whisper, and solemnly reproved him whensoever he uttered an unguarded exclamation.  They were afraid that the debil-debil might be aroused; that Kitty would resent the intrusion of her haunt.  At last they refused to go higher, and the ascent up in the dreaded regions was continued alone, while they abandoned themselves to sinister prognostics.  One lonely night was spent high up on the mountain, and when the adventurer came back on his tracks in the morning, the boys were surprised to find that no harm had befallen him.  To go into the very stronghold of mischievous and vindictive spirits, and to come away again, was to them almost beyond comprehension, and because no hurricane swooped down upon them, as they hurried to the lower and safer levels, nothing short of the marvellous.

However fantastic this supposition of human influence on the weather, there is an inclination to treat it with a semblance of respect when it is borne in mind that up to a comparatively recent date a similar belief prevailed even in enlightened England.  Addison has a sarcastic reference to the superstition in one of his delightful essays.  Detailing the news brought from his country seat by Sir Roger de Coverley, he says that the good knight informed him that Moll White was dead, and that about a month after her death, the wind was so very high that it blew down the end of one of his barns.  “But for my own part,” says Sir Roger, “I do not think that the old woman had any hand in it.”  In this particular, blacks are not so very far in the wake of races quite respectable in other points of civilisation.

Among other causes to which bad weather is ascribed is the eating by the young men of the porcupine (echidna), a dainty reserved for the wise, conservative old men.  If young men should eat of the forbidden flesh, a terrible calamity will befall—­the clouds will “come down altogether!” One day Tom picked up a young porcupine before it had time to dig a refuge in the soil, and took it to his camp alive.  That afternoon a south-east gale sprang up, masses of rain-clouds driving tumultuously to the mountains of the mainland, but Tom was still youthful, and we felt fairly safe in respect of the stability of the dull and heavy, and wind-swept firmament.  As we watched, a cloud settled on the summit of Clump Point mountain, assuming shape as fancy pictures the Banshee—­drooping head and shoulders, and arms with pendant drapery uplifted as in imprecation.  The boys, in awe-struck attitude, pointed to the vapoury spectre, and prognosticated fearsome rain and wind.  It all came during the night.  Next morning one of the boys was eager to declare that the nocturnal tempest was due to Tom, who had eaten the porcupine.  We had seen his weird mother-in-law, aged and decrepid, preparing it for supper.  When Tom appeared, he was duly denounced, and challenged with the responsibility of the storm.  “No!” he cried with scorn.  “Me no eat ’em that fella porcupine; chuck ’em away!” He had intended to, but the thought of the apparition on Clump Point mountain, and of the awful responsibility of causing the collapse of the clouds had taken away his inclination.