He lit a cigar, put on his hat and went out.
The morning was fine, the air nimble, brisk.

On the summit of the skeleton-like tower of the artesian well, the windmill was turning steadily in a breeze from the southwest.

The water in the irrigating ditch was well up.

There was no cloud in the sky.

Far off to the east and west, the bulwarks of the valley, the Coast Range and the foothills of the Sierras stood out, pale amethyst against the delicate pink and white sheen of the horizon.