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A 
JULY, 
906 

ONE OF THE CROWD 
A Trip to the Fishing-Banks with Some of New York’s 
Sunday Anglers 
BY ROSCOE BRUMBAUGH 
ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY ARTHUR HEWETT 
N SUNDAY morning, 
from April till Novem- 
ber, Battery Park is the 
rendezvous for many 
New York anglers. 
From all directions and 
by all modes of travel 
they come; but all are 
headed in one direction 
—the fishing-boats. A 
—~J lone robin may call 
from the top of yonder maple, but few hear 
it, for the babel of many tongues drowns 
even the incessant chatter of the sparrows. 
The ticket ‘‘barkers” hold up every pedes- 
trian to impress upon him the superiority 
of such and such a boat, while on the park 
benches old cronies swap tales and good 
cheer. Everybody is happy. Witness the 
smiles and greetings that are passed along. 
It is, indeed, as the robin plainly calls and 
calls, the top o’ the morning. 

At the piers the fishing-steamers are 
rocking impatiently, while on the decks 
gather the jolly crowds, awaiting good 
naturedly the signal to start. Out on the 
bay a few straggling ships are passing and 
the bright morning sun dances ‘upon the 
never resting waters. Even the Statue of 
Liberty seems to lose the stare of bronze 
and put on an appropriate smile. Every- 
body knows it: Going fishing! 
“Buy a hat-guard before the boat leaves!” 
calls out a young fellow on board, who then 
proceeds to give you visions of coming 
home hatless. 
‘‘Sure and pwhat would a string be for, 
annyway ?” asks an Irishman, leaning over 
the railing. ‘‘Who’d want t’ look like a 
Inglish dood ?” 
“Ach, only womens wear dem tings,” 
answers his side-partner. ‘‘I chust got one 
fer Lizzee.” ) 
But the word has been given to start and 
