they bang over the stones is like the music of the spheres.

There is on Hudson Street a tall handsome building where the fish
reporter goes, which should be enjoyed in this way: Up in the lift you
go to the top, and then you walk down, smacking your lips. For all the
doors in that building are brimming with poetry. And the tune of it
goes like this: "Toasted Corn-Flake Co.," "Seaboard Rice," "Chili
Products," "Red Bloom Grape Juice Sales Office," "Porto Rico and
Singapore Pineapple Co.," "Sunnyland Foodstuffs," "Importers of Fruit
Pulps, Pimentos," "Sole Agents U.S.A. Italian Salad Oil," "Raisin
Growers," "Log Cabin Syrups," "Jobbers in Beans, Peas," "Chocolate and
Cocoa Preparations," "Ohio Evaporated Milk Co.," "Bernese Alps and
Holland Condensed Milk Co.," "Brazilian Nuts Co.," "Brokers Pacific
Coast Salmon," "California Tuna Co.," and thus on and on.

The fish reporter crosses the street to see the head of the Sardine
Trust, who has just thrown the market into excitement by a heavy cut in
prices of last year's pack. Thence, pausing to refresh himself by the
way at a sign "Agency for Reims Champagne and Moselle Wines--Bordeaux
Clarets and Sauternes," over to Broadway to interview the most august
persons of all, dealers in fertiliser, "fish scrap." These mighty
gentlemen live, when at business, in palatial suites of offices
constructed of marble and fine woods and laid with rich rugs. The
reporter is relayed into the innermost sanctum by a succession of
richly clothed attendants. And he learns, it may be, that fishing in
Chesapeake Bay is so poor that some of the "fish factories" may decide
to shut down. Acid phosphate, it is said, is ruling at $13 f.o.b.
Baltimore.

And so the fish reporter enters upon the last lap of his rounds.