FAR AND NEAR 



becomes a dry dock at low tide. In the morning our 

 steamer lay in shallow water on the beach at Orca. 

 A low scaffolding was built around her propeller, 

 and very soon the broken blade was replaced by a 

 new one. While this was being done, many of us 

 viewed the process of salmon canning. Some of the 

 fish lay piled up on the dock, and were being loaded 

 into wheelbarrows with a one-tined pitchfork and 

 wheeled in to the cleaners. Most of the work was 

 done by Qhinamen from San Francisco. It was posi- 

 tively fascinating to see the skill and swiftness with 

 which some of these men worked ; only two used 

 knives, — long, thin blades, which they kept very 

 sharp. They cut off the fins, severed the head and 

 tail, and did the disemboweling with Ughtning-like 

 rapidity. It was like the tricks of jugglers. There 

 was a gleam of steel about the fish half a moment 

 and the work was done. One had to be very intent 

 to follow the movements. The fish were then washed 

 and scraped and passed on to workmen inside, 

 where they were cut and packed by machinery. 

 Every second all day long a pound can, snugly 

 packed, drops from the ingenious mechanism. For 

 some reason the looker-on soon loses his taste for 

 salmon, there is such a world of it. It is as com- 

 mon as chips; it is kicked about under foot; it lies 

 in great sweltering heaps ; many of the fish, while 

 lying upon the beach before they are brought in, are 

 pecked and bruised by gulls and ravens ; the air is 

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