Harmer John

There was nothing unusual in this: in Southern Glebeshire the
winter is so often mild that the sea (impatient at the lassitude of
the air) seems suddenly to rise, and to wish to beat its way across
the narrow peninsula, to sweep the fields and hedges with its salt
water: it calls the heavens to its assistance, the skies open,
water pours out in torrents, the wind screams, shrieks, bellows--
suddenly it knows that all is vanity, shrugs its hoary shoulders,
creeps back muttering, lifts its hand to t...