  There are human beings who seem to regard the place as craftily as we do—who seem to feel that it is a good place to come home to. On what a river; wide—twinkling like a chopped sea under some of the finest shipping in the world: the square-rigged four-master, the liner, the battleship, like the two- thirds submerged section of an iceberg; the tug—strong moving thing, dipping and pushing, the bell striking as it comes; the steam yacht, lying like a new made arrow on the stream; the ferry-boat—a head assigned, one to each compartment, making a row of chessmen set for play. When the wind is from the east, the smell is of apples; of hay, the aroma increased and decreased suddenly as the wind changes; of rope; of mountain leaves for florists. When it is from the west, it is an elixir. There is occasionally a parrakeet arrived from Brazil, clasping and clawing; or a monkey—tail and feet in readiness for an over- ture. All palms and tail; how delightful! There is the sea, moving the bulk- head with its horse strength; and the multiplicity of rudders and propellers; the signals, shrill, questioning, peremptory, diverse; the wharf cats and the barge dogs—it is easy to overestimate the value of such things. One does not live in such a place from motives of expediency but because to one who has been accustomed to it, shipping is the most congenial thing in the world. |
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