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.

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.

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."



The Union-Street Car



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