Poem-a-Day

There are human beings who seem to regard the place as craftily 
    as we do—who seem to feel that it is a good place to come 
    home to. On what a river; wide—twinkling like a chopped sea under some 
          of the finest shipping in the

world: the square-rigged four-master, the liner, the battleship, like the two- 
    thirds submerged section of an iceberg; the tug—strong moving thing, 
    dipping and pushing, the bell striking as it comes; the steam yacht, lying 
          like a new made arrow on the

stream; the ferry-boat—a head assigned, one to each compartment, making 
    a row of chessmen set for play. When the wind is from the east, 
    the smell is of apples; of hay, the aroma increased and decreased 
         suddenly as the wind changes;

of rope; of mountain leaves for florists. When it is from the west, it is 
    an elixir. There is occasionally a parrakeet 
    arrived from Brazil, clasping and clawing; or a monkey—tail and feet 
         in readiness for an over-

ture. All palms and tail; how delightful! There is the sea, moving the bulk- 
    head with its horse strength; and the multiplicity of rudders 
    and propellers; the signals, shrill, questioning, peremptory, diverse; 
         the wharf cats and the barge dogs—it

is easy to overestimate the value of such things. One does 
    not live in such a place from motives of expediency 
    but because to one who has been accustomed to it, shipping is the 
         most congenial thing in the world.