The Atlantic Monthly — Eben jackson
“ Squalls is sca'ce some times o' the year; but when there is one, I tell you a feller hears thunder! The clouds settle right down onto the mast-head, black and thick, like the settlin's of an ink-bottle; the lightnin' hisses an' cuts fore and aft; and corposants come flightin' down onto the boom or the top, gret balls o' light; and the wind roars louder than the seas; and the rain comes down in spouts,--it don't fall fur enough to drop; you'd think heaven and earth was come together, with hell betwixt 'em;--and then it'll all clear up as quiet and calm as a Simsbury Sunday ”
