What do they talk about in groups down there, tall, young
fellows and strong middle-aged men and reminiscent, old ones down in the
Port o' Missing Men? If they're out of work where do they sleep at
night, and what do they have to eat? And have they any women folks?
Not all kinds of men are down there, but many kinds. There are Mexicans,
Sinn Feiners, old American stock, and once in awhile a venturesome
Yankee. There are lumberjacks in from the North, and Chinamen in
shuffling slippers, and philosophers and Swedes, half-breeds and just
plain men. Some are Vagabonds who can't help their roving, and others
are very tired and would like to lie over in port for or a long spell.
There are Italians, and Portuguese, and many Greeks, and turbaned
Hindus, tall and skinny, always traveling in pairs like nuns. Sometimes
the Port is fairly crowded.
New England is a section of the country where men leave home, and I have
heard mothers sing with tears in their voices: "Oh, where is my
wandering boy tonight?" On Third street down at the Port o' Missing Men,
I have a fancy that I would like to write back to all those mothers that
here are their boys. But, after all, what good would that do, for who
can tell which is which?
Market St. Scintillations
Oh, the things our eyes discover as we walk along on Market street.
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