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diff --git a/4643-h/4643-h.htm b/4643-h/4643-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3f8f502 --- /dev/null +++ b/4643-h/4643-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3593 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Vignettes of San Francisco, by Almira Bailey + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Vignettes Of San Francisco, by Almira Bailey + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Vignettes Of San Francisco + +Author: Almira Bailey + +Release Date: November, 2003 [EBook #4643] +Last Updated: October 31, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VIGNETTES OF SAN FRANCISCO *** + + + + +Produced by David Schwan and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + VIGNETTES OF SAN FRANCISCO + </h1> + <h2> + By Almira Bailey + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>VIGNETTES OF SAN FRANCISCO</b></big> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> As Pilgrims go to Rome </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> At the Ferry </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> The Union-Street Car </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> The Latin Meets the Oriental </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> The Pepper and Salt Man </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> The Bay on Sunday Morning </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> Safe on the Sidewalk </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> Port O’Missing Men </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> Market St. Scintillations </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> Cafeterias </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> The Open Board of Trade </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> The San Francisco Police </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> A Marine View </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> Hilly-Cum-Go </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> I’ll Get It Changed, Lady </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> Fillmore Street </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> In the Lobby of the St. Francis </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> The Garbage Man’s Little Girl </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> The Palace </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> Zoe’s Garden </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> Children on the Sidewalk </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> Feet That Pass on Market St. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> Where the Centuries Meet </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> Bags or Sacks </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> Portsmouth Square </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> Miracles </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> Impulses and Prohibitions </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> Stopping at the Fairmont </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> San Francisco Sings </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> Van Ness Avenue </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> The Blind Men and the Elephant </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> You’re Getting Queer </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> The Ferry and Real Boats </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> A Whiff of Acacia </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> It Takes All Sorts </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> The Fog in San Francisco </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> A Block on Ashbury Heights </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> The Greek Grocer </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> Billboards or Art </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> Golden Gate Park </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> Extra Fresh </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> On the California-Street Car </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> Western Yarns </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> Mr. Mazzini and Dante </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> On the Nob of Nob Hill </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + VIGNETTES OF SAN FRANCISCO + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + As Pilgrims go to Rome + </h2> + <p> + In the same way that the poets have loved Rome and made their pilgrimages + there—as good Moslems travel toward Mecca, so there are some of us + who have come to San Francisco. Then when we arrive and find it all that + we have dreamed, our love for it becomes its highest tribute. And I don’t + know why it is sacrilege to mention Rome and San Francisco in the same + breath. As for me I greatly prefer San Francisco, although I have never + been to Rome. + </p> + <p> + I love San Francisco for its youth. Other cities have become set and hard + and have succumbed to the cruel symmetry of the machine age, but not San + Francisco. It is still youth untamed. They may try, but they cannot + manicure it, nor groom it, nor dress it up in a stiff white collar, nor + fetter it by not allowing a body to stretch out on the grass in Union + Square or prohibiting street-fakers and light wines served in coffee pots + and doing away with wild dashing jitneys. + </p> + <p> + Then there is something about San Francisco’s being away out here from + everyone else, a city all alone. New York is five hours from Boston; + Philadelphia is close between New York and Washington; Baltimore is a + trolley ride away; Chicago is only overnight from all the other cities, + while Atlanta is only two sleeping car nights from her sister cities. But + San Francisco, out here as far as it can reach with one foot in the great + Pacific, nearly a week from New York and a month away from China, some + people wouldn’t like it, but something vagabondish in me rejoices to have + run away from them all. Especially at night when the fog comes in on the + city and shuts out even Oakland, and fog horns out of the Golden Gate call + mournfully, and boats in the bay go calling their lookout calls, I get + this feeling of far-offness from the rest of the world that is very + gratifying. + </p> + <p> + And I love the sound of San Francisco, the sound of its singing—some + cities roar and others hum, but San Francisco sings. And I love the look + of it and the feel of it. I love to stand, on its hills in the mornings + when the bride-veil fog is going out to sea and the smoke and steam and + fog and sunshine make one grand symphonic morning song. And I love to + stand on high hills on clear days when all her cubist houses stand bold in + the sunlight and the cities across the bay are so close to the touch. And + I love its color, flowers and girls and splashes of the Oriental. And I + love its Bohemia which is not affected, but real. I love it because it is + young and live and spontaneous and humorous and beauty-loving and + unashamed of anything that is life. Oh, I don’t know. + </p> + <p> + If I were in New York and it should begin to suffocate me I would run and + run across the continent and never stop once until I landed on the top of + Telegraph Hill. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + At the Ferry + </h2> + <p> + The shrill of newsboys, the bass of older venders, the call of taxis, + trolleys that proceed all day in ordered sequence, the wide swing of + traffic on the Embarcadero, a tang of salt in the air, the atmosphere of + flowers for sale, hoarse call of ferries in the bay like politicians who + have spoken too much in the open air and lost their voices, the + beautifully ordered hurry and bustle and expectancy of people on their way + somewhere, and over it all the mentor of the police. + </p> + <p> + “Help pass the time pleasantly,” so does the electric piano coax away our + nickels. To those who know music it is a horrible sound, but to the rest + of us its tunes are rather gay. On the wall a defunct comedy flashes. + Hypnotized, but never amused, we gaze at it as we wait for the great doors + to swing back. A woman is thrown from an auto by her husband, and in her + fall displays a pair of husky, ruffled underwear. Time was when that would + have raised a howl of joy, but no longer. She hardly touches the ground + when we find ourselves gazing at an orchard of California figs, zip, the + woman picks herself up, gazes comically at the audience for a laugh and + receiving none, hops with phenomenal agility up astride of the hood of the + auto, piff, a yard of Santa Rosa hens, ping, the husband throws his wife + up to the roof of a skyscraper, the commuters gaze solemnly, biff, a scene + from Santa Clara, clang, the gates are opened. + </p> + <p> + On the Sausalito side, a jammed together happy vacation crowd, grotesquely + varied and elaborately gotten-up hikers, bags and suitcases to fall all + over everywhere, professorish looking men off, “taking a book along,” + people laden with all the cheap magazines in the market, smartly dressed + people on their way to country homes in Marin and Sonoma, a well + modulated, nicely groomed crowd—bing, the doors slide back and + everybody rushes off for a holiday. + </p> + <p> + Commuters and tourists, most of the time I’d rather be a tourist. They are + easily distinguished in the crowd, an accent from Louisiana, a woman who + has just returned from the Orient, a man with continental manners, they + are easily distinguished, and the predatory red-capped porters know them + well. We are wistfully sorry to be going only to Oakland, we long to go + out on the Main Line, the out-leading, mile-wandering, venturesome Main + Line. Reluctantly we turn to where duty and necessity calls us + ignominiously to the electric suburban. + </p> + <p> + The first sight of San Francisco. “Ah, this is San Francisco!” The shrill + of newsboys, the bass of older venders, the flash of electric signs. Do + you prefer “Camels”, “Chesterfields” or “Fatimas”? the call of taxis, + invitations to hotel buses, the wide sweep of traffic on the Embarcadero—“So + this is San Francisco.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Union-Street Car + </h2> + <p> + It is surprising how many people patronize the shabby little thing. But + then it waits right where those who leave the ferry may see it first as + though it were the most important car in town, and I have a fancy the big + cars humor it a bit and give it first place. Besides, it goes anywhere in + the city, Chinatown, the Hall of Justice, the Chamber of Commerce, the + Barbary Coast, St. Francis Church—sinners, saints and merchants may + travel its way—Portsmouth Square, Telegraph Hill, Little Italy, + Russian Hill, Automobile Row, Fillmore street, the Presidio and I expect + with a little coaxing it would switch about and run over to the Mission. + It has actually been known on stormy nights to take its constituents up + the side streets to their very doors. + </p> + <p> + It is a surprising little boat which looks like nothing more than a bug + crawling up the backs of the hills with its antenna of khaki-wound legs + sticking out fore and aft. Those who have traveled in Ireland tell us that + it is much like the jaunting cars, and it is not unlike the Toomerville + Trolley. + </p> + <p> + One night I set out to find the little thing to take me home. I was in a + strange part of the city and when my friends told me to get on and get off + and get on again I did as I was told. With blind faith I told the + conductors to put me off and they did. I continued in this way until long + after midnight when I found myself at a lonely corner with no one in + sight. I waited and waited and was getting nervous when I spied a blue + uniform. I looked sharply to see if he were a motorman, a fireman or an + officer from the Presidio. I am careful about these matters since last + summer when I was coming North on the President, and asked a naval officer + for some ice water. I rushed up to him and told him, which was true, that + it was the first time I had ever seen a policeman when I wanted one. This + led him into a defense of the San Francisco police, which I told him was + quite unnecessary with me for I thought them the finest policemen in the + world, probably because they are so Irish. + </p> + <p> + “Irish,” said he with a twinkle, “I’m not Irish.” + </p> + <p> + We chatted awhile until the Union street car came along, and then that + policeman who said he wasn’t Irish leaned over and whispered + confidentially, “If you miss this car, there’ll be another.” I suppose + they get lonesome. + </p> + <p> + You see how I am wandering away from my subject. That is because I + followed the Union street car. It switches from subject to subject just + like that. It begins with the wonderful retail markets of San Francisco, + and then changes abruptly to all sorts of sociological problems, then + before we know it gives us a beautiful marine view, and then drops us down + where the proletariat lives, then up to the homes of the rich and mighty, + and ends in the military. + </p> + <p> + Everyone should sight-see by the little Union street car. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Latin Meets the Oriental + </h2> + <p> + In that spot where Chinatown merges into the Latin quarter there must be, + I think, a Director of Delightful Situations who holds dominion there. For + instance, can you imagine anything more subtle than a group of large fat + women haranguing, in Italian-American, a poor thin Chinaman over some + bargains in vegetables? + </p> + <p> + In a place which marks the line of cleavage between the two quarters is a + picture store containing in its window religious pictures, enlarged family + photographs of Filipinos, and, of course, views of the Point Lobos + cypress. There is something very appealing about that window. Pictures of + Jesus, no matter how lurid they are, never fall short of dignity. And it + seems not at all incongruous that He should be there in the midst of all + those strange human contacts. + </p> + <p> + There are not only contacts between the Latin and the Oriental, but + anything unusual may come to light in that particular neighborhood. A buff + cochin rooster was wandering about the street the other day. Stepping high + and picking up choice tidbits and showing off before his harem of hens who + peeked at him from their boxes, he strutted about exactly as though he had + been in his own Petaluma barnyard. + </p> + <p> + One day I saw an enormous negro running through the streets with a piece + of new, green felt bound around his stomach. Now why should a huge negro + run through the street with a piece of new green felt around his stomach? + No one knows. And another time a small Chinese maiden bumped into me + because she was so absorbed in that great American institution, the funny + sheet. + </p> + <p> + On one of those side streets, in there somewhere, one of those streets + untoured by tourists, I saw some Chinese boys, dressed in American “Boss + of the Road” unionalls, playing baseball and calling the call of Babe Ruth + in sing-song Chinese. Then near them was an empty lot and what do you + suppose it was filled with? Scotch thistles, and edged with wild corn + flowers. Even Nature enters into the fun. + </p> + <p> + There is a story of an Italian who went through the streets somewhere on + Leavenworth, calling, “Nica fresha flowers,” and from the opposite side of + the street a Chinaman with flowers would call, “Samee over here.” All went + well until the Chinaman began to outsell the other, when the Italian + remonstrated. “Yella for yourself, see,” he said, to which the Chinaman + answered, “Go to hellee,” and went on as before. + </p> + <p> + This story was told to me by very reliable eye witnesses. The buff cochin + rooster and the huge negro and all the others I saw myself. And many other + strange things which I have not room to write, I saw in that spot where + Chinatown merges into the Latin quarter. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Pepper and Salt Man + </h2> + <p> + He was a man, I should say about sixty years old, a most uninteresting + age, and a homely, weather-beaten fellow too, when you stopped to look at + him. His suit was pepper-and-salt, and he was just like his suit. Good as + gold, I have no doubt, a roomer of whom his landlady could say: “He comes + and he goes and is never a speck of trouble.” + </p> + <p> + Still, he might have been as good as Saint Anthony but no one would ever + have noticed him except for what happened. What happened wasn’t so much + either but it was enough to illumine that dun, common-place man so that + everyone in the side-seating trolley was suddenly aware of his presence. + What happened was ten months old and was a girl. + </p> + <p> + A regular girl, one hundred per cent feminine. One could tell just by the + way she wore her clothes, by her daintiness, by the tilt of her bonnet and + by the way smiled out from under it. I can’t describe a baby girl any more + than I describe a sunset or moonlight or any of the wonders of God—I + can only say that she was everything that a baby girl should have been. + </p> + <p> + When she entered with her mother we all edged and crowded over but the + pepper-and-salt man won. Down she sat close beside him. Then you should + have seen that man, the foolish, old fellow. He turned toward her; he + beamed; he mentally devoured her; he never took his eyes off her long + enough to wink. + </p> + <p> + When she seemed about to turn her restlessly bobbing head toward him, his + hands moved and the strong muscles of his face worked in excitement. Then, + when she smiled his way and for an instant there was a flash of tiny, milk + teeth, that man, the old silly, made the most dreadful facial contortion, + something between a wink, a smile, a booh and a grimace. + </p> + <p> + Then when she turned from him he sat there eating her up. I saw him look + reverently at her exquisite hands and at the awkward little legs sticking + out straight ahead. When her mother arranged her ruffles he watched every + move—absorbed. Then he would wait eager, hoping and praying for her + to smile his way again... + </p> + <p> + Why, I was waiting for her smile too and so was every one of the staid and + grown-up people in the car. I don’t know when we would ever have come out + from the spell of that ten-months-old baby girl if just then the conductor + had not called out reproachfully—“Central Avenue—Central + Avenue.” Then the pepper-and-salt man jumped and looked nervously out and + rushed for the door. I, myself, had to walk back two blocks and when I + turned at my corner he was still going back to his street. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Bay on Sunday Morning + </h2> + <p> + Perhaps to go to Fort Mason on a sunny Sunday morning, that beautiful + relaxed moment of the whole week, and there to sit with others who have no + autos to go gallivanting in, and to sit idly gazing off at the bay. That’s + not bad. To read a little and doze a bit, but mostly to gaze out to sea + and dream. + </p> + <p> + A big foreign steamer in port, perhaps a Scandinavian boat, inert, + enormous, helpless, while the little tugs chatter, around it and finally + get hold of it, and tug it slowly around with its nose pointing out to + sea. Lumber schooners come in slowly and rhythmically, long and low and + clean. The Vallejo boat, looking like a rocking horse, goes importantly + chugging off toward Mare Island. It’s hard to read a book with so going on + out there. + </p> + <p> + Sunday morning, blessed play time, there is a fellow in a green canoe, and + the muscles of his body play into the movement of the waves until he and + his green canoe and the white capped waves are all one motif of the whole + symphony. Men play around the yacht club like a lot of school boys, and + now—“Shoot,” they push a long slim racer into the water. Dainty + white yachts go dipping to the waves and seem like lovely young girls in + among the sturdier boats. + </p> + <p> + Now the fishermen come in from their night’s work, making music all in an + orderly procession, and every boat of them a brilliant blue inside. I’d + like to catch a Maine fisherman allowing color in his boat, like a “dago” + or a “wop.” + </p> + <p> + Over all the swing and dip and rhythm of the sea gulls. How beautifully + they accent the movement of the symphony, like the baton of some great + leader—this great beautiful Sunday morning symphony. + </p> + <p> + Then there is Alcatraz. Oh, Alcatraz, why should they have placed a prison + there as a monument to men’s failure to order their lives in harmony with + nature. Alcatraz, most beautiful island in the most beautiful bay, you + sound an ugly, sinister, most unhappy undertone in the morning’s symphony. + </p> + <p> + Still it is a symphony. A symphony of San Francisco Bay. Why shouldn’t the + composers put it into music. We’re sick of the song of the huntsman by the + brasses, the strings and the wood instruments. With Whitman we exclaim: + “Come, Muse, migrate from Aeonia,” and come out here to the West, and + conserve the symphony of the bay which is already composed and waiting. + </p> + <p> + And for the argument, the overture, the prelude, there could be a sailing + schooner with sails all set coming into the Golden Gate, in the full + brilliant sunlight, or mysteriously through a fog, or against a sunset + sky. It should be “full and by” like that beautiful painting by Coulter in + the stock exchange of the Merchants’ Building. + </p> + <p> + Symphony of San Francisco Bay, boom of fog horns, calls and answers of the + ferries, chug of the fishermen’s boats, twink of lights in the harbor at + night, rhythm of sea gulls, and the brooding fog to soften it all. “Come, + Muse, migrate from Aeonia.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Safe on the Sidewalk + </h2> + <p> + Are there others, I wonder, who feel as I do about crossing the street? + There must be. Now I, when I cross, say Market street at Third, I run. I + take my life and my bundles in my hand and run, darting swift glances to + the left and to the right. It looks “hick.” I know it looks “hick.” And I + care. But I prefer to be alive and countrified than sophisticated in an + ambulance and so I run. + </p> + <p> + At corners, too. I think corners are worse. For there the machines may + turn around and chase me, which they often do. It’s a horrible feeling. + </p> + <p> + There must be others who feel as I do about crossing the street, but they + never betray it. I watch to see and when they cross, they just cross—that’s + all. Not with nonchalance exactly, but with ease and assurance. Once I + actually saw a man, a native son, I’m sure, roll a cigarette as he crossed + at a point where even the traffic cop looked nervous. + </p> + <p> + No one ever gets killed or even injured. But always everybody is getting + almost killed and almost injured. They like it. It’s a sort of sport. I’ve + noticed it more since the city’s gone dry. The game is, if you are + walking, to see how close to a machine you can come and not hit it. + </p> + <p> + Street cars, machines and people all go straight ahead and they all come + out right. It’s the only city where it’s done with such abandon. They + never stop for anything except taxis—not even fire engines. + </p> + <p> + The secret of it is, I think, that no one ever hesitates. This is + understood by all San Franciscans—that, no one is ever going to + hesitate. That’s why there are no accidents. It’s the unexpected in people + that makes disasters and creates a demand for traffic cops. + </p> + <p> + I try to cross the street as others cross. I choose a chalk mark and, + pretending I am a native daughter, launch out. I get on fine—suddenly + a monster machine is on me. Or would be if I did not jump back. I + shouldn’t have jumped back it seems. But how was I to know? In the jaws of + death you don’t reason, you jump. In jumping back I hit another machine + and it stops. And that stops a street car. That stops something else. And + in a minute Market street, the famous Market street, is all balled up + because I jumped back. Drivers, red in the face, swear at me, not because + they are cross, but scared-more scared than I. + </p> + <p> + Next time I am more careful. I look to the traffic cop for attention but, + being a handsome man, he thinks I’m trying to flirt. Policemen should be + homely. So I wait until the street is entirely empty. I wait a long time—it + is empty—I run like a steer—and suddenly out of nowhere a + machine is yelling at me individually and I know no more until, breathless + and red, I reach the haven of the sidewalk. + </p> + <p> + Once I heard a horrible story of a man who lost control of his machine and + ran up on to the sidewalk. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Port O’Missing Men + </h2> + <p> + They say that San Francisco is known all over as the Port o’ Missing Men. + That it is a city where a man may lose himself if he chooses, and that by + the same token it is a good place to look for “my wandering boy tonight.” + I can believe all this especially on Third street. Third street should be + called by some other name or it should have a nickname. If it were in + Seattle it would be known as “skid row.” Third street doesn’t describe it + at all. + </p> + <p> + When I see a lot of men like that, wanderers, family men out of work, + vagabonds, nobodies, somebodies, “rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief; + doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief,” I always get to thinking how once each + one was a tiny baby in a thin white dress, and how before that each one of + them was born of a woman. If I could ever forget that, I could perhaps + sometimes call men “a lot of cattle.” Come to think of it, it is men who + call other men “cattle.” At any rate, I like to think that no woman would + ever see men as less than the sons of mothers. + </p> + <p> + The Port o’ Missing Men is like the Port of San Francisco, and these men + are like boats in from a foreign port, tramp steamers some of them, out of + nowhere, going nowhere, no baggage, no traditions, men who’ll never get + lost because they are on their way to Nowhere. + </p> + <p> + Yet, the majority of these men are going to some place, but where I do not + know. 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Market St. Scintillations + </h2> + <p> + Oh, the things our eyes discover as we walk along on Market street. Such a + medley—infinite, incongruous, comical, pathetic, motley and sublime. + </p> + <p> + Harding in a window with “pure buttermilk.” He’ll be in more difficult + situations before he is done, I’m thinking. An electric fan above him that + keeps the buttermilk “pure” and flies the American flag in crepe paper. + </p> + <p> + “Crabs to take home.” They are freshly cooked, very large and forty cents + apiece. I decide that some I shall really buy one and take it home when I + confronted with the fact that “All Hair Goods Must Be Sold.” Why, I + wonder. Why must they be sold? And here are “Eggs any style,” so close to + the hair goods that I immediately visualize them as marcelled “style” and + pompadoured. + </p> + <p> + “Shoes Drastically Reduced.” It is the truth. The Oxfords I wear are + reduced by a drastic five dollars. Well, I couldn’t go barefooted, I + comfort myself and hurry on. + </p> + <p> + A shooting gallery and a man standing there trying to make up his mind to + try it. A second’s glimpse of him and all that he is is revealed. One + knows immediately that his favorite song is “My Bonnie Lies Over the + Ocean,” and that his ideal man is Governor Allen and that he is on his way + to spend his “remaining days” with his sister Lottie in Los Angeles. + </p> + <p> + Who would eat “stewed tripe Spanish.” Someone must or they wouldn’t + advertise it on the outside of he restaurant. Well, it takes all sorts of + people to make a world. Probably the man who would order “stewed tripe + Spanish” wouldn’t touch an alligator pear salad. To him alligator pears + taste exactly like lard. To the person who wouldn’t eat “stewed tripe + Spanish” they are a delicacy. + </p> + <p> + A crowd around a window. On your tip-toes to see. It’s that fascinating + Lilliputian with a beard and electric bowels who stands in drug store + windows and administers corn cure to his own toes with a smile. + </p> + <p> + The professional window shopper is a vagabond at heart—a loiterer by + nature. Here is one gazing in a photographer’s window to discover someone + he knows. These two are not professionals though but a spring couple + looking in furniture windows for nest material. And sailors wandering + about, nothing but kiddies, lonesome looking and no doubt wishing we were + at War again and hospitable once more. + </p> + <p> + Here is a “Pershing Market” and a “Grant Market,” beside it. There’s a lot + of that in San Francisco. Is there an “Imperial Doughnut?” Up goes a + “Supreme Doughnut” next door. It’s the spirit of “I’ll go you one better + every time.” It’s the spirit of Market street. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Cafeterias + </h2> + <p> + This is not to hurt the feelings of anyone, for some people are very + sensitive about cafeterias. They are cafeteria wise, they have a cafeteria + class consciousness. Such people are to be admired. They have accurate + minds which enable them to choose a well-balanced meal at minimum cost. + Lacking that sort of mind, I do not get on well in cafeterias. As sure as + I equip myself with a tray and silver in a napkin and become one of the + long procession, I lose all sense of proportion, and come out at the end + with two desserts, or a preponderance of starches or with too much bread + for my butter, and a surprising bill. + </p> + <p> + Those who are cafeteria wise can choose a good meal for 28 cents or 33 + cents at the most. They don’t take food just because it looks delicious. + They “yield not to temptation.” They have a plan and stick to it. Wise and + strong-minded, they shuffle their way bravely to the end. It is said that + in time they acquire a cafeteria shuffle which one can detect even on the + street. But I don’t believe it’s so. + </p> + <p> + Other sections of the country have cafeterias and in some parts of the + South, especially in Louisville, they are run quite extensively. But it is + in the West, especially in California, that they have attained a dignity + and even lavishness that makes them the surprise and delight of the + tourist. Irvin Cobb says that this is the cafeteria belt of which Los + Angeles is the buckle. + </p> + <p> + We have music in our cafeterias. We have flowers on the tables. People + don’t just eat in them, they dine. They take their guests there. Our + cafeterias have galleries with rocking chairs and stationery. They have + distinctive architecture. We take visitors to see them. We brag about + them, and when we wish to be especially smart we pronounce them + caffa-tuh-ree-ah. + </p> + <p> + Personally, I am proud of our cafeterias, but I do not get on in them. I + enter hungry. I look sideways to see what other folks are eating. I decide + to have corned beef and cabbage and peach short cake and nothing else. + Then in the line I have the hurried feeling of people back of me, and that + I ought to make quick decisions. Everyone ought to eat salad, so I take a + salad. Then some roast beef looks good so I take that, and the girl asks + briskly with a big spoon poised, if I’ll take potatoes, and I don’t wish + potatoes, but she makes a great nest of them beside the meat and fills the + nest with gravy and I pass on. According to Hoover or Maria Parloa or + Roosevelt, I ought to have a vegetable, and so I take two. Meanwhile I + have taken bread, but the woman ahead takes hot scones and so I do. I + choose some thick-creamed cake, very fattening, but just this once, and + then, oh, I don’t know. The tray is heavy and no place to put it, and in + my journeying I peek at the bill and it’s over 75 cents, and when I + finally sit down opposite a stranger I find on my tray two salads, and + when I chose the other I don’t remember. + </p> + <p> + But cafeterias are very fine for those who have cafeteria sense. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Open Board of Trade + </h2> + <p> + Months ago one of The Journal readers suggested a story to be found down + on Market street near the Hobart building. Many times since when passing + there I have thought that those street hawkers must have a certain + picturesque and even humorous value, and hoping to find it I have stopped + to listen. But the moment I stop they win me with their everlasting logic, + and then blessed if I can write them up. They have the same effect upon + others. I have seen chambers of commerce and stock exchangers and + professors from Berkeley passing with a supercilious glance which did very + well so long as they kept moving. But once let them step into the magic + ring and they too became mesmerized and stood there gaping in spellbound + interest. “Logic is logic, that’s all I say.” + </p> + <p> + Those hawkers are artists, skilled in the arts and wiles of + persuasiveness. There is one with a long, horse-hair wig which he + occasionally brushes back from his eyes with a dignified flourish. This + man has found the supreme elixir and the secret of perpetuity. He is the + only man in the world, this modern Ponce de Leon, who knows the secret. + Surely we need not blush to listen to its exposition, $2 is a small sum to + pay for such a bonanza. Forty thousand people have used it in the last + thirty-nine days. Think of it. “Take it right out into the crowd and sniff + it for yourself,” he urges and somehow that breaks the spell, and strong + men look foolishly at each other and move a-way. + </p> + <p> + Horoscopes, suspenders, iron watch charms, brown cakes that may pass for + maple sugar, ironing wax, laundry soap or penuchia, a book on Prohibition, + mending wax and books of magic are all there. They are not things which we + particularly want, but that’s the point. Anyone can sell things that + people want. But these men are professional persuaders of men against + their will whose mission it is to make people want what they don’t want. + That’s Art. + </p> + <p> + The horoscope seller must have taken his degree from some college of + venders, his call has such finesse. I cannot reproduce the lilt of it—“Here’s + where you get your horoscope, a dime, ten cents.” It is suggestive of the + midways of country fairs, shooting galleries on the Board Walk, and + circuses in the springtime. “Here’s where you get your horoscope, a dime, + ten cents.” + </p> + <p> + The little, old, blind man sitting there with one hand outstretched and + the other holding a book, his white hair and beard neatly combed, reminds + me of something Biblical and prophetic like pictures in old churches. + Alas! no one seems to buy his story of prohibition. I think he would do + lots better in Kansas or Iowa. A particularly fascinating one is the man + of mending wax who stands before his table like some professor of + chemistry with a tiny flame and saucers of mysterious powders and, I + almost said, a blow pipe. + </p> + <p> + But, pshaw, I can’t write them up. I take them too seriously. “Logic is + logic, that’s all I say.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The San Francisco Police + </h2> + <p> + The San Francisco police are the handsomest and most-willing-to-flirt + policemen in the United States, if not in the world. What a surly lot, the + New York policemen. They treat one as though he were a blackguard for + merely asking some direction. + </p> + <p> + “What car shall I take for the New Jersey Central Ferry?” we ask. + </p> + <p> + “Zippity-ip,” he snaps, moving off. + </p> + <p> + “What did you say?” we ask in timid desperation. + </p> + <p> + “Zippity-ip,” he yells, shaking his fist at us. + </p> + <p> + But ask a San Francisco policeman the way and how different. He will take + your arm and smile down at you and even go away with you chatting all the + time—“Stranger here? Well, you’ll never go back East again.” And + somehow after that you never do. + </p> + <p> + Of course, the San Francisco police are many things beside being handsome + and willing to flirt. But these are important qualifications which, up to + this time, have never had their place in journalism. Ah, many a Raleigh + and Don Quixote in the roster of the S. F. police. + </p> + <p> + A policeman is all things to all people. What a policeman is depends upon + what we are. To those who are fast, either in reputation or driving, he is + a limb of the law to be either evaded or cajoled. To the small boy he is a + hero to aspire to become when grown. To the public-spirited citizen of the + reforming order he is a piece of community linen to be periodically washed + in public with a great hue in the papers about graft expose. To almost + anybody in the dead of night with burglars prowling about, he is a friend + to be called—in case one has a nickel handy. + </p> + <p> + But to the great army of women who are hopelessly respectable, the + policeman is something quite different. And what we women think of the + police is important. We pay taxes, we vote and we cross the street. We + like our policemen to be handsome and cavalier and, again I say, the S. F. + police are both. Any fine day they will make a funeral procession out of + the motor traffic to escort a nice woman across Market street. + </p> + <p> + It goes without saying and is an unwritten law that policemen should be + Irish. I enjoy Greeks in classic literature or in restaurants, but not as + policemen. There is a saying in the city that when Greek meets Greek they + go together to get a job on the Market Street Railways. But when they get + upon the police force, I for one, shall move to the country. Policemen + should always be Irish. + </p> + <p> + And handsome. This is a woman’s reason, but listen: O men, are they not, I + ask, a part of the civic beauty of the city? Is it not important that + these animated equestrian statues should be gallant men upon noble and + spirited horses? And who is more imperial in the pictorial life of the + city than the officer on the Lotta Fountain pedestal by the raising of + whose sceptered hand the life of the city moves or stays. Yes, policemen + should be handsome and gallant. It is written. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Marine View + </h2> + <p> + Russian Hill had always seemed economically remote to me as an abiding + place until recently I was invited out where some people were living in a + modest apartment with a good view of the bay. And when they suggested that + I try to get an apartment over there I decided to do it. + </p> + <p> + It was a beautiful morning when I started out. There stood Russian Hill + and as Gibraltar bristles with armaments so it glittered with windows + facing the sea and one of them for me. Perhaps I could get a few rooms + from a nice Italian family and fix them up. Ah, the Latin quarter, + Greenwich village, the ghosts of artists haunting the place, Bohemians, + enthusiasm, the lust for adventure. I bristled with personality. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you want a marine view,” said the real estate man. “Not for that + price, lady.” + </p> + <p> + A “marine view.” I didn’t want a marine view; I only wanted one window + facing the sea. Surely with all those windows—. + </p> + <p> + I left the real estate man and began wandering about. I asked a group of + Italian women and they exclaimed in a chorus “No marine views left.” I + hadn’t said a thing about a “marine view.” I wandered further and it was + always the same. Some were smug and some were sorry but they all spoke of + a “marine view” in a certain tone of voice, as Boston people say “Boston.” + </p> + <p> + It was getting hot. I could not remove my coat because my waist was a lace + front. Only a hair net restrained me from utter frumpiness. Still I was + not altogether beaten and when I came to a nice countrified looking house + standing alone in the midst of modern art and a man came out I asked him. + The moment I did there came into his eyes a hunted glitter and he told me + how he had held out against them and how he had been besieged for years to + rent his marine view and wouldn’t. + </p> + <p> + As I turned away I met an Irish delivery man and he said that there were + dozens of vacant apartments very reasonable and waved his hand vaguely in + the direction where I’d been searching. I like the Irish but his cheerful + fibbery was the last straw and I went home. + </p> + <p> + The next day my friends called up and said that they had a marine view for + me. I was to live all summer in the apartment of the So-and-Sos while they + were away. So now I am. They are artistic and I drink my coffee from + saffron colored cups on a bay green table runner over a black table under + a turquoise blue ceiling with a view of the bay from the window. + </p> + <p> + But I am humble and if some day I meet a hot, tired looking woman who + can’t find an apartment on Russian Hill, I shall say: “Shucks, a marine + view isn’t so much.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Hilly-Cum-Go + </h2> + <p> + This is a story for children, because they will know it’s only fooling, + while grown-up people will believe it’s true. + </p> + <p> + The cable car isn’t a car at all, children, but is a hilly-cum-go, a + species of rocking horse and a grown-up kiddie-kar. It is a native of and + peculiar to San Francisco, and is a loyal member of the N. S. G. W. It has + relatives in the South, and the electric dinkie that rolls up and down + between Venice and Santa Monica is its first cousin. Some say that it is + distantly related to the wheel chairs at Atlantic City. It is not at all + common. + </p> + <p> + The men who run it are its Uncles. The parents live underground caring for + the young kiddie-kars. At times, if you peek down in that hole near the + Fairmont and are careful not to be run over you may see them bustling + about. Before she was married, the mama was a Marjory Daw of the Daw + family, famous see-sawers. The children take after their mother. + </p> + <p> + The Uncles are very kind and pick the hilly-cum-goes up in their arms as + tenderly as a woman would. You must have seen them pick the little things + up and run with them across the streets out of the way of autos. And at + night they tuck them in their little beds and hear them say their prayer + which goes: + </p> + <p> + Oh, dear me, I hope I’m able, All day long to keep my cable. + </p> + <p> + These hilly-cum-goes are not run by electricity at all, but just pretend. + They are run by three things—black magic, white magic and a sense of + humor. Black magic takes them up the hills, white magic restrains them + down, and the sense of humor is in the Irish conductors. You may hear, if + you listen, the magic coming out of the ground, “Kibble-kable, + kibble-kable,” only fast as anything. At noon time it goes “Putter, + putter, putter,” and at bed-time, “Kuddle-kiddie, kuddle-kiddie.” + </p> + <p> + This magic is very, very important. Especially going down hill. Did you + ever, my dears, descend that precipice at the end of the Fillmore street + line? What is it that keeps you from landing flat on your nose on Union + street? Nothing but white magic. What is it that keeps you from shooting + from the Fairmont, straight down into the St. Francis? White magic. + </p> + <p> + The sense of humor is also very important. Suppose a stout person gets on, + the conductor hops immediately to the opposite side for ballast. That + takes a sense of humor. If the hilly-cum-go is full of young people, + especially sweethearts, the Uncle jiggles the hilly-cum-go horribly, but + if old people are on it goes—“See-saw, Marjory Daw,” just gently. + </p> + <p> + I trust, dear children, that all these facts will make you appreciate more + the hilly-cum-go, and when you sit on it so cosy, so intimate with the + street, riding along looking at the scenery, you will be thankful, that + poor old horses do not have to tug you up hill, and that you have this + sturdy little creature to haul you about. Nice little, old hilly-cum-go. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I’ll Get It Changed, Lady + </h2> + <p> + This expressman was a regular San Franciscan. And there is such a thing, + you know, as a regular San Franciscan. He is a native son and more. His + speech betrays him. He calls a “car” a “cahh,” and when he’s surprised he + says: “Yeah”! He has a permanent laugh in his eyes, and the only thing he + gets mad about is prohibition. But the particular thing that I started to + say of him is that money is to him a thing to spend. Money is an incident + to life, that’s all. + </p> + <p> + He said it would be a “dollar, six-bits,” and I was sorry, but I only had + a ten-dollar bill. When I said that, he just reached out and took it from + me, and said he’d get it changed, and disappeared. Now, the significant + thing, and the one that made him a regular San Franciscan, was that he + never dreamed that I would doubt his honesty in returning with the change. + And I didn’t. It was this last that surprised me. If it had been in New + York—I gasp—if it had been in New York, no expressman would + have dared do such a thing because no one would have trusted him, and if + they had been so hick as to trust him, the expressman would have had no + respect for himself if he himself were so hick as to return with the + change. + </p> + <p> + I never shall forget the shock of seeing a pile of newspapers in front of + a drug store, the day I landed in San Francisco, where men took their + morning paper and threw down a nickel, and even made change for a dime. + Right out on the pavement—a lot of nickels lying loose and no one + paying any attention. Why, in New York—well, it couldn’t be done in + New York, that’s all. + </p> + <p> + It’s not because San Francisco is not metropolitan. For San Francisco is + essentially a city just as Los Angeles will always be a terribly big + country village. It’s not at all a matter of population. In Connecticut, + we always said that Bridgeport was a city, and New Haven which was larger, + was not. It’s a bing, and a zip, and a tra-la-la-lah, that makes one city + a city and another not. I can explain it no other way. + </p> + <p> + But with all its cityfiedness, there is a strange lack of suspicion, a + free and easy attitude toward mere physical money, that one finds in no + other large city except San Francisco. In the stores the clerks will say: + “Shall I put it in a sack?” and you answer just as they hoped you would: + “Oh, no, I’ll slip it right in my bag.” In New York as soon as one did + that she’d be nabbed on the way out for a shoplifter. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the constant use of silver money has had something to do with the + matter. Paper money can be tucked away. Silver is more spendable, everyone + knows that. Break a five-dollar bill into “iron men,” and it’s gone, gone. + And yet it can’t be the use of silver money alone that accounts for it. + Reno has silver money, and yet there is little of the old, free Western + spirit left in Reno. + </p> + <p> + No, it’s something to do with San Francisco where suspicion doesn’t yet + grip the hearts of men and where money is made to spend. + </p> + <p> + San Francisco, the last stand of the old, free West. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Fillmore Street + </h2> + <p> + I walk along on Fillmore street. I try to walk very fast with eyes + straight ahead. One needs a strong will to take a-walking on Fillmore + street and keep from spending all his money. In fact it is better to have + no money at all for then one is tempted to hold on to it. + </p> + <p> + Everything in the world is in the windows on Fillmore street—everything. + There isn’t a phase of human activity that isn’t represented. Every nation + has left its stamp. Spain—tamales and enchiladas. France—a + pastry shop. Italy—spaghetti and raviolas. The Islands have for sale + all that’s hula-hula. Here is a Hungarian restaurant. And the “O. K. Shoe + Shop—While U Wait” is pure American. + </p> + <p> + There is “Sam’s Tailor Shop.” I feel as though I should know this fellow + Sam. Apparently he knows me from his chummy sign. Sam, Sam—I ought + to remember Sam. + </p> + <p> + Do you wish to paint and varnish? Well, here you are. Or to be shaved or + have your eye-brows arched? Walk right in. Here is a place to learn to + paint china. Here are drugs, corsets, religion, fish, statuary, cigars and + choice meats all in a row. Meats, on Fillmore street, are always “choice” + or “selected” or “stall-fed.” I doubt if you could get just “meat” if you + tried. Next to the meats, out on a table before a second-hand book store + is romantic, old “St. Elmo” of mid-Victorian fame. He must have come West + by the “Pony Express.” + </p> + <p> + I always stop, if I have time, to look at shoes to be mended. They are + like people who have fallen asleep in public, off their guard and at their + very worst. Take a shoe—a real, old shoe without a foot in it and it + looks so foolish, betraying so mercilessly its owner’s bumps and peculiar + toes. There is pathos there, too. A scrub woman’s run-down shoes, a + kiddie’s scuffed-out toes, a man’s clumsy, clay-stained boots and the + happy dancing slippers of a young girl. + </p> + <p> + Back of the shoes—the cobbler. Cobblers are always philosophers. Not + pretty men, but thinkers. In their little, dingy shops they sit all day + with their eyes down, isolated from the “hum and scum” about them, to the + tune of their “tap, tap, tap,” their minds are detached to think and + philosophize and vision. + </p> + <p> + Now we are at the corner where we turn away from Fillmore street. There is + a window full of dolls. Such a lot of homely dolls. They don’t make pretty + dolls any more. They make them to look like humans. “Character” dolls they + call them and they are “characters.” Now, when I was a little girl, they + made dolls to look the way you wished human beings could look.—It is + not hard to turn the corner. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + In the Lobby of the St. Francis + </h2> + <p> + There is something about having money enough to stay at the St. Francis, + and to dine there and to wear smart clothes there that makes people step + out and act sure of themselves. Even when they can’t afford it, and their + stay there is a splurge or an outing, they act just as sure and stepping. + And as for the people to whom the St. Francis is but an incident they act + sure because they were born that way. + </p> + <p> + Never in my life have I seen such sure, well-dressed women as in the lobby + of the St. Francis. And I am no greenhorn at lobbies. I have reviewed in + my day some of the best peacock alleys in the country. There is the New + Willard. Now when I think of the New Willard, I see frumpily dressed + dowagers talking through their lorgnettes to moth-eaten senators. The + Selbach in Louisville, the St. Charles in New Orleans are famed for their + handsome women, but none are so free and proudly sure of themselves on + peacock alley as California women. No women dress as they do either. They + are not so chic as they are smart; their tailor mades, their furs, their + hats with a preponderance of orange, their well-dressed legs and feet and + a reserved brilliance that makes them the finest-looking women in the + United States. + </p> + <p> + It is a fine pastime to step out from the surge of Life for a minute and + let it ebb and flow around one in the lobby of the St. Francis. Such a + pageant of individual stories. An exquisitely dressed young girl meets + another there, and soon two young chaps appear and they all begin talking + silly nothings, and laughing at each other’s silly jokes, and looking into + each other’s foolish young eyes much as lovers have always done. A + harassed business man rushes frantically to the telegraph desk and wires + his firm at Pittsburgh. Some staid, comfortably-fixed tourists from Newton + Center, Massachusetts, come in from sight-seeing and go up to their rooms + and quickly get their shoes off. A group of Elks come in, arm-linked, and + start one wondering about the enforcement of the dry law. In and out among + all these moving comedies and tragedies flits like an orange-colored + butterfly a little Oriental boy, an angel-faced page goes calling “Mister + Smith,” and sober looking bell-hops stand alert to the sound of “Front.” + </p> + <p> + A beautiful woman steps forward and meets a handsome man and they go to + dinner together, and somehow I don’t think he is her husband and wonder if + she is a widow and decide that it is none of my business. If she has a + husband he is probably an “ornery” fellow who never takes her anywhere. + </p> + <p> + Everyone who passes by me looks alert, and sure, and happy and prosperous, + but I comfort myself that probably each one of them has as much to worry + about as I myself do. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Garbage Man’s Little Girl + </h2> + <p> + This vignette is written because it can’t help itself and carries with it + a hope that someone who reads it may know a little girl whose father is a + garbage man. Suppose that you can’t think of anyone just now who is a + daughter to a garbage man, it is best to read this just the same for you + never know when you may meet her. + </p> + <p> + When you do, tell her not to care too much when the children at school + tease her about her father and cry—“Phew—phew, here comes the + gar-bidge-Garrr-bidge-Garrr-bidge.” Tell her at that time to try and + sustain her personal integrity with philosophy. It won’t do her a particle + of good but tell her just the same. + </p> + <p> + Tell her that her father is a terribly useful man. That if he should fail + to function, then the disposal of garbage would become an individual + problem and that the mamas of kids whose fathers are not garbage men would + be obliged to say to their husbands—“Ed, dear, don’t forget to take + the garbage bucket to the public incinerator on your way to the office.” + </p> + <p> + Tell her that just because her father collects dirt, it is no disgrace. + Tell her to look at the people in good standing who peddle dirt. Tell her + to look at the papers. Tell her to tell the world that it’s better any day + to collect than to peddle dirt. + </p> + <p> + Tell her that when her father, up on his great smelly throne, drives + around the corner of Powell and Geary that dressed-up folk needn’t disdain + him so much. He’s a sermon. They won’t like him as a sermon so much as a + garbage man but he’s a sermon just the same. The text is that back of most + things that are dainty and beautiful is the drudgery worker. Tell her that + there isn’t an immaculate kitchen in San Francisco that doesn’t depend + upon her father. + </p> + <p> + Nor a feast at the Palace or the St. Francis. Tomato skins and the nests + that cauliflowers come in, and gnawed “T” bones. What would become of them + if she had no father. And coffee grounds and the nameless things that have + been forgotten and burned by the absent-minded. Tell the little girl about + Omar Khayyam and how he might have said—. + </p> + <p> + Oh, many a charred secret into the garbage can goes That from the kitchen + range in blackened cloud once rose. Tell her that there is a professor at + Yale whose father was a junk man. All this and more tell the garbage man’s + little girl. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Palace + </h2> + <p> + Someone was telling me of an old couple who lost everything they owned at + the time of the fire, and that they were very brave about it and never + broke down, and even helped others, but that when someone came running up + and said: “The Palace is on fire,” they both sat down on the curb and gave + way completely to grief. + </p> + <p> + And they say that after the fire the first piece of publicity which was + given to the world as a proof that San Francisco would come back, was that + the Palace would be rebuilt immediately. And a man from Virginia City, a + descendant of the Comstock days, told me that in Nevada they speak of “The + Palace” as Russians speak of the Kremlin as a pivot of destiny. What I am + trying to say, of course, is that the Palace is a tradition just as the + Waldorf-Astoria is a tradition, only not at all in the same way. + </p> + <p> + The Palace is a great place for women who are alone and a place where a + man may bring “the missus” with impunity. The Palace is stylish, perhaps, + but principally it is select. It suggests to me women who wear suits of + clothes, mostly dark gray, all wool and a yard wide, women who wear two + petticoats and Hanan shoes and Knox hats and who carry suit cases covered + with foreign express tags, and whom porters run to meet because they know + that these women may not be so stylish as they are generous tippers. And + the Palace suggests to me afternoon teas, and that peculiar composite + chatter of women’s voices which is more like the sound of birds in a + flock, and which Powys speaks of as a strange inarticulate chitter chatter + which isn’t really speech at all. + </p> + <p> + The other day a well groomed young official from the hotel took me out to + see the famous old Palace bar and the beautiful Maxfield Parrish painting + above it. They have taken the rail away, and around the edge of the bar + they have built a nicely finished woodwork wall which looks exactly like a + great coffin, the coffin of John Barleycorn. After the manner of my + species I wanted to see over the edge and the young man, thinking that I + might be suspecting a blind pig, boosted me up to peck over. I asked him + why they didn’t remove the bar entirely and he said with unsmiling naivete + that they were waiting “to see” and that they had saved the rail, “in + case.” + </p> + <p> + If I were a reformer I should agitate and have that remarkably joyous and + beautiful Parrish painting placed where it could be seen. I’d take it out + to some San Francisco school so that the dear Pied Piper and all the + little round kiddies running after should be a delight to school children. + </p> + <p> + And now I have come to the end and all that I have said is that the Palace + Hotel is the San Francisco tradition and everyone in the United States + knew that long ago. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Zoe’s Garden + </h2> + <p> + Zoe says emphatically that it is not her garden, but everybody’s garden. + But it is her garden because she tends it, and every morning goes around + among her flowers lovingly, giving a little dig of dirt here, and tying + some frail sisters up there and then, with her scissors, clipping, + snipping and nipping away. Yes, it is Zoe’s garden. + </p> + <p> + Anything that has spunk to grow is welcome in this essentially San + Franciscan garden. And no one is allowed to bully the others. Big burly + geraniums and proud dahlias must keep in their places and give the dainty + lobelia, cinnamon pinks, oxalis and candy tuft their chance. The oxalis! + How we tended it in pots in New England, and out here in California, bless + its heart, it runs around like a native daughter. And as for the fuchsia, + how far it has grown from the blue laws. + </p> + <p> + There is no formality in Zoe’s garden. Marigolds go wandering about in the + most trampish manner, and poppies, because they are privileged characters, + spring up as they please. Then, as though the two of them were not + sufficient California gold, there is the faithful gaillardia with its prim + little sunflower-faces smiling up at their Mother Sun. + </p> + <p> + It is a democratic garden, too. Golden rod and asters grow right in among + the aristocrats. Fancy the snubbing they would get if they once ventured + into a New England garden—Hm. There is freedom there, but not + license, and every opportunity for individuality. The gladiolas, + canterbury bells, gillie flowers and fox gloves grow as prim as in a + conservative English garden. Pansies smile in their little bed, and + although the nasturtium, the wild-growing, happy-go-lucky nasturtium, goes + visiting around among all his neighbors, he is never allowed to interfere + with those who wish to keep by themselves. The sweet peas stay very close + to their tradition of wire netting, but they are not snobs at all, and + give of their bounty to all who call. The sensuous jasmine is there, and + the cold puritanical ceneraria and old maids’ pin cushions, with fragrance + of sandalwood. The red-hot-poker grows stiff and straight, but the ragged + sailor goes uncombed and untidy still. + </p> + <p> + Cosmos is coming soon, dressed in her very feminine clothes, and the + coreopsis has come on ahead. All old-timers are represented there, + honeysuckle, wormwood, petunias, rosemary, gilias, mignonette, heliotrope + and foxgloves. If they can not all be there together, all are there at + some time in the summer. Montbretia, Japanese sunflower, larkspur, + columbine and gourds all have their time and place and opportunity in this + San Francisco garden. And the hollyhocks, the bossy things, I’ve a mind to + leave them out. Besides I know some gossip about them. When Zoe was away + to Yosemite one morning they were all leaning over from too much moonshine + or too much sunshine and—well, I won’t repeat what the marigolds + told me about them. + </p> + <p> + Besides it is time to come away from Zoe’s garden, which is everybody’s + garden. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Children on the Sidewalk + </h2> + <p> + When you were a little girl, when you were a little boy, where did you + play? Was it in a barn? Was it a city park? Did you hunt gophers on the + plains of Iowa? Perhaps it was in a California poppy field. Perhaps a + graveyard. I played in one, and remember very vividly the grave of + Josephine Sarah Huthinson who died at the age of 11 months, and had a + little lamb on the top of her stone and an inscription: “Except ye become + as little children ye shall not enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.” Many + delightful games we played around the grave of little Josephine. + </p> + <p> + Wherever childhood found us we played, and out of our environment and + often in spite of it, lived in a delightful world of our own into which no + grownup ever really entered. Now, you and I, grownup, walk along the + sidewalks of San Francisco and all we see under our calloused old feet is + a sidewalk. But to children even a sidewalk blossoms with possibilities. + Who but a child invented: “Step on a crack, you break your mother’s back.” + Only the other day I saw a kiddie avoiding every crack and muttering some + incantation as he walked along. + </p> + <p> + And out of the sidewalk grew all the different types of kiddie kars and + coasters that are so prevalent. I saw a whole load of children zipping + down a steep San Francisco hill the other day much as we children coasted + down winter hills on wicked “double rippers.” A hill and gravity and a lot + of kids, what possibilities. And out of the sidewalk have evolved those + nameless explosives that have been so popular over the recent Fourth. A + row of kids sitting on a curb, one of them darts out to the car track, a + car comes, great expectancy from the kids, terrific noise, annoyed looks + on the faces of sour adults, unbounded joy from a row of kids sitting on + the curb. + </p> + <p> + Recently I saw a tomboy who had organized the children in her block, and + had confiscated an alley between two straight gray houses, and I don’t + know what the game was but it entailed trips on a car down the alley and a + very bossy motorman, and “turns,” over which everyone quarreled. + </p> + <p> + Some dainty little Chinese girls were playing a sidewalk game with a white + stone which was a version of an old, old child game. The child would hop + to the stone and kick it away and hop to it again until she missed, the + object being to beat her opponent in the distance traveled. And I saw some + exquisite little Japanese girls playing jump rope and chanting one of the + numerous litanies that go with that beautiful game. + </p> + <p> + The sidewalks of San Francisco. They are full of adventure. Robert Louis + Stevenson would have seen it all. But to our dull eyes are only gray + cement block. Just a sidewalk to us and to kiddies there are mountains in + which Roy Gardner hides, and woods, and Tom Mix on a horse dashes right + past us and we never see him at all. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Feet That Pass on Market St. + </h2> + <p> + There is something about walking along Market street with the procession + of people that passes all day, ah, how shall I express it? It is thrilling + and it is amusing; it is cosmic and it is puny. It is often ridiculous and + always sublime. Sometimes when we are in most of a hurry the consciousness + of the procession will come to us. It is as though we were one of a moving + crowd that never began and will never end. At such times we listen to the + sound of their feet, the steady, unceasing step by step, an endless tramp + as though it were beating out the rhythm—“Eternity, eternity, + eternity.” + </p> + <p> + As we pass voices call to us from the wayside, a cripple so far down below + us on the very ground offering his silent pencils; the allurement of + flowers; a hoarse newsboy with his old, old face screwed into a thousand + anxious wrinkles; a blind man, silent supplicant, twirling his thumbs; and + from the windows the call of strawberries at 15 cents a basket. Overhead + an aeroplane hums its way and receives from us the tribute of an upward + glance. We gaze upward and think how many years before our day aeroplanes + were flying overhead in the dreams of men who passed and passed in the + long procession. + </p> + <p> + Idly we glimpse faces that pass us in the procession that meets ours. We + pass them and are never the wiser for the struggle and tragedy that may be + going on behind their show of brave masks. A man clutching his last dime + and wondering whether to spend it for rolls and coffee or coffee and + rolls. A business man absorbed and a lady pondering deeply some detail of + her dress. A young girl with soft un-massaged chin hurrying to keep a + tryst with her “friend,” and country folks, their feet sore on the + unaccustomed pavements, glad to be going home soon. + </p> + <p> + It is such an orderly procession and although they all seem to be walking + along forever, there is an order in their going and each is on his way. + Each one is free to go to his own place and yet no one is free. No one is + free to leave the procession once he gets into it. Once a man is born he’s + done for. + </p> + <p> + Let him veer one iota from that procession and soon there will come + rumbling up to the curb a big black Maria and off he’s whisked away from + his fellows. Let him but get into the wrong house or take the wrong + overcoat or chuck the wrong person under the chin—Pff! Let him + forget where the long procession leads and wander about a free spirit and + his wanderings will lead him to the madhouse. + </p> + <p> + I love to be one of the procession that marches forever up and down Market + street, such a brave procession. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Where the Centuries Meet + </h2> + <p> + She was a tourist and she had just finished Sing Fat’s. As she passed out + of the door she said smugly to her companion—“I don’t see anything + so wonderful here.” + </p> + <p> + I was standing right there and said I: “Madame, if you have been through + Sing Fat’s and have failed, to see anything wonderful then you should go + home and give yourself the Benet test which is used to test the + intelligence of children.” Oh, of course, I didn’t say this so that the + lady could hear. The bravest speeches we humans make are never aloud. Then + I continued: “Madame, you may travel far in mileage but you will never + take anything back to Dingville, Kansas, richer than a souvenir ash tray.” + </p> + <p> + Why, just to take a trip from Sing Fat’s to the White House is a + tremendous journey if one has the perceiving faculty. In Sing Fat’s a bit + of old Cloissonne, tiny pieces of enamel on silver, done with infinite + pains by hand labor, perhaps centuries ago, grown beautiful with age. In + the White House georgette flowers, exquisite things made for the passing + minute, a whiff and a whim and off they go. Just in these two there is a + meeting of the centuries, Handcraft Days and the Machine Age—B. C. + and A. D.—the oldest civilization in the world and the newest. + </p> + <p> + The most interesting thing in Chinatown are the Chinese. To some they all + look alike, but to me they seem very human and individual and folksy. I + find myself paraphrasing: “But for the grace of God there goes John + Bradford,” and when I meet a crafty looking old Chinaman this whimsy comes + to me, “If Deacon Bushnell who passed the plate in the Centerville + Methodist Church had been a Chinaman this is the way he would have + looked.” They are such small town folks. Even with the steady cycle of + tourists they gaze at each newcomer as though he were the latest comer to + Podunk. One day with a friend I called on a Chinese girl, and all the + large family and their friends gathered around and discussed us and + laughed among themselves and pointed at us. It was embarrassing but I was + never once conscious of rudeness, simply a childlike curiosity and + honesty. + </p> + <p> + In Chinatown the other day a peddler was selling spectacles and somehow + the old men trying them on and squinting for “near” and for “far,” seemed + so quaint and countrified and like a lot of old Yankees around a country + store trying to get a “new pair of eyes, by Heck.” In Chinatown the tong + men do not seem at all real and the hair raising movie serial with its + Chinatown terrors, Buddhist idols that open and swallow the movie actors + and floors that drop into dungeons, seem very remote. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Bags or Sacks + </h2> + <p> + “Do you like cafeterias?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t know,” he answered, “I’ve never played them.” + </p> + <p> + “What religion do you follow?” another man asked me. + </p> + <p> + In a mining camp they told me to take such and such a “trail.” + </p> + <p> + The point is, that we did not talk that way where I came from. Of course, + I hasten to say, we doubtless talked some other way just as peculiar. And + if I could detect our colloquialisms I would write a lot about them but + alas I can’t. I was in the West two years before I noticed that a + “trolley” is a “street car.” + </p> + <p> + A woman in a mining camp said to the stage driver, “I want out at the bank + because I don’t want to pack this sack of silver.” In the first place we + wouldn’t have had a sack of silver and if we had, it would have been in a + “bag” not a “sack,” and we never “pack” things and we never “want out.” + </p> + <p> + In the East we never refer to our locality as “this country,” as in the + West and South. We do not take the name of our state either as + “Californian” or “Kentuckian.” One never hears of a “Connecticutian” or a + “Massachusettisian.” I do not profess to give any reasons for these + peculiarities. + </p> + <p> + In the West, speech is more brief. “Autos go slow” is the warning while on + the Fenway in Boston the signs read—“Motor Vehicles, Proceed + Slowly.” I wouldn’t swear to the comma but the words are identical. + </p> + <p> + There is a small to near Provincetown where a sign reads—“Friends, + we wish to think well of you and we wish you to think well of us. Kindly + observe the ten mile motor limit.” After that the roads are so bad that + one couldn’t possibly exceed ten miles if he tried. Probably the longest + sign in California is that one which reads—“Drive your fool heads + off.” + </p> + <p> + “Booze-fighters” are Western. Oh, they’re Eastern too, but under a + different name. It’s a misleading term, that. As though one were fighting + against booze like an anti-salooner. I actually know of a woman who came + West and thought for or a long time that a “booze-fighter” was a “Dry.” In + the East he is a “rummy” and when he’s drunk he’s “tight.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a fright,” is Western. “Ornery,” is middle-Western. That’s a + wonderful word. Sometimes, I wish I could live my life over with “ornery” + in my vocabulary. It describes so many people I never knew just how to + classify. + </p> + <p> + There are no “T” bones in the East. And scrambled brains are not common. + Oh, of course, we have them but not as something to eat. Personally, I was + brought up to reverence brains and when I see them lying pale and messy on + a plate in a Greek restaurant, I confess it gives me a start. + </p> + <p> + Hot tamales have never crossed the plains East. And baked beans have never + come West—not real ones. The difference between the Eastern baked + bean and the Western is all the difference between a tin can and a + religious rite and it is the same with succotash. A cruller is only a + fried doughnut when it gets out West. Tea is more subtle in the East, but + out here the waitress will ask “Black or green” in a black or white tone + and stands over you until you decide. Maybe you don’t want black tea, + maybe you don’t want green, but just “tea,” but there she stands in her + unequivocation—“Black or green?” + </p> + <p> + Silver money has never traveled East. A man told me recently that he + didn’t like silver money when he first came out here and that it was + always wearing his pockets out but since he’d gotten into Western ways it + never wore a hole in his pockets any more. In the East a change purse is + scorned by anything masculine, but here all the men carry one, I don’t + know why not in the East, nor why in the West. Blessed old “two-bits” and + a “dollar six-bits” are the only woolly things left over from the old wild + West. + </p> + <p> + What else—oh, I could keep on for pages. “Stay with it” is Western + and has lots more feeling I think than “stick to it.” A Westerner when his + wife and babies were going back East to visit her relatives, telegraphed + to her brother—“Elizabeth and outfit arrive Tuesday.” And until she + arrived the brother spent his time in conjecturing as to just what an + “outfit” would mean. Rhubarb plant is “rhubarb” in the East and also “pie + plant,” and one day I was in a fruit store and when the man—he was a + Greek—yelled “Wha else?” I could only think of “pie plant” and so I + didn’t get any. + </p> + <p> + It’s all the way you are “brought up,” Eastern, and all the way you are + “raised,” Western. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Portsmouth Square + </h2> + <p> + “To be honest, to be kind.” Loiterers, vagabonds, slow-going Orientals, + poets and blackguards, all day long come and drink at Stevenson’s + fountain. Some of them look up and read it all and some only get as far as + “to earn a little, to spend a little less”—. + </p> + <p> + Small-footed Chinese women pass, humping along on their stumps and their + babies running along beside have larger feet than the mothers who bore + them, Bench warmers gaze after them with lazy curiosity. A fat Italian + granddaddy washes a kiddie’s hand from the fountain and a man with a + demijohn and a sense of humor goes smilingly down the path and what he has + in the demijohn is none of our business. + </p> + <p> + “To make on the whole, a family happier for his presence.” It is noon and + a bride has brought lunch for herself and her husband off the job in his + white overalls, and the two eat together on the beautiful grassy slope. + The poplar trees around Stevenson’s fountain whisper poetry all day long + and the little iron boat on top looks sad not to be sailing away on high + adventure to the South Sea islands. + </p> + <p> + “To renounce when it shall be necessary and not be embittered.” A woman + with a baby carriage comes by. Something tender and sane and everyday and + basic about her and her baby. A Chinese woman passing looks for all the + world like a black and iridescent purple grackle in her shiny black coat + and shiny black pants and shiny black shoes and shiny black hair, although + the grackle has a prouder strut than her dancing little trot. + </p> + <p> + “To keep a few friends and those without capitulation.” Where, oh where, + do all the men come from who lie stretched out on the grass? I’ve seen the + very same men lying on Boston Common, and when my father was a boy he said + he saw them there. Hats over their eyes or else blinking up at the blue + sky. Then on the curb facing the Hall of Justice, philosophers up from the + water front or fresh from box cars, everyone with a story that Stevenson + would have got from them. + </p> + <p> + “Above all on the same grim conditions to keep friends with himself.” On + the bench an enormous woman with a hat that looks like a schooner atop of + a great pompadour wave and on the very same bench a mummied old Chinese as + thin as a wafer. An aeroplane hums above and Stevenson’s little boat looks + envious. Where did Captain Montgomery of the sloop Portsmouth stand when + he planted the flag in 1848? The Mission bell, so many miles to Dolores, + so many miles to Rafael. Ring, Mission bell, ring and show us where the El + Camino Real will lead us all by and by. We who pass all day, show us the + way, Mission bell.—“here is a task for all that a man has of + fortitude and delicacy.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Miracles + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Why, who makes much of a miracle? + As for me, I know of nothing else but miracles. + Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, + Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, + Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water, + Or stand under trees in the woods, + Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, + Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car.” + + —Walt Whitman. +</pre> + <p> + If man or woman be at all sensitive to life, he must react to the + commonplace much as Whitman did. Such a person may be hurrying along about + his business with perhaps no time for reflection and yet in a flash, the + miracle of life will come to him through the slightest happening. + </p> + <p> + A little girl on the ferry sitting with her mother takes from her small + prim bag a set of doll clothes, and fondles them and smoothes them much + like a pullet with her first chickens. The sight of those square, little, + gingham dresses, trimmed with scraps of lace and silk and with awkward + sleeves standing straight out, brought to me, on that Oakland ferry, all + my childhood again, and I was cuddled close between the surface roots of a + great elm and from the nearby lane came the sight and scent of Bouncing + Bet, Joe Pye Weed, Tansy, Yarrow, Golden Rod, Boneset, and over in the + meadow the sight of cows and the smell of peppermint and water cress, + beside a little stream. + </p> + <p> + The moment I write it down in physical words it becomes somehow less + miraculous. The mind is so infinite and the human being so essentially + mental, that the spoken or written word may never express them. + </p> + <p> + The sight of electric lights flashing at night, the view of the city from + a cable car, the wonder of great trucks bearing down upon us like + fiery-eyed dragons, a bunch of poppies growing close to the roots of a + billboard in the heart of the city, and the silhouette of a young girl, + wind-blown, so that her straight slender figure shows more beautiful than + the statue that tops Union Square. Up Kearny street the glimpse of + eucalyptus trees on the top of Telegraph Hill standing out against the + pink sunset sky, the postman with his pack of human messages on his back, + the spirit of Robert Louis Stevenson in Portsmouth Square, and a row of + old, old men sitting in the sun on Union Square discussing the Universe. + </p> + <p> + Did you ever stand listening to the seals just at nightfall, and did their + weird, low call stir you to a feeling of kinship with all the creatures of + the great deep, and did you lose yourself there out under the cold, dark + water in that mysterious untamed world of the sea that is older than the + land? + </p> + <p> + I don’t know what it’s all about. I only know we need more poets. Still + every man who reacts to life and feels it to be a miracle, he is himself a + poet. Even Whitman could only articulate in terms of wonder. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Impulses and Prohibitions + </h2> + <p> + One day last week a man—a regular man, neither a decided proletarian + nor a typical bourgeois—but just a man was walking along. He was + dressed in average clothes, he was shaved and carried a suit case and + didn’t look out of work and was evidently going somewhere. + </p> + <p> + He was walking along with this suit case—it was on Larkin near + McAllister about two o’clock on one of those superb days of last week—and + he came to a place where there was a stretch of grass near the sidewalk. I + think he was hot and the suit case was getting heavy.... + </p> + <p> + At any rate when he saw that grass, tall, dark green and fragrant, he + immediately lay down on it, pulled his hat over his eyes and, I expect, + went to sleep. It sounds so free and easy written down. Which makes it no + less significant. + </p> + <p> + First, it was significantly Western. An Easterner or a Middle Westerner + would have thought it over first. Then the fact that the man was so + average made it significant. If he had looked like a vagabond it would + have been not even an incident. It is we who are respectable who are + fettered by Grundy. It was a logical thing to do and natural and terribly + human, but most of us can’t do the logical thing and natural even if + inside we do feel terribly human. Especially these spring days. Today at + noon I would like to have gone up on the grass in Union Square and taken + my shoes off. Why didn’t I? Not because of the police—but Grundy. + </p> + <p> + Now a Piute Indian woman could have done it. Her stockings too. A Piute + Indian woman when she’s tired she sits down right in the street, right + where she’s tired. But you and I, when we are weary we may sigh—“Wish + I could sit down.” But we can’t, not until we’ve gone down the street and + up in the elevator to some particular place where Grundy says we may sit. + </p> + <p> + The most significant thing about that man on the grass was that he was in + the heart of a great city. Cities are like homes. Some you’re comfortable + in—some you’re not. Now, San Francisco, it is a real city, with all + the metropolitan lares and penates, dignified and vividly active. And yet + there is no city in the country whose children may be as “at home” as + here. It is the only city I know of that has forgotten to provide itself + with nasty little “Keep Off The Grass” signs. It will probably never be an + altogether prohibition town. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Stopping at the Fairmont + </h2> + <p> + It is best to say at the very beginning that if one is tremendously + wealthy he will not enjoy this dissertation on staying at high class + hotels. If one has more than two bathrooms in his home and can afford + chicken when it is not Sunday and turkey when it is not Christmas and + could stay at the Fairmont all winter if he preferred, then these words + will mean nothing to him. + </p> + <p> + She has gone, this friend of mine. All winter she has been staying at the + Fairmont. Much of the time I, too, have been staying at the Fairmont as + her guest. So it is with a sense of double bereavement that I write. + </p> + <p> + Talk to me no more of the comfort of cozy little homes. Give me a hotel + where I am treated as though I were a Somebody. Where I have but to press + a button and a liveried servant comes running as though I were Mary, Queen + of England, or Clara Kimball Young. And plenty of hot water for baths and + lots of enormous towels and, as soon as one’s butter is gone, another + piece, and fresh butter at that. Pitchers of ice water and a strapping big + man standing so solicitously and watching one’s every mouthful. It makes + me feel as though I were the Shah of Persia. At home I don’t feel at all + like the Shah of Persia. + </p> + <p> + I came across something the other day that Boswell quotes Dr. Johnson as + saying on this same subject: “There is no private house in which people + may enjoy themselves as at a capital tavern. At a tavern you are sure you + are welcome, and the more noise you make, the more trouble you give, the + more good things you call for, the welcomer you are.” + </p> + <p> + This friend of mine can go to the room telephone and say, so incidentally, + “Room service, please,” and order a meal in her room with almost + negligence. That, I say, is elegance. Taxis, too, are another test. I + never order a taxi without a feeling of sea-sickness. Even when someone + else is paying the bill I can’t sit back in comfort. Always they are + ticking off the minutes as though they were my last on this earth. + </p> + <p> + They are simple tests that divide the plebeian from the patrician. Was it + Kipling who wrote: + </p> + <p> + “If you can order breakfast in your room and not feel reckless, If you can + ride in taxis with aplomb, If you can read the menu and not the prices, + Then, you’re a qualified patrician, son.” + </p> + <p> + After my friend had gone I went back to the hotel and someone else was in + her room and no one treated me as though I were the Queen of Sheba and I + went out into a cold, indifferent world where no one cares when my glass + is empty, where no chair is pushed under me at table and where, alas, I + must sugar my own tea or go without. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + San Francisco Sings + </h2> + <p> + Some Cities roar and others hum, but San Francisco sings. Especially on + Saturday at noon and downtown. Saturday noon in San Francisco is like + nothing else anywhere but Saturday noon in San Francisco. And Saturday + noon is like the noon of no other day but Saturday. On Sunday they’re off. + On Saturday noon everybody’s on the street. + </p> + <p> + There are more flowers on Saturday noon. On the street stands great plumes + of gold acacia, riots of daffodils, banks of violets, white, waxy + camellias and branches of Japanese peach blossoms. It’s still winter by + the calendar but it’s spring in San Francisco. Everywhere you turn a man + or boy from the country with baskets of the spring flowers. All you want + to carry for two bits and a nice bunch for a dime. Big, fat men and oldish + men with young twinkles in their eyes sell them, unromantic, but very nice + to deal with. + </p> + <p> + There are the flowers and there are the women. No women in the country so + beautiful. No women in the world wear color as they do. Their colors are + never primitive, never gaudy, but gorgeous and vivid and alive, seldom do + you see a woman dressed in black, and black hats almost never. Sit in the + gallery of any church on Sunday morning when the sun comes pouring in and + it is as though you were looking down on flowers. + </p> + <p> + Never two alike in the Saturday noon crowd and yet the same type. Free + women, happy women, regular women. Women who can recall a judge or so and + still be graceful and dainty. It is very significant that a San Francisco + woman stands at the very pinnacle of the city, graceful and alert on that + tall slender column in Union Square. + </p> + <p> + And the Saturday noon men—men?—men? In describing color what + can one say of men? Well, it’s not their fault that they can’t wear pretty + clothes. They make a nice grey background for the women and a very + desirable audience and that’s the best I can do for them. + </p> + <p> + The street musicians, they contribute a lot to the Saturday noon + atmosphere. And when we drop a penny into their cups, perhaps it is not so + much pity as pay for the joy their piping gives us. And the people who + call papers, of whom the blind are the dearest of all. There’s a blind man + on Powell street who sounds exactly as though he were saying Mass. + </p> + <p> + Dearie me, I can’t describe it. All its lilt and rhythm and color and + humanness as well. And ladies walking along with huge white balloons from + the White House as though they had been blowing bubbles from some great + clay pipes. And a plump, rosy Chinese woman so dainty in her breeches with + her shiny, black hair bound in a head dress of jade and opal and + turquoise. + </p> + <p> + We need more poets. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Van Ness Avenue + </h2> + <p> + Van Ness avenue is sole. Nowhere in the wide world does the proud and + culminating automobile own and dominate such a wide and sweeping display + boulevard. + </p> + <p> + The automobile, what a magnificent animal it is, long, low, luxurious, + purring softly, full of a great reserve, ready to dart forward, not to the + cruel touch of a spur or bit, but to the magic touch of a button. It is + the culminating achievement of this period of the machine age. The + airplane, clumsy and awkward as yet, belongs for its consummation to the + men of tomorrow. The automobile is the zenith of today’s accomplishment, + and that is why men speak of it as “super” this and “super” that. + </p> + <p> + The machine age has its own cruelties and its own, ugliness, but it also + has its own art and its own beauty, of which the automobile and the houses + which men have built to accommodate it, are the consummate art. Not all + will agree with me here. The critics will damn me with disdain, and the + King of Van Ness, who ought to agree, but is too busy talking cars, will + only remark, if he listens at all: “Pretty good dope at that.” But + argumentatively I proceed. + </p> + <p> + Not that I can name them. I am only sure, really sure, of a Ford. But I + admire them with a great pride in my human kind. They sit so majestically + in their palaces on Van Ness, great limousines, powerful roadsters, + luxurious touring cars, waiting there on display and containing in + themselves all the skill, energy, artifice, and beauty of line, color and + trim that the machine age can produce. + </p> + <p> + And the buildings on Van Ness strike a new and independent note in + architecture. All that the ages have contributed of arches, columns, + coloring and lighting are utilized and made into palaces of great dignity + and beauty. There is something about the arched and windowed walls and the + spacious, open look of the buildings that is entirely distinctive and Van + Ness. It is not Mission, Grecian or Colonial, but it is all of them. It is + as new and distinctive as the service stations that have sprung out of the + automobile needs. If we dared we would call it entirely American. + </p> + <p> + And the printing that high lights each building is an achievement in + modern art. Who but Americans would dream of using printing instead of + gargoyles or classic medallions as ornamentation. Some of it is very + beautiful and almost none is ugly. The use of the word “Paige,” the + printing of “Buick,” the “H” of Hupmobile, the Mercury “A” of Arnold are + to me very beautiful. + </p> + <p> + Van Ness avenue. It is exactly like its name. A long wide sweep for the + regal motor car, the most wonderful and proudest automobile row in the + world. The ghosts of the old, aristocratic and residential before-the-fire + Van Ness have seen to it that even commercialized it shall still be—Van + Ness. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Blind Men and the Elephant + </h2> + <p> + You live in San Francisco and I live in San Francisco, and so does the man + who owns the peanut wagon on the corner, and none of us live in the same + San Francisco—funny. We’re like the blind men who each gave a + different version of the elephant. + </p> + <p> + To some, San Francisco is always eight o’clock in the morning or six + o’clock at night, swinging on the straps homeward, swallow their dinners + and to a show in the evening. Such people never have wandered through + Golden Gate Park of an afternoon or sunned themselves on the benches of + Union Square. They have never seen San Francisco by week-day sunlight. + </p> + <p> + Then there are home women and leisure women to whom San Francisco is + always afternoon, down-town in the shopping district with ladies in pretty + clothes passing each other on the street or in and out of the + sweet-scented stores. + </p> + <p> + To some, San Francisco is always night. A taxi-driver who used to be a + newsboy down on the old Barbary Coast. He has never seen anything but the + night life of the city. Not bad, but night provincial—a sort of male + version of Trilby. + </p> + <p> + The neighborhood of Merchants Exchange on California Street is San + Francisco to hundreds of men. They ride out to the golf links and into the + country on Sunday. Occasionally they go to New York, but when they return + San Francisco is limited to the neighborhood where men inquire anxiously—“Is + she picking up any in the East?” + </p> + <p> + No matter how wealthy, no matter how poor, to each of us San Francisco is + very much limited in the confines of what each of us is interested in. + It’s funny when you stop to think about it. How the Master of Marionettes + must laugh at us when he sees us together. Perhaps some night after the + show, the traffic cop raises his imperial hand and there, waiting to pass, + the taxi driver of the night and a dear little home woman with her + husband, and Mr. Chamber-of-Commerce and close to him a man who has never + seen San Francisco by week day sunlight. There they all wait looking out + of their eyes on San Francisco and each seeing it so differently. + </p> + <p> + San Francisco is one thing to you and another thing to me and something + entirely different to the man on the peanut stand. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anch --> + <!-- or --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + You’re Getting Queer + </h2> + <p> + Everyone ought to have—well, what is it that everyone ought to have? + No, not a machine, not necessarily a garden and not even a camera. + Everyone ought to have children. If not children of their own, then + borrowed ones or nieces or nephews or the neighbor’s kids. Everyone ought + to have children. + </p> + <p> + People who have no children anywhere in their environment to whom they can + talk intimately soon become queer and lop-sided. They may not always + realize it but others will find them awkward and stilted and covered with + cobwebs and dust. Such people will be found hard to get on with and full + of snippiness. It is half what ails folks, that so many of them have no + children in their lives and it affects them like malnutrition. Let a baby + enter a street car filled with moldy, musty grown-ups and watch the + starved looks and the foolish and pathetic boohs and pokes they will dart + in the direction of the child. + </p> + <p> + It is often my privilege to tell stories to a group of babies, and one day + when they were crowded close around me one of them exclaimed—“Hey, + you spit right in my eye.” Then it came to me what a lot of eyes I had + probably spit into all down the years, and how no one had ever told me of + it so frankly before. Children are so honest until we teach them to say + that they’re sorry when they’re not, and to listen to stories that bore + them and to pretend not to like Jazz when all the time they do. + </p> + <p> + Contact with children takes us back to the genesis of our being and + revives in us something primitive and honest and natural. I saw a man + recently being led out of a grown-up meeting by the hand of a child and he + looked so cross about it and was so obviously trying to maintain his + dignity while the child hurried him up the aisle. I thought how silly. + When a child has to leave a meeting he has to, that’s all, and there’s no + use in arguing or getting cross about it. And really how good it was for + that pompous individual to get taken down a peg by the terribly human + appeal of a little child. + </p> + <p> + All of us ought to find some children to tell stories to for our own + sakes. And then when we have gotten Jack up the beanstalk and into the + ogre’s kitchen, and the ogre says in an awful voice—“I smell a human + being,” perhaps there will come to us some of the old thrill that we had + forgotten. + </p> + <p> + If you don’t know any children intimately, children who call you “George” + or “Auntie Flo,” children who run to meet you, children who hurt your + pockets with anticipation, children to whom you read the funnies or whom + you take to the movies, children for whom you may revive your childhood + tricks of making a blade of grass squawk, or wiggling your scalp, or + cutting out a row of dancing paper dolls, then hurry and get acquainted + even if you are driven to pick them up. If you don’t, then as sure as + you’re alive, you’ll find yourself growing queer. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Ferry and Real Boats + </h2> + <p> + As a matter of fact the ferry isn’t a boat at all. It is more like a house + or a street car or a park full of pretty benches. It doesn’t sail, it only + plies, plies between two given points at stated intervals, and could + anything be more dull. Nothing is more prosaic than a ferry unless it be + an ironing board. + </p> + <p> + Even a barge is superior, and a barge doesn’t pretend to be a boat. A + barge goes somewhere and it gets mussed up by the real salt sea, and so do + flat, old scows, honest and rough and sea-going. Any boat in the bay is + superior to the effeminate ferry. Even the boat to Sacramento has a bit + more atmosphere. As for tug boats, they are little, but O-my as they pull + the great, impotent barges after them. Pilot boats have quite an air + making the big, dignified steamers look foolish being yanked here and + there. The tidy fisherman’s motor boats look rather unimaginative, all + tied in rows at Fisherman’s Wharf, but they go somewhere, sometimes away + down the coast and from their sides the long nets reach away down into the + sea itself. + </p> + <p> + How the real boats in the bay must despise the ferry. Think of being + called a boat and never once sailing out of the Golden Gate. How maddening + it must be. If the ferry had any spirit at all, some day it would just + switch about and go chunking out to sea. Imagine then the concern of the + staid commuters from Oakland and Alameda to say nothing of the citizens of + Berkeley and Marin County, to find themselves being borne away from their + vegetable gardens and fresh eggs out to sea in a wooden boat. + </p> + <p> + I suppose there are many people living right here in San Francisco who + have never sailed away out of the Golden Gate, people who have been bound + economically or by love or duty, and have had to ply like the ferry daily + between two given points. But can there be a man who has seen tall-masted + schooners and long-bodied ocean-going steamers pass in and out of the + alluring Golden Gate, and has never longed to sail away to the enchanted + South Seas, or to Alaska. Such a man is not a man any more than the ferry + is a boat. + </p> + <p> + If I could choose the boat I’d sail away upon, it would not be a + coast-wise steamer, nor the prim Alaska packers nor even the steamers to + the Orient. I’d choose me a four-masted schooner, carrying freight and + going somewhere, anywhere, no one knows where. And then some day the wind + would die or some night the wind would howl and there would come to me a + great longing for or a ferry that should take me home at night in a safe + and prosaic manner. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Whiff of Acacia + </h2> + <p> + In Connecticut now, and in Illinois and in Utah too, it is lilac time. + Lilac time—I’ll stop, if you please, to say the words over lovingly. + In San Francisco now the lilacs are in bloom but it is not lilac time. In + Golden Gate Park the rhododendrons are blossomed into gorgeous mounds of + color but they are not an event in San Francisco, only an incident. In + “The Trail of the Lonesome Pine” set in the mountains of Virginia, they + are the dominant background. + </p> + <p> + Poppies and lupine and many others are the flower tradition of California + but they are not what I mean here. It is an impression of mine that San + Francisco more than any other city has taken the traditional plants and + flowers of other sections and made them into a composite that makes up the + plant atmosphere of this city. + </p> + <p> + Take roses and geraniums and callas, none of which are epochal because + they are always at hand. But with old Mrs. Deacon Rogers in Connecticut + who nursed her calla through the long winter that she might take it to + church on Easter Sunday, the calla was history. + </p> + <p> + Even the camellia San Franciscans take very philosophically. It has not, + for instance, the supremacy that Dumas gives it in “Camille.” In + Sacramento they feature it more and an Easterner who saw them picking it + in branches instead of single flowers, exclaimed: “Why, they think they’re + oleanders.” + </p> + <p> + The plant and flower atmosphere of a community is very important. Some + child is now growing up in the city, who some day will be far away when + there will come to him a whiff, perhaps of acacia, and in an instant there + will come surging over him all the feel and urge and thrill and + wistfulness and dreams of his childhood, and he will be once more in the + atmosphere of San Francisco. It will not include winter and summer but an + all-round-the-year-ness, it will not mean a flower, but flowers, cherry + blossoms from Japan, acacia from Australia, and the best from everywhere + which all together will mean to him—San Francisco. + </p> + <p> + The smell of the acacia, which he knew as the wattle, inspired Kipling to + write those words + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Smells are surer than sounds or sights + To make your heart strings crack.” + </pre> + <p> + Perhaps many others see with me this difference between San Francisco and + the rest of the country, as though nature here expresses herself in bounty + more than in resurrection. Oh, well, whether it be “lilac time” or “all + the time” to each locality there is its own beauty and, as for me, I have + yet to find, in all my travels, the “place that God forgot.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + It Takes All Sorts + </h2> + <p> + “Hey, hey,” called the tall, nervous man with the fat, little wife, waving + his arms at the conductor for fear he would be carried past his corner. + </p> + <p> + “It takes all sorts of people to make a world,” remarked the + sensible-looking woman beside me. + </p> + <p> + It is not the first time that I have been impressed with the philosophy of + those words. Who said them first, I wonder. “It takes all sorts of people + to make a world.” That is, if we only had one sort or even a number of + sorts we would have no world. To make a world there must be all sorts, + including the funniest folks we ever knew. + </p> + <p> + I looked from the sensible woman with her well-chosen clothes to the woman + across the way. This second woman was a sort of + dressed-up-and-no-place-to-go type, with a squirt of Cashmere Bouquet in + the center of her handkerchief. And nothing on that went with anything + else she had on. And a hat which one knew was a hat, because it was on her + head, otherwise it might have passed for almost anything. + </p> + <p> + The woman beside me wouldn’t have been caught dead looking like the second + woman. Yet she should have been thankful for her. For it is only by + contrast that the well-groomed look smart, and the overdressed look fussy. + Whether that is Einstein’s theory of relativity or not, I don’t know. I + only know that, “It takes all sorts of people to make a world.” + </p> + <p> + There we sit on parade in these side-seater cars, and what we are is + revealed so pitilessly to all who sit across from us. It is as though Fate + were making jokes of us and sits us down beside the antitheses of + ourselves. Such a one of Nature’s jokes I saw recently. They were two men. + The first was the sort whom one calls an “old boy.” A racy individual, + well-fed with a round front, an Elk, of course, a city man, reeking of + good cigars, and an appraising eye out for a good-looking woman. + </p> + <p> + Beside him sat a man who had been studying birds in the Park. Berkeley was + written all over him. A thin, pure type. He was dressed in field glasses + and a bag full of green weeds and stout walking boots. There was an + ecstatic glint in his eye which meant that he had discovered a + long-billed, yellow-tailed Peruvian fly-catcher, “very rare in these + parts.” + </p> + <p> + So there they sat packed in so close and so terribly far apart, both so + necessary to the making of a world. + </p> + <p> + And as they sat a boy entered the car with a shoe-box, full of holes, and + out of the holes came a “peep” and then another. And the Berkeley man lost + his abstracted look and the man-about-town laid down his paper and pretty + soon the boy lifted the lid a bit and both men peeked in. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Fog in San Francisco + </h2> + <p> + Sunsets in the desert, spring in New England, black-green oaks lying on + tawny hills in Marin County, fields of cotton on red soil in Georgia, surf + on the rocks of Maine, moonlight on Mobile Bay, and the way the fog comes + upon San Francisco on summer afternoons. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes when all its hills lie sparkling in the sunshine and children + play on the sidewalks, young fellows whistle, business autos go zippity-ip + around the corners, and the whole city is out of doors or hanging out of + the windows, then suddenly in great billows the fog comes rolling in + through the Golden Gate, and between the hills right up the streets into + the city. + </p> + <p> + Then immediately all is changed and everything is nearer and more intimate + and nothing of the city is left but the street you’re on. Then you hurry + home for supper and home seems good and sometimes you even light a little + fire in the grate. + </p> + <p> + Still it is not a cold fog, it is not a wet fog, it is never an unkind + fog. It comes swiftly, but very gently, and lays its cool, dainty hand on + your face lovingly. Hands are so different, sticky or wet or clammy or + hot, but the hand of the San Francisco fog is the hand of a kind nurse on + a tired head. The rain is a beautiful thing too, but the fog has another + significance.—It is the “small rain” that Moses spoke of—“My + doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as the dew, as the + small rain upon the tender herb, and as the showers upon the grass.” + </p> + <p> + It is very beautiful too. My, but I’ve seen fogs that were ugly, and heard + the fisherman say “She’s pretty thick tonight.” San Francisco fog is not + like that, but like great billows of a bride’s veil. Then in the morning + when the sun comes it chases the bride and her veil out so fast, and they + go out to sea together, sunshine and fog. + </p> + <p> + The other morning I awakened very early and there in the square of my + window was a hard, black cube against a white background. I lay there and + blinked and wondered where that telephone pole had come from, which like + Jack’s beanstalk, had grown there overnight. Then I saw that the fog had + shut out the whole world and brought that pole close, and made it seem big + and formidable and ugly. + </p> + <p> + The fog makes some people lose their perspective, and for others it only + wraps with a great kindness the whole world and blots out all ugliness. + But upon everyone, upon the just and unjust, this San Francisco fog lays + its gentle hand lovingly and with an ineffable kindness. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Block on Ashbury Heights + </h2> + <p> + Sometimes in the afternoons when the mothers are out shopping and the + youngsters have not yet returned from school our block looks so deserted + and wind-swept and dull. The houses are so much alike. They all sit there + in a row with their poker faces like close-mouthed Yankees refusing to + divulge any secrets. But from the bow-windows where I sit and type, in + spite of their silence the house fronts have become individualized into so + many human stories. + </p> + <p> + I never stop to look out but somehow the stories get in through the + window. For instance, I would not be so rude as to stare at the family + washing which once a week is hung on the flat top of a neighbor’s garage, + but those clothes up there have a way of flapping in the wind so + conspicuously that I cannot help see. There is the man of the house and + his, shall I say garments, kick themselves about like some staid old + deacon having his fling. Then there is the middle-sized bear whose + bloomers, billowed by the wind, become a ridiculous fat woman cut off at + the waist. And the little bear’s starched clothes crack and snap while the + revolving tree-horse whirls about like some mad dervish. I often wonder if + the family know of the wild actions that take place on the roof. + </p> + <p> + It is a very respectable block inhabited mostly by grown-ups except one + lively house where a dog lives with some boys and their incidental + parents. The door of that house continuously bangs, and other boys with + other dogs are always hanging around whistling under the windows. + </p> + <p> + Most of the windows are only used to admit light except one that is used + to look out of and is inhabited by an old lady who sits all day and knits + for her grandchildren. It must not be so bad, I think, to look out of the + window upon life instead of always rushing off to catch a car that takes + one into the thick of it. + </p> + <p> + Out of the window of my kitchenette I can look into the window of a girl + in the next house. Every morning I get my breakfast by her dressing. My + coffee I start as she begins to unwind her curls from their steel cages. I + have a suspicion that she also dresses by me. If she sniffs my coffee + first, I imagine she hurries with her curls. She is usually fixing her + eye-brows to my toast and by the time I sit down she is doing her lips. + </p> + <p> + After that she goes off for the long day and so do most of the people in + the block. Then at night they all return, drawn by some tie of love or + habit or despair, each to his right place in the long row of houses, which + have been sitting there all day with their poker faces, waiting. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Greek Grocer + </h2> + <p> + He had just opened a store on our street and in a Lady Bountiful spirit of + helping him out, I went in to do a little trading. I told him I would like + a can of baked beans. Baked beans, but he didn’t seem to understand. So + pointing over the counter where they were in plain sight, I said with all + my teeth and tongue: “Baaked Beens.” He followed my finger. “Oh,” he said + correcting me, “You min Purrk ind Bins.” + </p> + <p> + That was the beginning and for weeks that Greek has been correcting my + pronunciation. There is no use to argue about it. The fellow has no + reverence for Noah Webster and besides there are more Greeks, nowadays, + than Yankees, and their way is probably getting to be the right way. + Sometimes I think it is we who are the “foreigners.” + </p> + <p> + Once it was cauliflower. Now, I say cauliflower exactly as it is spelled + but that isn’t right. It is “Culliefleur,” said staccato. And honey—one + day I wanted honey and after I had sung “Hunnie, hunnie” in high C, and he + didn’t understand, I went around and picked out a jar of it. “Oh,” he said + reproachfully, “you min hawney.” + </p> + <p> + A Scotch woman had a scene with him the other day over some “paeper.” + There is no way of spelling it as she said it. She kept repeating it and + he kept getting the wrong thing. No, she didn’t want paper but “paeper”—seasoning + for the table—salt and “paeper.” The more excited she got, the more + Scotch she got and the more confused he. Then, when they were both fairly + hysterical, I discovered that it was pepper. + </p> + <p> + Then you should have heard that Greek scold. He told her that it was + “Pip-RR.” + </p> + <p> + And she said back, “Paeper.” + </p> + <p> + Then they argued and never once did either one of them get it “Pepper.” + </p> + <p> + “Paeper.” + </p> + <p> + “Pip-RR.” + </p> + <p> + “Paeper.” + </p> + <p> + “Pip-RR.” + </p> + <p> + One day I heard him laying down the law to a woman who had dared question + his price of “Rust Bif.” He told her what he had to pay for it in “Cash + Mawney” and asked her if she could do so, to explain. “Explin—you + kin explin—explin.” But she couldn’t explain. So, chastened, she + meekly bought the roast beef at his price. + </p> + <p> + Yesterday a U. C. girl was in and asked, “You are a Greek, are you not?” + </p> + <p> + “Naw,” he answered, “you min Grrik.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Billboards or Art + </h2> + <p> + If you like billboards you are not artistic. Take it or leave it. That’s + the criterion. It’s not my verdict. Ask those who know, the literary + clubs, the art clubs and our distinguished guests from Europe. I can + remember away back when Pierre Loti visited this country and was so + shocked at the glaring billboards that marred the beauty of New York + harbor and blinded his continental eyes with their gaudy colors. + </p> + <p> + Now, I would like to be both artistic and fond of billboards. I can’t be + both. So I choose—billboards. Everyone who reads these words must + make his choice. + </p> + <p> + I not only enjoy them; I think they are beautiful. A lovely splash of + color in the grayness of the city, a sincere expression of American life, + so sincere that the critics who take their opinions from Europe never have + been able to sneer us out of them. + </p> + <p> + We must admit, those of us who admire billboards, that the critics had + their justification in the early days. We have not forgotten the days when + mortgaged farmers prostituted their barns by selling advertising rights to + Hood’s Sarsaparilla and Carter’s Little Liver Pills and to Lydia Pinkham, + and when Bull Durham marred every green meadow from Boston to Washington. + Billboards were an unsavory addition to the landscape then. But the modern + art of bill posting is quite a different thing and in California it has + reached its highest development. Segregated spots of color in the dun + cities, surrounded by well manicured lawns, supported by classic figures + in white and lighted by dainty top lights. And out along the boulevards, + how lovely they are at night, luminous breaks along the dark highways, + suggesting so tactfully the kind of tire to use or the sort of mattress to + lie upon. + </p> + <p> + The critic has had his mission. He has forced the Poster man. Fortunately + though young America has not taken him seriously. If he had this country + would have missed some of its most distinctive contributions to Art. The + electric sign for instance. That was condemned as vigorously as the + billboard. And today, tell me, anybody, anywhere what is more beautiful in + all the world than the dancing lights of Market Street at night. In what a + unique and vital way they express the life of the great modern city. + </p> + <p> + And anything that expresses Life, whether that life be mediaeval or the + life of the machine age, that is Art. There. + </p> + <p> + How pleased everyone is to know that the pretty Palmolive girl who “kept + her girl complexion” is married and has a sweet little daughter who has + inherited her mother’s skin. + </p> + <p> + I don’t always take the posters seriously. Now, I don’t believe that that + man “would walk a mile for a Camel.” He’d borrow one first. And “contented + cows.” Cows are always contented. All I’ve known. But they may have had + bolshevikish notions recently, cud strikes, perhaps. Hence the accent on + “contented cows,” to reassure us that there is no “Red” propaganda in the + milk. Then, there is the parrot; what a long time it takes to teach him to + say “Gear-ardelly.” And that sentimental touch, “If pipes could talk.” + They do. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes, in an absent-minded way, I get them confused, movies and + merchandise, and find myself wondering who’s starring in “Nucoa.” Then + there’s that ecclesiastical looking party, the patron of Bromo-Quinine, + whom I always take for some bearded movie star. + </p> + <p> + But to return to their artistic merits, they are artistic. Take those same + “contented cows.” What could be more futurist than the coal black sky + under which they so contentedly graze? Or the henna hills so far away, or + the purple grass they chew. Matisse and Picasso, great modernists, could + not out-do those cows. + </p> + <p> + The cigarette men are particularly interesting. A bit over done. One + cannot help wonder what enthusiasm they would have left for a gorgeous + sunset having spent so much on, a cigarette. But I expect they are good + men at heart and not so sensuous as they appear. There’s that jolly old + boy who hasn’t had such a good smoke in sixty years. One wonders if his + teeth are his own. They all have teeth. Everyone has teeth these days. It + would be a change to see someone on a billboard with his mouth shut. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Golden Gate Park + </h2> + <p> + Enter slowly, by foot is much the better way, and join the long, loitering + procession. + </p> + <p> + Black-green foliage, the curious old-green of trees that never wither and + never resurrect. Something very foreign or is it San Francisco? Cubist + effects of the horizontally-lined cypress, vertical lines of the + eucalyptus, and the soft, down-dropping of the willow trees and pepper. + </p> + <p> + Women on the benches tatting, reading, resting. A retired Kansan widower + passes, glances sidewise. Well, no harm in looking at a comely woman. + Gossip of mothers over baby carriages, “Only nine months old! Mine is a + year. Well, we think he’s pretty fine.” + </p> + <p> + Comes the sight-seeing bus. Blare of the megaphone. “Seventeen miles of + driveway, boost, boast, greatest in the world.” + </p> + <p> + All day long the swings are swinging, rhythmic, slow to the touch of + loving hands. Then at night when all is still and dark, they go on + swinging dream children, rhythmic, slow. + </p> + <p> + Down the slide into the soft sand. Grandpa tending Nellie’s children: + “Careful there.” Ding, ding like the sound of a temple bell the whirling, + dizzy iron rings clang against their iron pole. Tramp of the patient + little burros. “Mother, I want another cone.” + </p> + <p> + Bum-ti-bum, too-too-too, ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-tahh, the band. Wagner by + request. Music lovers in the crowd. A symphony orchestra is very fine, but + simple people like ourselves, we also love a band. + </p> + <p> + I’ve never been to Japan, but this must be the way it looks. Tinkle of the + wind bells, petals of Cherry floating down. Sorry, but I’ve used the last + of the films. Well, we’ll come again. + </p> + <p> + The bears, the big brown grizzlies, leave them now. Out, what is this! + Fairyland of flowers and fragrance. Bears and orchids, wise planned + contrast. + </p> + <p> + People with accumulative minds wander through the museum, very + interesting, “Just look at this mosaic, John.” Exhibit of modern art in + the gallery. “Portrait of a girl,” only a daub to the wayfaring man. + </p> + <p> + Lovers in secluded places stealing a kiss, caught by the middle-aged. + “Silly young things,” wistfully. + </p> + <p> + Once all parks were private grounds. Free now to the poorest serf. Well, + there’s something century-gained. Some people say the world’s growing + worse all the time. Perhaps, perhaps.... + </p> + <p> + Who cares. Lying flat on your back close to the smell of the earth, the + great kind mother. Up, up at the sky, how deep, how blue. Is there a God? + There must be Something; look at each perfect blade of grass. An airplane + across the blue. There’s something gained. + </p> + <p> + Automobiles in stately procession proud as horses ever were. Automobiles + proudly rolling, swings swinging, people passing, and the swimming of all + the water fowls, the swans, the Japanese ducks and the little mud hens. + Infinitude of movement, infinitude of life, ineffable beauty. There must + be a God. There must be Something back of it all. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Extra Fresh + </h2> + <p> + Some one in San Francisco keeps hens. Not only hens, but a rooster. I + distinctly heard him crow. It was in the very early morning, and like + Tennyson’s “Queen of the May”—lying broad awake—“I did not + hear the dog howl, mother, but I did hear this crow.” + </p> + <p> + It is Ralph Waldo Trine, I think, who says that “So long as there + remaineth in it the crow of a cock or the lay of a hen a city is not a + city.” But I would not base the citifiedness of a city upon the mere crow + of a cock any more than on the census. It is a vulgar criterion. + </p> + <p> + For human nature is human nature and nothing betrays human nature like + hens. It is not surprising, therefore, that some woman has sneaked into + the city limits a mess of hens. Neither is it an aspersion on the police. + </p> + <p> + Besides this was to be about eggs. + </p> + <p> + Has anyone noticed how eggs of late years are never just eggs, but + classified? The hens seem to lay them classified. There are hen eggs and + pullet eggs and large hen eggs and small hen eggs and large pullet eggs + and small pullet eggs and strictly fresh eggs and ranch eggs and choice + eggs and large dark eggs and all-mixed eggs and fresh cracked eggs and + mixed color eggs and small brown and, oh, hundreds of sub-divisions. + </p> + <p> + The very latest I noticed were “dirty” eggs, 2 cents cheaper. I look next + for “small dirty eggs.” Why should they sound so unrefined? More so some + way than “small dirty boys.” But an artist must paint life as he sees it + and I saw these “dirty” eggs on that bazaar—and bizarre—of + diversities—Fillmore street. + </p> + <p> + On Haight street I saw “extra fresh eggs” and how an egg can be more than + “fresh” I fail to see. Now, a man may be “extra fresh,” but an egg is + different. Even if it left the hen early it would still be only “fresh.” + Well, the grocer probably knows. + </p> + <p> + Every adjective he uses has its significance. Take “ranch” eggs, how + pastoral they sound and fanned by fresh zephyrs. The same with “yard” + eggs, such an “out in the open—let the rest of the world go by” + impression they confer. And so reassuring, too, as though they couldn’t + have been manufactured for Woolworth’s. + </p> + <p> + There is much, I find, to be written about eggs. + </p> + <p> + Isn’t it “up-looking,” as Mr. Wilson would say, that they are so cheap + now? + </p> + <p> + I cannot help wondering if that woman’s hens—the hens that went with + the crow—if they laid well when eggs were so high. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + On the California-Street Car + </h2> + <p> + She was a little black girl about four years old, riding with her mother + on the observation seat of the California street car. She was a little + black girl and didn’t know the difference—she might have been as + white as milk for all she knew. She was poor but daintily dressed beside + being very neat. + </p> + <p> + The rest of us in the car were grown-up and white—well-dressed + people who looked as though we knew a lot. We were all riding along; we + and the little black girl with her mother, when suddenly we came out from + the surrounding wall of apartment houses into the open, facing a side + street—. + </p> + <p> + And there before us, in all its morning glory, lay the great city of Saint + Francis. It was just emerging out of fog. The smoke and steam rising, + touched into color by the sun, softened it into a great mystery with forms + and hulks coming into relief through the mists. For a moment it wasn’t a + city but a magnificent singing of the morning. + </p> + <p> + In a dull, inert way I suppose all of us, the grownup people, glimpsed + some of its beauty. But we were all intent upon the business of the day—we + didn’t look out very far—. + </p> + <p> + But the little black girl who didn’t know any better, the little black + girl raised her two arms above her head and exclaimed in a high, joyous + child voice—“GEE WHIZ!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Western Yarns + </h2> + <p> + The men around the corner store at home were forever telling stories about + the big yarns that Were told in the West. One of the favorites was that + ancient one of the Western town that was so healthy they had to kill a man + to start a graveyard. + </p> + <p> + Having been brought up on this tradition of Western yarns, I have been + surprised since living here never to have heard a single story that didn’t + sound perfectly reasonable. But it has dawned on me recently that the + “Yarns” are true. Therefore, they are no longer yarns, but facts. + </p> + <p> + Here is an oil boom story I heard first-hand the other day. I believe it, + but you couldn’t get those men around the corner store to believe it—. + </p> + <p> + It was in a dusty town where everyone rushed in to make quick money and + never mind about the main street even if they did have to plough through + dust to their knees. Then one day a heavy rain came that made the street + one slough of soft oozy clay which no one could cross. + </p> + <p> + Then enters the hero. Even while they stood dismayed, gazing at each other + across the clay, he appeared with a mud sled and took them all across for + 50 cents a passenger and $1 if you had a bundle. + </p> + <p> + Now, I believe it. Didn’t I see the man who had been there and paid his + four-bits to cross? Imagine, if you can, though, trying to make those + Yankees around the corner store believe that there was a town where one + had to pay 50 cents to cross a narrow country road in a mud sled. + </p> + <p> + I believed a man who told me a story down in Kern County last summer. We + were riding over the desert and I asked the stage driver the name of a low + yellow bush that grows down there. He was an interesting fellow, that + stage driver, who had been a buccaroo all his life and apparently knew all + about the sage brush country. And when he didn’t know he was not lacking + in an answer. I like a man like that. Answer, I say, whether you know or + not. + </p> + <p> + He said with great assurance that the little, low, yellow bush was + “Mexican saddle blanket” or “Tinder bush,” this last because it burns like + tinder in the fall of the year. + </p> + <p> + “Why, that bush is so dry,” he said, “that once when I lighted it to cook + my bacon for breakfast it traveled so fast that by the time my bacon was + cooked I was five miles from camp.” + </p> + <p> + I laughed—I couldn’t help it when I imagined that six-footer + traveling across the desert with a frying pan over that low bush. I + laughed because it was so real to me, but he misunderstood, and said so + sort of hurt, “Don’t you believe me?” + </p> + <p> + And I told him I did. And I did. And I do. Five miles isn’t a great + distance to travel over the desert after one’s bacon. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mr. Mazzini and Dante + </h2> + <p> + Mr. Mazzini will never be rich. He takes too much time for philosophy and + gossiping with the women, and he loves a joke too well, and his heart is + too kind. He is a universal type, as old as the world is old, Theocritus + knew him well. + </p> + <p> + “You pick me out some good cantaloupes,” I said with deadly tact, and Mr. + Mazzini answered that it couldn’t be done and that melons were like men, + that there was no sure way of picking them out for their kindness of + heart. Then he took time over the melons to tell me how his mother in + Italy, who was evidently something of a match-maker, had gotten fooled on + a young man who was both “laze” and “steenge” in his youth but who made a + very good husband. + </p> + <p> + One day it was figs, and I was strong for the nice appearing ones, but Mr. + Mazzini told me a lot about figs and chose me some that were lop-sided + from packing. What delicious figs they were, all stored with sunshine and + sweetness and flavor just as he had told me. Mr. Mazzini owns his own + store, and yet when he throws in a few extra, as he always does, because + they are soft or a little specked, he will wink and glance slyly around + just as though he were putting one over on the boss. + </p> + <p> + One morning I saw him sweeping out his store and he wore a woman’s + sweeping cap with the strings tied under his grisly old chin. When I saw + him I just stood and laughed aloud, and he asked me why not, and said that + a sweeping cap was just as good for a man as for a woman, and then he + stopped his sweeping and gave me quite a male feminist talk. And he has a + horse, Mr. Mazzini has, a fat old plug that peeks around his blinders as + humorously as his master. Oh, I could just keep on talking about Mr. + Mazzini for pages, but I started to speak of Dante. + </p> + <p> + I like the Italians and I like the Latin quarter where they live. I like + it better than Ashbury Heights for instance. I like the way the Italians + use their windows to look out of and to lean out of, and I like the way + they have socialized the sidewalk. It’s all a matter of taste, and I + wouldn’t criticize the people of Ashbury Heights simply because they use + their well-curtained windows only to admit the light, and do not lean out + and gossip with their neighbors and yell to their children, “Mahree, + Mahree,” nor sit out on their steps in the evening and play Rigoletto on + the accordion. It’s all a matter of taste. + </p> + <p> + Six hundred years ago Dante was an Italian, but he is much more than that + today. After six centuries Dante belongs to all those and only those who + can read him with appreciation and pleasure. Our scavenger is an Italian, + and he reads Dante just as so many of the Anglo Saxon proletair read + Shakespeare. So Dante belongs to this garbage man, not because he is + Italian, but because he sincerely loves the Divina Commedia. A waiter, in + Il Trovatore, a rarely honest man, acknowledged to me that he could not + read Dante, and that every time he tried he got mad and threw the book + away. + </p> + <p> + Dante belongs to the literary elect of all nations, Dante belongs to the + great internationale of the immortals. Dante belongs to Eternity. And for + that matter so does Mr. Mazzini. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + On the Nob of Nob Hill + </h2> + <p> + On the very nob of Nob Hill there is the ruin of a mansion which was the + Whittell home. In ruins it still is a mansion. In ruins it is grander than + any place around because it belonged to the grand days. + </p> + <p> + There is an enclosed garden in the rear after the fashion of old Spanish + gardens in Monterey. And between the boards that cover a door in the high + wall, one may peek and catch a glimpse of hollyhocks in a row and roses + running wild, trellises of green lattice and ghosts of beautiful ladies + having afternoon tea. + </p> + <p> + To one side of the mansion there is a formal garden that hugs up close to + the ivy-covered walls of the house. It is such a garden as one sees in + elaborately illustrated copies of Mother Goose “with silver bells and + cockle shells.” It’s so beautiful that it doesn’t seem real. California + gardens are like that, and to those of us from bleak countries they look + like pictures out of books. There is this well-groomed garden of the + living present hugging up close to the ruins of yesterday and then, if you + please, Mother Nature, with her penchant for whimsy, has grown right up + against these two a riot of purple and gold lupine, a product of her own + unaided husbandry. + </p> + <p> + I am not much on allegory nor sermonizing, but I declare San Francisco + gets me started. And when walking along about one’s business, one sees + such a vivid picture, the allegory forces itself. The grandeur of + yesterday, the serious beauty of today, and then the wild flowers that + covered the hills before man interfered and will live on after man has + gone into dust to make new flowers. + </p> + <p> + Such a contemplation would make some people blue but it gives me a feeling + of something basic and secure and eternal in all this strange puzzle of + life. It was a beautiful day up there on the tip-toe of Nob Hill. What a + beautiful view they must have had from the mansion windows. The same sky + and the same banks of heavy soft white clouds. And Job, that mysterious + man of the Bible, must have looked up at just such a sky when those stern + questions came to him: + </p> + <p> + “Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? Declare if thou + hast understanding. + </p> + <p> + “Dost thou know the balancings of the clouds, the wondrous works of Him + that is perfect in knowledge?” + </p> + <p> + “Hast thou with Him spread out the sky, which is strong, and as a molten + looking glass?” + </p> + <p> + The nob of Nob Hill, how close it is to the sky. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> The Leighton Press San Francisco, Cal + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s Vignettes Of San Francisco, by Almira Bailey + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VIGNETTES OF SAN FRANCISCO *** + +***** This file should be named 4643-h.htm or 4643-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/6/4/4643/ + +Produced by David Schwan and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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