Rufus placed himself in the stern with the fishing tackle, and Winthrop pushed off.
There was not a stir in the air; there was not a ripple on the water, except those which the oars made, and the long widening mark of disturbance the little boat left behind it.

Still -- still, -- surely it was Summer's siesta; the very birds were still; but it was not the oppressive rest before a thunderstorm, only the pleasant hush of a summer's day.

The very air seemed blue -- blue against the mountains, and kept back the sun's fierceness with its light shield; and even the eye was bid to rest, the distant landscape was so hidden under the same blue.
No distant landscape was to be seen, until they had rowed for several minutes.

Winthrop had turned to the north and was coasting the promontory edge, which in that direction stretched along for more than a quarter of a mile.

It stretched west as well as north, and the river's course beyond it was in a north-easterly line; so that keeping close under the shore as they were, the up view could not be had till the point was turned.