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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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