come in.

Fishermen's Wharf lies over at North Beach, at the end of Meiggs's
Wharf, where the Customs Officers have their station, and to reach it
one takes either the Powell and North Beach cars, or the Kearny and
North Beach cars, and at the end of either walks two blocks. When you
get that far anybody you see can tell you where to go.

Fog mist was stealing along the Marin shore, and hiding Golden Gate when
we arrived, and the rays of the sun took some time to make a clear path
out to sea. Out of the bank of white came gliding the heavy power boats
of the Sicilian and Corsican fishermen, while from off shore were the
ghostly lateen rigged boats of those who had been fishing up the
Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers, their yards aslant to catch the faint
morning breeze. As they slipped through the leaden water to their
mooring at the wharf we could see the decks and holds piled with fish
and crabs.

Roosting on piles, and lining the water's edge on everything that served
to give foothold, were countless seagulls, all waiting for the breakfast
they knew was coming from the discarded fish, and fit companions were
the women with shawls over their heads irreverently called mud hens, and
old men in dilapidated clothing, who sat along the stringers of the
wharf, some with baskets, some with buckets and others with little paper
bags, in which to put the fish which they could get so cheaply it meant
a meal for them when otherwise they would have to go without. The
earlier boats were moored and on the decks fires were burning in
charcoal braziers, on which the fishermen cooked their breakfasts of
fish and coffee, with the heavy black loaves of bread for which they
seem to have special fancy. As the odor of the cooking fish came up from