“There be a carpse there, sure enough, a carpse driftin’ and shiftin’ on the floor of the sea. There be those as can’t rest, poor sawls, and her’ll be mun, her’ll be mun, and the sperrit of her is with the bürrd.” The clumsy boom swung across as we changed our course, and the water ran from us in smooth reaches on either side: the bird flew steadily on. “What will the spirit do?” I said. The old man looked at me gravely. “Her’ll rest in the Lard’s time, in the Lard’s gude time—but now her’ll just be follerin’ on with the bürrd.” The gull was flying close to us now, and a cold wind swept the sunny sea. I shivered: Daddy looked at me curiously. “There be reason enough to be cawld if us did but knaw it, but I he mos’ used to ’em, poor sawls.” He shaded his keen old blue eyes, and looked away across the water. His face kindled. “There be a skule comin’, and by my sawl ’tis mackerel they be drivin’.” I watched eagerly, and saw the dark line rise and fall in the trough of the sea, and, away behind, the stir and rush of tumbling porpoises as they chased their prey. Again we changed our tack, and each taking an oar, pulled lustily for the beach. “Please God her’ll break inshore,” said Daddy Whiddon; and he shouted the news to the idle waiting men who hailed us. In a moment all was stir, for the fishing had been slack. Two boats put out with the lithe brown seine. The dark line had turned, but the school was still behind, churning the water in clumsy haste; they were coming in. Then the brit broke in silvery leaping waves on the shelving beach. The threefold hunt was over; the porpoises turned out to sea in search of fresh quarry; and the seine, dragged by ready hands, came slowly, stubbornly in with its quivering treasure of fish. They had sought a haven and found none; the brit lay dying in flickering iridescent heaps as the bare-legged babies of the village gathered them up; and far away over the water I saw a single grey speck; it was the following bird. * * * * * The curtain of river haze falls back; barge and bird are alike gone, and the lamplighter has lit the first gas-lamp on the far side of the bridge. Every night I watch him come, his progress marked by the great yellow eyes that wake the dark. Sometimes he walks quickly; sometimes he loiters on the bridge to chat, or stare at the dark water; but he always comes, leaving his watchful deterrent train behind him to police the night.