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.