where the slate of the sea and the grey of the sky
wove together, could be seen Fastnet Rock, a mere button on the moving,
shimmering cloth, while a liner, no larger than a needle, spun a thread
of smoke aslant. The gulls swept screaming along the dull line of the
other shore of roaring Water Bay, and near the mouth of the brook
circled among the fishing boats that lay at anchor, their brown,
leathery sails idle and straight. The wheeling, shrieking tumultuous
birds stared with their hideous unblinking eyes at the Capers--men from
Cape Clear--who prowled to and fro on the decks amid shouts and the
creak of the tackle. Shoreward, a little shrivelled man, overcome by a
profound melancholy, fished hopelessly from the end of the pier. Back of
him, on a hillside, sat a white village, nestled among more trees than
is common in this part of Southern Ireland.

A dinghy sculled by a youth in a blue jersey wobbled rapidly past the
pier-head and stopped at the foot of the moss-green, dank, stone steps,
where the waves were making slow but regular leaps to mount higher, and
then falling back gurgling, choking, and waving the long, dark seaweeds.
The melancholy fisherman walked over to the top of the steps. The young
man was fastening the painter of his boat in an iron ring. In the dinghy
were three round baskets heaped high with mackerel. They glittered like
masses of new silver coin at times, and then other lights of faint
carmine and peacock blue would chase across the sides of the fish in a
radiance that was finer than silver.

The melancholy fisherman looked at this wealth. He shook his head
mournfully. "Ah, now, Denny. This would not be a very good kill."

The young man snorted indignantly at his fellow-townsman. "This will be
th' bist kill th' year, Mickey. Go along now."

The melancholy old man became immersed in deeper gloom. "Shure I have
been in th' way of seein' miny a grand day whin th' fish was runnin'
sthrong in these wathers, but there will be no more big kills here. No
more. No more." At the last his voice was only a dismal croak.

"Come along outa that now, Mickey," cried the youth impatiently. "Come
away wid you."

"All gone now. A-ll go-o-ne now!" The old man wagged his grey head, and,
standing over the baskets of fishes, groaned as Mordecai groaned for his
people.

"'Tis you would be cryin' out, Mickey, whativer," said the youth with
scorn. He was giving his basket into the hands of five incompetent but