But Grandpa scanned the sky with a dark, keen glance--the air of an old
voyager on stormy and literal seas, and he shook his head, sagely.
"Wall, wall, ma," he said, "it don't make no difference whether it's a
wind-storm or a rain-storm that I know on, but a tempest it's brewin',
sartin sure. I remember once, we'd had a spell o' weather jest like this,
and it begun to gether up in the same way. It was in the same latitude,
teacher, same latitude. I was off cruisin' with Bob Henchy--whew! That
ar' was a singin' gale! I remember it as well as yesterday. I was off
with Bob----"
"Are you sure it was Bob ye was off with, pa," interrupted Grandma. "I
could almost write a book, pa, while you was tellin' a story."
"Wall, wall, ma! Write a book, if ye want to!" exclaimed Grandpa, with
sweeping force. "I'm sure nobody wants to hender yer writing a book if ye
want to, ma!"
Grandma Keeler heeded not those derisive words. Her mind was bent on
pursuits of a far loftier and more engrossing nature. In respect to the
weather--except on Sabbath mornings, when it was impossible to credit
Grandpa with perfect fairness and impartiality of judgment--Grandma, it
must be said, had real faith in the old sea-captain's prognostications.
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