His cloudleſs thunder bolted on thir heads.

[P]erhaps he thought me, with my basket of summer fruit, and my lack of the dignity age confers, an incongruous figure in such a scene.

His quick swim consisted of the usual small circle, ending on the same moss-greasened rocky ledge that he'd landed on since he was ten years old.

His slink became a stride; he held his tail high; his eyes began to look more curious than scared. But he was still cautious.