That afternoon a
south-east gale sprang up, masses of rain-clouds driving tumultuously to
the mountains of the mainland, but Tom was still youthful, and we felt
fairly safe in respect of the stability of the dull and heavy, and
wind-swept firmament. As we watched, a cloud settled on the summit of
Clump Point mountain, assuming shape as fancy pictures the
Banshee--drooping head and shoulders, and arms with pendant drapery
uplifted as in imprecation. The boys, in awe-struck attitude, pointed
to the vapoury spectre, and prognosticated fearsome rain and wind. It
all came during the night. Next morning one of the boys was eager to
declare that the nocturnal tempest was due to Tom, who had eaten the
porcupine. We had seen his weird mother-in-law, aged and decrepid,
preparing it for supper. When Tom appeared, he was duly denounced, and
challenged with the responsibility of the storm. "No!" he cried with
scorn. "Me no eat 'em that fella porcupine; chuck 'em away!" He had
intended to, but the thought of the apparition on Clump Point mountain,
and of the awful responsibility of causing the collapse of the clouds
had taken away his inclination.
But the other boy was not to have his theories as to the weather brushed
aside lightly.
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