ot of Powell Street, is
one of the old landmarks of San Francisco, known as Meiggs' Wharf.

In the early sixties an old saloon was located on the shore end of
this wharf, and connected with it was a museum which contained many
quaint curios from other lands, some of them of considerable value.

The occupant of this saloon never allowed the place to be cleaned, and
for years the spiders held undisputed possession, weaving their webs
without fear of molestation, until every nook and corner was filled
with their tapestry, and from ceiling and rafter hung long festoons of
gossamer threads that swayed back and forth in the breeze. It was a
place much visited by tourists, and a trip to San Francisco was not
considered complete without visiting this "Cobweb Museum," a name
bestowed upon it by its many guests.

It is said that Robert Louis Stevenson loved to visit this wharf and
listen to the tales told by the hardy sailors, and that out of them he
wove some of his most delightful South Sea Island stories.

Meiggs died in Peru in 1877, where he fled, a fugitive from justice,
and has long since been forgotten except by the older residents. The
wharf still remains, however, though more familiarly known to the
people of this generation as "Fisherman's Wharf"; but the old cobweb
saloon and museum are things of the past.

From here the Italian fishing boats leave for their fishing grounds
out beyond the heads, and if you visit the wharf in the early morning
you may see hundreds of these boats sail out past Land's End, and
through the Golden Gate, making a picture worthy of an artist's brush.

[Illustration: ITALIAN FISHING BOATS]

When the sun comes flashing over the hills, and the dancing waves
glisten with its rosy light, then the waters of the bay take on the
color of the amethyst. Go then to Meiggs' Wharf, and see the fishing
boats start out with lateen sail full set; hear the "Yo heave ho" of
the swarthy Italian fishermen, as they set their three-cornered,
striped sail to catch the breeze, and imagine yourself on the
far-famed bay of Naples. Your imagination does not suffer by
comparison, as San Francisco, like Naples, is built upon the hills,
and Mount Tamalpais across the bay, with wreaths of fog floating
around its summit, might well be taken for Mount Vesuvius.

[Illustration: DRYING THE NETS]

Out through the portals of the Golden Gate they sail, like
brown-winged pelicans, to drop their nets and cast their lines