This darksome burn, horseback brown, / His rollrock highroad roaring down, / In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam / Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

Toward evening there was something to be done on deck, and the carpenter who belonged to the watch was missing. “Where’s that skulk, Chips?” shouted Jermin down the forecastle scuttle.

“ […] But as for saints and relics and things, I fear I'm a bit of a Voltairian; what you would call a skeptic.”

He covered the baby with a blanket.