Electronic Resource
E-book The great hunger
For sheer havoc, there is no gale like a good northwester, when it
roars in, through the long winter evenings, driving the spindrift
before it between the rocky walls of the fjord. It churns the
water to a froth of rushing wave crests, while the boats along the
beach are flung in somersaults up to the doors of the grey fisher
huts, and solid old barn gangways are lifted and sent flying like
unwieldy birds over the fields. "Mercy on us!" cry the maids, for
it is milking-time, and they have to fight their way on hands and
knees across the yard to the cowshed, dragging a lantern that will
go out and a milk-pail that won't be held. And "Lord preserve us!"
mutter the old wives seated round the stove within doors--and their
thoughts are far away in the north with the Lofoten fishermen, out
at sea, maybe, this very night. But on a calm spring day, the fjord just steals in smooth and
shining by ness and bay. And at low water there is a whole
wonderland of strange little islands, sand-banks, and weed-fringed
rocks left high and dry, with clear pools between, where barelegged urchins splash about, and tiny flat-fish as big as a
halfpenny dart away to every side
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