FISHERMEN'S OWN BOOK: 



133 



Fishermen Coming into Port. 



From the Home of the Fish to the Table of the Consianer. 



It is a lively scene, down at some of our wharves in the breezy days of 

 midwinter, to witness one or more of the Bankers or Georgesmen round the 

 Point and come gayly up the harbor. Sometimes they are minus a spar or 

 sail and are all battered or iced up, the crew having had a hard time freeing 

 the bows and rigging from the frozen spray, which in a bitter cold day hard- 

 ens as soon as it strikes, and piles itself up on the overburdened craft with 

 amazing quickness. Then the safety of the vessel and her management 

 through the cold, seething waters, render it an imperative necessity that the 

 ice be dislodged, and a cold, cheerless task it is which the fisherman has 

 forced upon him. Short spells of this ice pounding, with the thermometer 

 below zero, is all that men can endure, and they are frequently relieved, all 

 hands taking their turn and making the best of an unwelcome duty. But 

 snug in the harbor, anchor down, sails furled, pipes lighted, with the catch 

 sold, the crew have a little resting spell. Then the vessel is hauled along- 

 side the wharf of some of the fresh fish buyers, the hatches opened, and out 

 from the depths below are hoisted the mammoth halibut, direct from the ice 

 house, where they are kept as sweet and fresh as when first caught. Up 

 they come in pairs, and sometimes in triplets, according to their size, and 

 oftentimes a monster weighing two hundred pounds and ujowards will show 

 his nose above deck and be slowly landed on the wharf. Visions of nice 

 fried or baked halibut tickle the palate, as the fish are thus landed. After 

 their heads are taken off and the fish thoroughly cleansed and packed in 

 boxes, the last thing done, ere they are nailed up, is to fill their napes with 

 crushed ice, which insures their preservation, and off they are shipped by rail 



