268 



A CALIFORNIA TRAMP. 



I am again at the wharf. The opposition steamers to Sac- 

 ramento are ready to start. Kunners with tickets to sell are 

 capering about buttonholing suppositious passengers and 

 villifying one another. "Sydney coves," " escaped convicts" 

 are amongst the mildest of the names bandied about ; while, 

 imitating the quarrels of humanity on shore, numerous sea- 

 gulls dart and dive, soar and swoop and scream and croak 



The Plaza, San Francisco. 



as they wrangle over and in the water for edible flotsam and 

 jetsam. Between these, the cries of the venders of newspapers 

 and small wares, and the escaping steam, the scene is pande- 

 moniac. 



It is afternoon ; the air is growing cooler, for a sea-breeze is 

 stirring it up. It is reviving, and I stroll to the hills north 

 of the city overlooking the waters leading to the Golden Gate. 



