are running about, their arms laden with large flat objects, of sharp and jagged edge, which resemble dried and crackling hides of some animal curiously like a huge fish; and numerous others of “the same” are trundling round wheelbarrow-like trucks likewise so laden.  Where stacks of these hides stand on their tails against the walls, and goodness knows how many big boxes are, containing, as those open show, beautifully soft, thick, cream-coloured slabs, which is fish.  And where still other men, in overalls stained like a painter’s palette, are knocking off the heads of casks and dipping out of brine still other kinds of fish for inspection.

Here it is said by the head of the house, by the stove (it is chill weather) in his office like a ship-master’s cabin:  “Strong market on foreign mackerel.  Mines hinder Norway catch.  Advices from abroad report that German resources continue to purchase all available supplies from the Norwegian fishermen.  No Irish of any account.  Recent shipment sold on the deck at high prices.  Fair demand from the Middle West.”

So, by stages, on up to turn into North Moore Street, looking down a narrow lane between two long bristling rows of wagons pointed out from the curbs, to the facades of the North River docks at the bottom, with the tops of the buff funnels of ocean liners, and Whistleranean silhouettes of derricks, rising beyond.  Hereabout are more importers, exporters, and “producers” of fish, famous in their calling beyond the celebrities of popular publicity.  And he that has official entree may learn, by mounting dusky stairs, half-ladder and half-stair, and by passing through low-ceilinged chambers freighted with many barrels, to the sanctums of the fish lords, what’s doing in the foreign herring way, and get the current market quotations, at present sky-high, and hear that the American shore mackerel catch is very fine stock.

Then roundabout, with a step into the broad vista of homely Washington Street, and a turn through Franklin Street, where is the man decorated by the Imperial Japanese Government with a gold medal, if he should care to wear it, for having distinguished himself in the development of commerce in the marine products of Japan, back to Hudson Street.  An authentic railroad is one of the spectacular features of Hudson Street.

Here down the middle of the way are endless trains, stopping, starting, crashing, laden to their ears with freight, doubtless all to eat.  Tourists should come from very far to view Hudson Street.  Here is a spectacle as fascinating, as awe-inspiring, as extraordinary as any in the world.  From dawn until darkness falls, hour after hour, along Hudson Street slowly, steadily moves a mighty procession of great trucks.  One would not suppose there were so many trucks on the face of the earth.  It is a glorious sight, and any man whose soul is not dead should jump with joy to see it.  And the thunder of them altogether as they bang over the stones is like the music of the spheres.