It is a showery day. Along this stone pier, nearly up to its level, now at high water, lie a hundred fishing-boats, the prow of each touching the pier. Each rude vessel is a residence and a place of business. Looking down into one dark, smoke-begrimed cabin — a junk shop and blacksmith forge in one — you see two men eating. Salt fish in one hand and hard tack in the other, these form a fisherman's lunch. These huge, dark wheels, a foot in diameter, are sometimes strung together by twine passing through a hole in the center of each. Soaked in coffee I have found them palatable, if one be hungry, but the Russian black bread is too much like asphaltum pavement a year old, both in color, density and weight. A wedge and heavy hammer would be needed to break it. The Emperor is said to have kept a block of it, cut into the form of a cube, for a paper weight. Irony, if not iron, is in it. The absence of sweets and other delicacies which ruin American teeth is a compensation for coarse food, and explains the superior integrity and beauty of the teeth of foreign peasantry. Thousands who never saw a tooth-brush have never felt a toothache.
Here are milk-boats with firkins holding a dozen gallons; butter-boats with buckets of butter, nice and yellow ; potato-boats filled with bags and boxes ; fish-boats with nameless and numberless specimens, animate and exanimate. Fish squirming in a net were weighed by steelyards. If there were too many the fish were dropped into the water bucket. Scores of stalls, covered and open, filled the square near the boats. A hundred sunburnt women sold cheap dry goods, fancy ware, or stationery. The greengrocer, the baker, and the farmer sold from their carts as well as from stands.
