« FISH AND FISHWIVES 279 



'The season's going to begin at last,' they 

 answered. 'Fine weather's what we want. Fine 

 weather! La saisoii commoicc!' 



Almost the whole of the north-eastern side of 

 Boulogne Flarbour, which is but a narrow riv^er 

 dredged, was giving up to the fishing-boats. Boats, 

 I say. . . . To us who fish in little open sailing 

 craft they were ships, bigger than Brixham trawl- 

 ers. The steam-drifters (many of them bearing a 

 Scottish shipbuilder's nameplate) were so large 

 and laden that we mistook them for fish-carriers, 

 come in from a fleet outside. Their catches, 

 hundreds of thousands of herrings, overflowed 

 from the great wooden tanks which are placed on 

 either side the boats, amidships, and spread all 

 over the decks In glittering floods marbled with 

 pink herring-blood. Nets, it seemed, were stowed 

 below. Jim was delighted to see that some of the 

 little craft, much like our own, had caught more 

 In proportion to their size than had the steamers. 



Dignified fishwives, black shawls upon their 

 heads, were sitting behind their stalls In the market- 

 house. Their names are painted on the wall above 

 them — Louise, Caroline, Jeanne, and the rest. 

 Laid out carefully before them were several sorts 

 of grotesque creatures, devil-fish, monks, and so 



