The oaks shook off long tresses of their mossy beards to the tugging of the wind, and the bayou in its ambition put on miniature waves in mocking of much larger bodies of water.

A lull permitted a start, and homewards we steamed, an inky sky overhead and a heavy wind blowing.

As darkness crept on, there were few on board who did not wish themselves nearer home.' There is nothing the matter with that.

It is good description, compactly put.

Yet there was great temptation, there, to drop into lurid writing.
But let us return to the mule.