The Vultures by Henry Seton Merriman — Read

At the foot of the steep and narrow Bednarska -- the street running down from the Krakow Faubourg to the river -- there are always many workers. It is here that the bathing-houses and the boathouses are. Here lie the steamers that ply slowly on the shallow river. Here, also, is a trade in timber where from time to time one of the smaller rafts that float from the Carpathians down to Danzig is moored and broken up. Here, also, are 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 towpath. 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.