Cuneo Island
20-04-2004, 02:52
Heres neither bush nor shrub to bear off any weather at all. I hear it sing i the wind. Yond same black cloud, yond same huge one; looks like a foul bombard who would shed his liquor. If it should thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide my head. Yond same cloud could not choose but fall by pailfuls. Ah, what have we here; a man or a fish? Dead or alive? A fish: He smells like a fish. A very ancient and fishlike smell. A kind of not of the newest Poorjohn. A strange fish! If I were in England, as I once was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver. There would this monster make a man. Any beast there makes a man. Legged like a man, his fins like arms. Oh warm my troth. I now let loose my opinion, I no longer hold it. This is not a fish, but an islander, hath lately suffered by lightning. Alas, the storm is come again. My best way is to creep underneath his gaberdine. Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. I will here shroud till the dredges of the storm be past.