there came up a violent squall off the open solway, and the rain was dashed on the great windows.
"do ye ken what that bodes, warlock?" said he, in a broad accent: "that there'll be a man mackellar unco' sick at sea."
when i got to my chamber, i sat there under a painful excitation, hearkening to the turmoil of the gale, which struck full upon that gable of the house. what with the pressure on my spirits, the eldritch cries of the wind among the turret-tops, and the perpetual trepidation of the masoned house, sleep fled my eyelids utterly. i sat by my taper, looking on the black panes of the window, where the storm appeared continually on the point of bursting in its entrance; and upon that empty field i beheld a perspective of consequences that made the hair to rise upon my scalp. the child corrupted, the home broken up, my master dead or worse than dead, my mistress plunged in desolation - all these i saw before me painted brightly on the darkness; and the outcry of the wind appeared to mock at my inaction.
thanks to global warming (it's getting harder to deny) it's not snowing tonight, but rather in the low 50s and rainstorming (thunder at four, i won't be awake for, sadly).