
behind, flying low, came a solitary seagull, grey as the river's
haze--a following bird.

Once again I lay on my back in the bottom of the tarry old fishing
smack, blue sky above and no sound but the knock, knock of the
waves, and the thud and curl of falling foam as the old boat's
blunt nose breasted the coming sea. Then Daddy Whiddon spoke.

"A follerin' burrd," 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' burrd," 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