"If ma knew it was Judgment Day," said she, "she'd carry those milk-pans
up the hill to dry, and if she knew it was Judgment Hour she'd go to
fetch 'em."
The scene grew rapidly weird as the sky darkened. A low sigh, like a
premonition, crept through the heavy atmosphere and shivered among the
peach-blossoms.
The first gust of wind seized Grandma, returning with the milk-pans. It
was a zephyr compared with the blasts that followed, but it had the
effect of giving to that good soul's usually composed and reassuring
presence, something of the appearance of a crazy and dismantled ship,
rolling in a high sea.
Grandpa was quick at detecting the resemblance, and hailed her approach
in thrilling nautical terms, such as: "Why didn't ye reef yer topgallant,
ma!" when the handkerchief was torn off her head; and "hang to the
main-royal, ma," as Grandma's apron was caught up and borne, wildly
fluttering, about her ears; and "keep your ballast, ma," with frequent
ejaculations of "Lor', how she pitches! how she pitches!"
These were not thrown out as light shafts of ridicule. It was no occasion
for such. There was an awful earnestness in Grandpa Keeler's eye and in
his tone, that invested his words with due solemnity.
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