He spun sea-yarns, too, all the way--marvelous ones, and Grandma's
reproving voice was mellowed by the distance, and so confusedly mingled
with the rumbling of the wheels, that it seemed hardly to reach him at
all. Not that Grandma looked discomfited on this account, or in bad
humor. On the contrary, as she sat back there in the ghostly shadows,
with her hands folded, and her hair combed out in resplendent waves on
either side of her head, she appeared conscious that every word she
uttered was taking root in some obdurate heart. She was, in every
respect, the picture of good-will and contentment.

But the face under Grandpa's antiquated beaver began to give me a fresh
shock every time I looked up at him, for the light and the air were
rapidly turning his rejuvenated locks and his poor, thin fringe of
whiskers to an unnatural greenish tint, while his bushy eyebrows,
untouched by the hand of art, shone as white as ever.

In spite of the old sea-captain's entertaining stories, it seemed,
indeed, "a long jaunt" to West Wallen.

To say that Fanny was a slow horse would be but a feeble expression of
the truth.

A persevering "click! click! click!" began to arise from Grandma's
quarter. This annoyed Grandpa exceedingly.

"Shet up, ma!" he was moved to exclaim at last. "I'm steerin' this
craft."

"Click! click! click!" came perseveringly from behind.