NEIGHBORHOODS I HAVE MOVED FROM


I.


A bay-window once settled the choice of my house and compensated for
many of its inconveniences. When the chimney smoked, or the doors
alternately shrunk and swelled, resisting any forcible attempt to
open them, or opening of themselves with ghostly deliberation, or when
suspicious blotches appeared on the ceiling in rainy weather, there was
always the bay-window to turn to for comfort. And the view was a fine
one. Alcatraz, Lime Point, Fort Point, and Saucelito were plainly
visible over a restless expanse of water that changed continually,
glittering in the sunlight, darkening in rocky shadow, or sweeping in
mimic waves on a miniature beach below.

Although at first the bay-window was supposed to be sacred to myself
and my writing materials, in obedience to some organic law, it by and by
became a general lounging-place. A rocking-chair and crochet basket
one day found their way there. Then the baby invaded its recesses,
fortifying himself behind intrenchments of colored worsteds and spools
of cotton, from which he was only dislodged by concerted assault, and
carried lamenting into captivity. A subtle glamour crept over all who
came within its influence. To apply one's self to serious work there was
an absurdity. An incoming ship, a gleam on the water, a cloud lingering