When the wind sulks, and the dune dries,
The old salts with uneasy eyes
Hour after hour peer at the skies.
All are silent; their hands turning,
A brown juice from their lips they wipe;
Never a sound save, in their pipe,
The dry tobacco burning.
That storm the almanac announces,
Where is it? They are puzzled.
The sea has smoothed her flounces.
Winter is muzzled.
The cute ones shake their pate,
And cross their arms, and puff.
But mate by mate they wait,
And think the squall is late,
But coming sure enough.
With fingers slow, sedate
Their finished pipe they fill;
Pursuing, every salt,
Without a minute's halt,
The same idea still.
A boat sails up the bay,
As tranquil as the day;
Its keel a long net trails,
Covered with glittering scales.
Out come the men: What ho?
When will the tempest come?
With pipe in mouth, still dumb,
With bare foot on _sabot,_
The salts wait in a row.
Here they lounge about,
Where all year long the stout
Fishers' dames
Sell, from their wooden frames,
Herrings and anchovies,
And by each stall a stove is,
To warm them with its flames.
Here they spit together,
Spying out the weather.
Here they yawn and doze;
Backs bent with many a squall,
Rubbing it in rows,
Grease the wall.
And though the almanac
Is wrong about the squall,
The old salts lean their back
Against the wall,
And wait in rows together,
Watching the sea and the weather.