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.

“ […] 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.

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.