shirt he always wore, and besides, he was lame; some one told us he had
had a bad fall once, on board ship. Kate and I had always wished we
could find a chance to talk with him. He looked up at us pleasantly, and
when we nodded and smiled, he said "Good day" in a gruff, hearty voice,
and went on with his work, cleaning mackerel.

"Do you mind our watching you?" asked Kate.

"No, _ma'am_!" said the fisherman emphatically. So there we stood.

Those fish-houses were curious places, so different from any other kind
of workshop. In this there was a seine, or part of one, festooned among
the cross-beams overhead, and there were snarled fishing-lines, and
barrows to carry fish in, like wheelbarrows without wheels; there were
the queer round lobster-nets, and "kits" of salt mackerel, tubs of bait,
and piles of clams; and some queer bones, and parts of remarkable fish,
and lobster-claws of surprising size fastened on the walls for ornament.
There was a pile of rubbish down at the end; I dare say it was all
useful, however,--there is such mystery about the business.

Kate and I were never tired of hearing of the fish that come at
different times of the year, and go away again, like the birds; or of
the actions of the dog-fish, which the 'longshore-men hate so bitterly;
and then there are such curious legends and traditions, of which almost
all fishermen have a store.

"I think mackerel are the prettiest fish that swim," said I presently.

"So do I, miss," said the man, "not to say but I've seen more
fancy-looking fish down in southern waters, bright as any flower you