will perform the service for the Seattle salmon packers of towing a
vessel from Seattle to this port via the Panama Canal"--would follow
"Canned Salmon"; that shellfish matter would be in one place; reports
of saltfish where such should be; that the weekly tale of the canned
fish trade politically embraced the canned fish advertising; and so on
and so on.

Finest of all, as reporter, to go where the fish reporter goes. There
the sight-seeing cars never find their way; the hurried commuter has
not his path, nor knows of these things at all; and there that racy
character who, voicing a multitude, declares that he would rather be a
lamp post on Broadway than Mayor of St. Louis, goes not for to see. Up
lower Greenwich Street the fish reporter goes, along an eerie, dark,
and narrow way, beneath a strange, thundering roof, the "L" overhead.
He threads his way amid seemingly chaotic, architectural piles of
boxes, of barrels, crates, casks, kegs, and bulging bags; roundabout
many great fetlocked draught horses, frequently standing or plunging
upon the sidewalk, and attached to many huge trucks and wagons; and
much of the time in the street he is compelled to go, finding the side
walks too congested with the traffic of commerce to admit of his
passing there.

You probably eat butter, and eggs, and cheese. Then you would delight
in Greenwich Street. You could feast your highly creditable appetite
for these excellent things for very nearly a solid mile upon the signs
of "wholesale dealers and commission merchants" in them. The letter
press, as you might say, of the fish reporter's walk is a noble paean
to the earth's glorious yield for the joyous sustenance of man. For
these princely merchants' signs sing of opulent stores of olive oil, of
sausages, beans, soups, extracts, and spices, sugar, Spanish, Bermuda,