The Open Air 



row of stout men in blue jerseys, or copper-hued tan 

 frocks, seems to be always there, always waiting 

 for the tide or nothing. Each has his particular 

 position; one, shorter than the rest, leans with his 

 elbows backwards on the low rail; another hangs 

 over and looks down at the site of the fish market; 

 an older man stands upright, and from long habit 

 looks steadily out to sea. They have their hands in 

 their pockets; they appear fat and jolly, as round as 

 the curves of their smacks drawn up on the beach 

 beneath them. They are of such that " sleep o' 

 nights; " no anxious ambition disturbs their placidity. 

 No man in this world knows how to absolutely do 

 nothing, like a fisherman. Sometimes he turns 

 round, sometimes he does not, that is all. The sun 

 shines, the breeze comes up the cliff, far away a 

 French fishing lugger is busy enough. The boats 

 on the beach are idle, and swarms of boys are climbing 

 over them, swinging on a rope from the bowsprit, 

 or playing at marbles under the cliff. Bigger boys 

 collect under the lee of a smack, and do nothing 

 cheerfully. The fashionable throng hastens to and 

 fro, but the row leaning against the railings do not stir. 

 Doleful tales they have to tell any one who inquires 

 about the fishing. There have been " no herrings " 

 these two years. One man went out with his smack, 

 and after working for hours returned with one sole. 

 I can never get this one sole out of my mind when 

 I see the row by the rails. While the fisherman was 

 telling me this woeful story, I fancied I heard voices 

 from a crowd of the bigger boys collected under a 

 smack, voices that said, "Ho! ho! Go on! you're 

 kidding the man ! " Is there much " kidding " in this 

 business of fish ? Another man told me (but he was 

 not a smack proprietor) that 50, 70, or 80 was a 



54 



