Through the Toll House gap and over the near ridges on the other side, the deluge was immense.  A spray of thin vapour was thrown high above it, rising and falling, and blown into fantastic shapes.  The speed of its course was like a mountain torrent.  Here and there a few treetops were discovered and then whelmed again; and for one second, the bough of a dead pine beckoned out of the spray like the arm of a drowning man.  But still the imagination was dissatisfied, still the ear waited for something more.  Had this indeed been water (as it seemed so, to the eye), with what a plunge of reverberating thunder would it have rolled upon its course, disembowelling mountains and deracinating pines And yet water it was and sea-water at that — true Pacific billows, only somewhat rarefied, rolling in mid-air among the hilltops.

I climbed still higher, among the red rattling gravel and dwarf underwood of Mount Saint Helena, until I could look right down upon Silverado, and admire the favoured nook in which it lay.  The sunny plain of fog was several hundred feet higher; behind the protecting spur a gigantic accumulation of cottony vapour threatened, with every second to blow over and submerge our homestead; but the vortex setting past the Toll House was too strong; and there lay our little platform, in the arms of the deluge, but still enjoying its unbroken sunshine.  About eleven, however, thin spray came flying over the friendly buttress, and I began to think the fog had hunted out its Jonah after all.  But it was the last effort.  The wind veered while we were at dinner, and began to blow squally from the mountain summit and by half-past one all that world of sea fogs was utterly routed and flying here and there into the south in little rags of cloud.  And instead of a lone sea-beach, we found ourselves once more inhabiting a high mountainside, with the clear green country far below us, and the light smoke of Calistoga blowing in the air.

This was the great Russian campaign for that season.  Now and then, in the early morning, a little white lakelet of fog would be seen far down in Napa Valley but the heights were not again assailed, nor was the surrounding world again shut off from Silverado.

Here Ends No.  One the Western Classics Being The Sea Fogs by Robert Louis Stevenson With an Introduction by Thomas Rutherford Bacon & A Photogravure Frontispiece After A Painting by Albertine Randall Wheelan of this First Edition One Thousand Copies Have Been Issued Printed Upon Fabriano Handmade Paper the Typography Designed by J. H. Nash Published by Paul Elder and Company & Done Into A Book for Them at the Tomoye Press in the City of New York MCMVII

*** End of the project gutenberg EBOOK, the sea fogs ***

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