Then Daddy Whiddon spoke.
"A follerin' burrd," he said.
I got up, and looked across the blue field we were ploughing into
white furrows. Far away a tiny sail scarred the great solitude,
and astern came a gull flying slowly close to the water's breast.
Daddy Whiddon waved his pipe towards it.
"A follerin' burrd," he said, again; and again I waited; questions
were not grateful to him.
"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 burrd."
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 burrd."
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.
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