loafers, who, like flies, congregate naturally near the water.

A few hundred yards higher up the river, between the Bednarska and the
spacious Jerozolimska Alley, many carts and men work all day in the sand
which the Vistula deposits along her low banks. The Jerozolimska starts
hopefully from the higher parts of the city--the widest, the newest,
the most Parisian street in the town, Warsaw's only boulevard--down the
hill, as if it expected to find a bridge at the bottom. But there is
no bridge there, and the fine street dwindles away to sandy ruts and a
broken tow-path. Here horses struggle vainly to drag heavy sand-carts
from the ruts, while their drivers swear at them and the sand-workers
lean on their spades and watch. A cleaner sand is dredged from the
middle or brought across in deep-laden punts from the many banks that
render navigation next to impossible--a clean, hard sand, most excellent
for building purposes.

It was the hour of the mid-day dinner--for Polish hours are the hours of
the early Victorian meals. Horses and men were alike at rest. The horses
nibbled at the thin grass, while the men sat by the water and ate their
gray bread, which only tastes of dampness and carraway-seeds. It was
late autumn, and the sun shone feebly through a yellow haze. The scene
was not exhilarating. The Vistula, to put it plainly, is a dismal river.
Poland is a dismal country. A witty Frenchman, who knew it well, once
said that it is a country to die for, but not to live in.

It was only natural that the workmen should group together for their
uninteresting meal. The sand-bank offered a comfortable seat. Their
position was in a sense a strategetical one. They were in full view of
the bridge and of the high land behind them, but no one could approach
within half a mile unperceived.