On the north side flourished an orchard, which was planted by Grandfather Locke.

Looking over the tree-tops from the upper north windows, one would have had no suspicion of being in the neighborhood of the sea.

From these windows, in winter, we saw the nimbus of the Northern Light.

The darkness of our sky, the stillness of the night, mysteriously reflected the perpetual condition of its own solitary world.

In summer ragged white clouds rose above the horizon, as if they had been torn from the sky of an underworld, to sail up the blue heaven, languish away, or turn livid with thunder, and roll off seaward.