[Manchester—Saturday, 1 September 1866]
Saturday. Very dog-day-ish. The Pewee is still singing his gentle Pheebee in the woods—the thrust has a plaintive call from the tall trees—and a little bird creaks as if he were swinging a sign—he is the American lark Mr L. says.
Jamie met an old school-mate of his Timothy [illegible name] the other day coming down in the cars. They had not met since the old days when they sat on the school benches together and the wonder was they should have recognized one another. Mr [illegible name] told him he was a clergyman and one of his early experiences in preaching was at the Isles of Shoals on Star Island. It was nearly 20 years ago when he was one Sunday preaching in the little stone church which still stands there. He had reached the middle of the service when a man who had been sitting where he could look out of the window cried out—“A school of mackerel” whereupon every man in the congregation started and ran either by window or door towards the boats, leaving the women alone there to listen to the sermon.
