was after the time of Luis Argueello."

One by one the palaces of light in the Exposition grounds below us burst
into radiance. The Horticultural dome turned to a wonderful iridescent
bubble and the Tower of Jewels caught and reflected the light that
played upon it. Wide bands of color streaked the sombre sky,
transforming the clouds to shades of violet, yellow and rose. "The
rainbow colors of promise," he said gently as he drew closer. "I shall
take them as a message of hope that I shall win the love of the woman
who is dearer to me than all else in life!"

The Plaza

A Chinese Restaurant. Yerba Buena and the Reminiscences of a Forty-Niner

The Plaza and its Echoes

"Be careful," I warned, "you'll get your feet wet."

We stood on the corner of Montgomery and Commercial Streets, having
carried out our resolution of the day previous to continue our search
for old landmarks. The Bostonian moved uncomfortably under the warmth of
the noonday sun, and glanced down at the dry, glaring pavement; then he
stooped to turn up his trousers.

"All right," he announced, "is it an arroyo or has the hose used in
putting out 'the fire' suddenly burst?"

"Neither. The arroyo was a block further south. It ran down what is now
Sacramento Street, and you ought to know enough about the fire to
realize that we couldn't use our fire hose, because the earthquake broke
the water mains."

"Then there was an earthquake!" He shot an amused glance at me. "You're
the first Californian I've heard acknowledge it."

"Oh yes, there was an earthquake--but it didn't do much damage," I
hastened to add. "Just 'knocked down a few chimneys and rickety
buildings that the city was going to pull down anyway. It was the fire
that destroyed the city."

"So Mother Nature was just favoring 'Frisco by lending a helping hand to
the city officials," he laughed. "Well, you see I'm prepared for the
deluge." He indicated his upturned trousers. "But if it isn't an arroyo--"

"It's the bay," I explained. "It used to touch the shore about where we
are standing, forming a little inlet called Yerba Buena Cove."

"But," objected the man, mentally measuring the distance down the
straight paved street to where the slender shaft-like tower of the Ferry
Building broke the sky line, "it must be seven blocks from here to the
present waterfront, two thousand feet at least."

"Yes, fully that," I agreed. "A large part of the business section of
San Francisco st