north bay. Just beyond the point, a rounded mass of granite
pushed itself into the water out of reach of the trees and
shewed itself summer and winter barefacedly. This rock was
known at certain states of the tide to be in the way of the
white mackerel. Winthrop made fast his little skiff between it
and the shore, and climbing upon the rock, he and Rufus sat
down and fell to work; for to play they had not come hither,
but to catch their supper.

The spirit of silence seemed to have possessed them both, for
with very few words they left the boat and took their places,
and with no words at all for some time the hooks were baited
and the lines thrown. Profound stillness -- and then the
flutter of a poor little fish as he struggled out of his
element, or the stir made by one of the fishers in reaching
after the bait-basket -- and then all was still again. The
lines drooped motionless in the water; the eyes of the fishers
wandered off to the distant blue, and then came back to their
bobbing corks. Thinking, both the young men undoubtedly were,
for it could not have been the mackerel that called such grave
contemplation into their faces.

"It's confoundedly hot!" said Rufus at length very
expressively.

His brother seemed amused.

"What are you laughing at?" said Rufus a little sharply.

"Nothing -- I was thinking you had been in the shade lately.