subject.




I

THE FISH REPORTER

Men of genius, blown by the winds of chance, have been, now and then,
mariners, bar-keeps, schoolmasters, soldiers, politicians, clergymen,
and what not. And from these pursuits have they sucked the essence of
yarns and in the setting of these activities found a flavour to stir
and to charm hearts untold. Now, it is a thousand pities that no man
of genius has ever been a fish reporter. Thus has the world lost great
literary treasure, as it is highly probable that there is not under the
sun any prospect so filled with the scents and colours of story as that
presented by the commerce in fish.

Take whale oil. Take the funny old buildings on Front Street, out of
paintings, I declare, by Howard Pyle, where the large merchants in
whale oil are. Take salt fish. Do you know the oldest salt-fish house
in America, down by Coenties Slip? Ah! you should. The ghost of old
Long John Silver, I suspect, smokes an occasional pipe in that old
place. And many are the times I've seen the slim shade of young Jim
Hawkins come running out. Take Labrador cod for export to the
Mediterranean lands or to Porto Rico via New York. Take herrings
brought to this port from Iceland, from Holland, and from Scotland;
mackerel from Ireland, from the Magdalen Islands, and from Cape Breton;
crabmeat from Japan; fishballs from Scandinavia; sardines from Norway