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.