ut the most of them are
very small."

"But how do they shine like that, sir?" I asked.

"That I do not know, boy. God has given them the power to shine, just
as he has given us the power to walk or speak; and they do shine
brightly, as you see; but how they do it is more than I can tell. I
think, myself, it must be anger that makes them shine, for they
generally do it when they are stirred up or knocked about by oars, or
ships' keels, or tumbling waves. But I am not sure that that's the
reason either, because, you know, we often sail through them without
seeing the light, though of course they must be there."

"P'r'aps, sir," said Tom Lokins; "p'r'aps, sir, they're sleepy
sometimes, an' can't be bothered gettin' angry."

"Perhaps!" answered the captain, laughing. "But then again, at other
times, I have seen them shining over the whole sea when it was quite
calm, making it like an ocean of milk; and nothing was disturbing them
at that time, d'ye see."

"I don' know _that_," objected Tom; "they might have bin a-fightin'
among theirselves."

"Or playing, maybe," said I.

The captain laughed, and, looking up at the sky, said: "I don't like
the look of the weather, Tom Lokins. You're a sharp fellow, and have
been in these seas before; what say you?"

"We'll have a breeze," replied Tom, briefly.

"More than a breeze," muttered the captain, while a look of grave
anxiety overspread his countenance; "I'll go below and take a squint at
the glass."

"What does he mean by that, Tom?" said I, when the captain was gone; "I
never saw a calmer or a finer night. Surely there is no chance of a
storm just now."

"Aye, that shows that you're a young feller, and han't got much
experience o' them seas," replied my companion. "Why, boy, sometimes
the fiercest storm is brewin' behind the greatest calm. An' the worst
o' the thing is that it comes so sudden at times, that the masts are
torn out o' the ship before you can say Jack Robinson."

"What! and without any warning?" said I.

"Aye, _almost_ without warnin'; but not _altogether_ without it. You
heer'd the captain say he'd go an' take a squint at the glass?"

"Yes; what is the glass?"

"It's not a glass o' grog, you may be sure; nor yet a lookin'-glass.
It's the weather-glass, boy. Shore-goin' chaps call it a barometer."

"And what's the meaning of barometer?" I enquired earnestly.

Tom Lokins stared at me in stupid amazement. "Why, boy," said he,
"you're t