THE PIPES OF PAN
Circular Quay,shaped like a bite in a slice of bread,caught the eye like a moving picture.The narrow strip of roadway,hemmed in between the Customs House and the huge wool stores,was alive with the multitudinous activity of an ant-hill.A string of electric cars slid past the jetties in parallel lines or climbed the sharp curve to Phillip Street;and every minute cars,loaded with passengers from the dusty suburbs,swung round the corners of the main streets and stopped in front of the ferries.And as the cars stopped,the human cargo emptied itself into the roadway and hurried to the turnstiles,harassed by the thought of missing the next boat.
From the waterside,where the great mail steamers lay moored along the Quay,came the sudden rattle of winches,the cries of men unloading cargo,and the shrill hoot of small steamers crossing the bay.Where the green waters licked the piles and gurgled under the jetties,waterside loafers sat on the edge of the wharves intently watching a fishing-line thrown out.
Men in greasy clothes and flannel shirts,with the look of the sea in their eyes,smoked and spat as they watched the ships in brooding silence.For of all structures contrived by the hands of man,a ship is the most fascinating.It is so complete,so perfect in its devices and ingenuity,a house and a habitation for men set adrift on the waste of waters,plunging headlong into danger and romance with its long spars and coiled ropes,its tarry sailors roaring a sea-chanty,and the common habits of eating and sleeping accomplished in a spirit of adventure.
Two streams,mainly women,met at the turnstiles--mothers and children from the crowded,dusty suburbs,drawn by the sudden heat of an autumn sun in a cloudless sky to the harbour for a day in the open air,and the leisured ladies of the North Shore,calm and collected,dressed in expensive materials,crossing from the fashionable waterside suburbs to the Quay to saunter idly round the Block,look in the shops,and drink a cup of tea.