/IDs Mtnter ©ar&en 



more to the literary mouthing than to the 

 loud boom of wind in the chimney-top. 

 Strangely distinct at intervals, cutting 

 sharply, yet not shrilly, down through 

 night's tumult, comes the cry of a wander- 

 ing sea-fowl from far aloft, where bird and 

 storm-cloud career wing and wing against 

 a dusky sky. It is an hour for one of those 

 ample romances written before the ink- 

 pots of genius, running dry of magic fluid, 

 were refilled with a gross solution of raw 

 realism. Come, Ivanhoe, come, D'Ar- 

 tagnan, come, any hero of the mighty ages, 

 and make us forget the story of debauch- 

 ing innuendo and ill-favored love. Better 

 coarse deeds of arms than flabby and 

 unsound domestic morals set in a frame 

 of unholy suggestion. 



On the very next morning after the 

 night of storm a twittering of small birds 

 in the mossy tangles round about calls up 

 the sun from a swaying sea, out of which 

 he flares gloriously, like a tremendous fire- 

 lily blossoming against the sky. It is well 

 worth the efTort to rise early and see this. 

 Moreover, the oyster fleet goes out be- 

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