XVIII. 



UEEN of the Pacific Coast ! Fair city whose chang- 

 ing skies for half the year shower down mist and 

 rain, and the other half sunbeams of molten brass ! 

 Metropolis of alternate sticky mud and blinding 

 dust ! in spite of these and more thou art a city of my heart, 

 Ciudad de San Francisco ! 



The morning, as befits the month of April in that clime, is 

 warm and sultry. Breakfast is over, and I sit in front of my 

 hotel reading the morning paper drowsily, or listlessly w^atch- 

 ing the surroundings. Along comes the daily waterman, with 

 his tank on wheels, to serve his customers, for San Francisco 

 has no water works. The people are supplied in this way, the 

 indispensable fluid being hauled from distant springs and 

 furnished at so much per week. The waterman is quick- 

 motioned and dexterous, and the way he works is quite refresh- 

 ing to my spring-fevered brain. Close following comes the 

 brawny butcher and the mealy baker. Then come little accor- 

 deon and tambourine girls, who sing with precocious voices to 

 music more or less sweet. They move familiarly among the 

 loungers, asking for money ; young in years, but already old 

 in sin. 



As the sun swings up like a censer, the heat pours from it 

 faster. To save myself from going to sleep I throw away my 



(264) 



