stern of your sail-boat, and to menace the hand that guides the helm.
Or if you beat to windward, it is as if your boat climbed a liquid
hill, but did it with bounding and dancing, like a child; there is the
plash of the lighter ripples against the bow, and the thud of the
heavier waves, while the same blue water is now transformed to a cool
jet of white foam over your face, and now to a dark whirlpool in your
lee. Sailing gives a sense of prompt command, since by a single
movement of the tiller you effect so great a change of direction or
transform motion into rest; there is, therefore, a certain magic in it:
but, on the other hand, there is in rowing a more direct appeal to your
physical powers; you do not evade or cajole the elements by a cunning
device of keel and canvas, you meet them man-fashion and subdue them.
The motion of the oars is like the strong motion of a bird's wings; to
sail a boat is to ride upon an eagle, but to row is to be an eagle. I
prefer rowing,--at least till I can afford another sail-boat.

What is a good day for rowing? Almost any day that is good for living.
Living is not quite agreeable in the midst of a tornado or an
equinoctial storm, neither is rowing. There are days when rowing is as
toilsome and exhausting a process as is Bunyan's idea of virtue; while
there are other days, like the present, when it seems a mere Oriental
passiveness and the forsaking of works,--just an excuse to Nature for
being out among her busy things. For even at this stillest of hours
there is far less repose in Nature than we imagine. What created thing
can seem more patient than yonder kingfisher on the sea-wall? Yet, as
we glide near him, we shall see that no creature can be more full of
concentrated life; all his nervous system seems on edge, every instant
he is rising or lowering on his feet, the tail vibrates, the neck
protrudes or shrinks again, the feathers ruffle, the crest dilates; he
talks to himself with an impatient chirr, then presently hovers and
dives for a fish, then flies back disappointed. We say "free as birds,"
but their lives are given over to arduous labors. And so, when our
condition seems most dreamy, our observing faculties are sometimes
desperately on the alert, and we find afterwards, to our surprise, that
we have missed nothing. The best observer in the end is not he who
works at the microscope or telescope most unceasingly, but he whose
whole nature becomes sensitive and receptive,