human
Not an absurd idea at all,
gpt
Our lake looks very like the ocean, I suppose,
human
Not very much. I don’t say it is not as beautiful, replied Mr. Van Tassel loyally,
gpt
But, Mr. Van Tassel, think of the lake storms! returned Clover, her Chicago spirit piqued.
human
I’ve stood on the lake shore many a time when I could lean my full weight against the wind and be supported; and how does the boom of the breakers, hammering the piers on those nights, sound at your house?
gpt
Well, he answered,
human
A difference greatly in favor of the lake, I should say,
gpt
Ah, but think of the terrors of Michigan’s caprices. Smiling, even seeming to dream in a happy reverie one minute, rocking its little sailboats softly on its breast like a gentle mother, all at once with appalling suddenness it flies into a passion, and while the fit is on works havoc that inflicts long years of misery, though the very next hour may find it dimpling again in gay carelessness of calamity. Not so with the ocean. The sailor relies on its steady winds, and the honest signs it hangs in the heavens for all to read, giving fair warning of approaching danger.
human
Why, Mr. Van Tassel! As if you didn’t know that our sky hangs out signs too, only, as Jack says, one must be brought up right on the lake to understand them. I had no idea you were such a poet, and so disloyal.