Rob of the Bowl: A Legend of St. Inigoe's. Vol. 1 (of 2)Kennedy, John Pendleton
History
Rob of the Bowl: A Legend of St. Inigoe's. Vol. 1 (of 2)
Kennedy, John Pendleton
Maryland -- History -- Colonial period, ca. 1600-1775 -- Fiction
humble pretensions. It was so low that a man of ordinary height, while
standing at the door, might lay his hand upon the eaves of the roof,
and correspondent to its elevation, it was so scanty in space as to
afford but two apartments, of which the largest was not above ten feet
square. It was strongly built of hewn logs, and the door, strengthened
by nails thickly studded over its surface, was further fortified by a
heavy padlock, which rendered it sufficiently impregnable against a
sharper assault than might be counted on from such as ordinarily should
find motive to molest the proprietor of such a dwelling.
A small enclosure surrounded the hut and furnished ground for some
common garden plants which were not neglected in their culture. A few
acres, on the higher plain above the bank, exhibited signs of
husbandry; and the small nets and other fishing tackle disposed about
the curtilage, together with a skiff drawn up on the sand, gave
evidence of the ostensible thrift by which the occupant of the hut
obtained a livelihood.
To this spot I propose to introduce my reader, the day preceding that
at which my story has been opened. It was about an hour before sunset,
and a light drizzling rain, with a steady wind from the north-east,
infused a chilly gloom into the air, and heightened the tone of
solitude which prevailed over the scene. A thin curl of smoke which
rose from the clumsy chimney of the hut gave a sign of habitation to
the premises, and this was further confirmed by the presence of a large
and cross-visaged mastiff-bitch, whose heavy head might be discerned
thrust forth from beneath the sill of the gable,--a sullen warder of
this sullen place of strength. The waves, now propelled upon a flood
tide, rolled in upon the shore, and broke almost at the door of the
hut, with a hoarse and harsh and ceaseless plash. Far out over the bay,
the white caps of the wind-driven surge floated like changing snow
drifts upon the surface of the waters. The water fowl rose in squadrons
above this murky waste and struggled to windward, in a flight so low as
frequently to shield them from the sight in the spray. An old bald
eagle perched on the loftiest branch of a lightning-riven tree,
immediately upon the bank above the hut, kept anxious watch upon her
nest which, built in the highest fork, rocked to and fro in the breeze,
whilst her screams of warning to her young seemed to answer to the din
of the waters.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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