h restaurant,"
I suggested, and soon we were on a car headed for the Latin quarter.

"May I replace the violets you left at the Mission?" he asked, as
stepping from the car at Lotta's fountain, we lingered before the gay
flower stands edging the sidewalk.

Before I had a chance to reply a fragrant bunch was thrust into his
hands by an urchin who announced: "Two for two-bits."

"Two-bits is twenty-five cents," I interpreted, seeing the Easterner's
mystified look.

"I'll take three bunches." His eyes rested admiringly on the big purple
heads as he held out a dollar bill.

"Ain't you got any real money?" asked the boy, not offering to touch the
currency.

Again the man's hand went to his pocket and drew out some small change,
from which he selected a quarter, a dime and three one-cent pieces. The
urchin turned the coppers over in his palm, then, diving below the heap
of violets, he pulled out several California poppies. "We always give
these to Easterners," he announced as he tucked them in among the
violets.

"I wonder how that boy knew I was an Easterner?" the Bostonian reflected
as we turned away. Then gently touching the golden petals, he asked:
"Where did you get the odd name 'eschscholtzia' for this lovely flower?"

"It was given by the French-born poet-naturalist, Chamisso, in honor of
the German botanist, Dr. Eschscholz, who came together to San Francisco
on a Russian ship in 1816. However, I like better the Spanish names,
dormidera--the sleepy flower--or copa de oro--cup of gold," I added
as I pinned the flowers to my coat. The man's glance wandered around
Newspaper Corners, when suddenly his look of surprise told me that he
had discovered on this crowded section of commercial San Francisco a
duplicate of the old bell hung in front of the Mission San Francisco de
Asis.

"We are following El Camino Real from the Mission to the Presidio," I
reminded him.

We turned toward the shopping district, but the lure of the place made
our feet lag. We watched the people purchasing flowers at the corner,
and the little newsboys drinking from Lotta's fountain.

"A tablet," he exclaimed delightedly, examining the bronze plate
fastened to the fountain. "I didn't know you Westerners ever indulged in
such things. 'Presented to San Francisco by Lotta, 1875,'" he read.

"Little Lotta Crabtree," I explained, "the sweet singer who bewitched
the city at a time when gold was still more plentiful than flowers, and
her song