Dock Rats

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, dip-

ping 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 oc-

casionally a parokeet

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 bulkhead with its horse

strength; and the multiplicity of rudders and pro-

pellors; the signals, shrill, questioning, per-

emptory, 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 ac-

customed to it, shipping is the most congenial thing in the world.