That is why the little sailors, in their childish hearts, bear such brave thoughts. Stooping over the parapet of the stockade they look off over the sea. They see more than the thin blue line of boundary between the sky and sea. The ocean does not interest them for its fine changing colors, nor the sky for the huge grotesque shapes of its clouds. What they see off there in space is something more real to them than the tint of waters and the face of the clouds: something that they love. They look for the boats that sailed for the fishing grounds, and that must now soon appear on the horizon bringing back besides their full cargoes of shrimps, uncles and older brothers and fathers. The little fleet will soon show its white or weather-stained sails down there, between the ocean and God's good sky. To-day the sky is clear, the ocean still: the tide brings the fishers gently to the shore. But the ocean is a changeable old veteran, who takes many forms and sings in many tones. To-day he smiles: to-morrow he will scold beneath his foamy beard. He will capsize the ablest ships, ships that have been blest by the priest with songs and Te Deums: he will drown his sturdiest patrons.
It is his fault that one sees, outside the doors where the chaluts dry in the baskets, so many women wearing the black caps of widows.