The giant vessels, at anchor, shriek, or sigh deeply, and in each sound
there is, as it were, an ironical contempt for the men who crawl over
their decks and fill their sides with the products of a slaved toil.
The long files of 'longshoremen are painfully absurd; they carry huge
loads of corn on their shoulders and deposit them in the iron holds of
the vessels so that they may earn a few pounds of bread to put in their
famished stomachs. The men, in rags, covered with perspiration, are
stupefied by fatigue, noise and heat; the machines, shining, strong and
impassive, made by the hands of these men, are not, however, moved by
steam, but by the muscles and blood of their creators--cold and cruel
irony!

The noise weighs down, the dust irritates nostrils and eyes; the heat
burns the body, the fatigue, everything seems strained to its utmost
tension, and ready to break forth in a resounding explosion that will
clear the air and bring peace and quiet to the earth again--when the
town, sea and sky will be calm and beneficent. But it is only an
illusion, preserved by the untiring hope of man and his imperishable
and illogical desire for liberty.

Twelve strokes of a bell, sonorous and measured, rang out. When the
last one had died away upon the air, the rude tones of labor were
already half softened. At the end of a minute, they were transformed
into a dull murmur. Then, the voices of men and sea were more
distinct. The dinner hour had come.

* * * * *

When the longshoremen, leaving their work, were dispersed in noisy