ut they
may have had bolshevikish notions recently, cud strikes, perhaps. Hence
the accent on "contented cows," to reassure us that there is no "Red"
propaganda in the milk. Then, there is the parrot; what a long time it
takes to teach him to say "Gear-ardelly." And that sentimental touch,
"If pipes could talk." They do.

Sometimes, in an absent-minded way, I get them confused, movies and
merchandise, and find myself wondering who's starring in "Nucoa." Then
there's that ecclesiastical looking party, the patron of Bromo-Quinine,
whom I always take for some bearded movie star.

But to return to their artistic merits, they are artistic. Take those
same "contented cows." What could be more futurist than the coal black
sky under which they so contentedly graze? Or the henna hills so far
away, or the purple grass they chew. Matisse and Picasso, great
modernists, could not out-do those cows.

The cigarette men are particularly interesting. A bit over done. One
cannot help wonder what enthusiasm they would have left for a gorgeous
sunset having spent so much on, a cigarette. But I expect they are good
men at heart and not so sensuous as they appear. There's that jolly old
boy who hasn't had such a good smoke in sixty years. One wonders if his
teeth are his own. They all have teeth. Everyone has teeth these days.
It would be a change to see someone on a billboard with his mouth shut.

Golden Gate Park

Enter slowly, by foot is much the better way, and join the long,
loitering procession.

Black-green foliage, the curious old-green of trees that never wither
and never resurrect. Something very foreign or is it San Francisco?
Cubist effects of the horizontally-lined cypress, vertical lines of the
eucalyptus, and the soft, down-dropping of the willow trees and pepper.

Women on the benches tatting, reading, resting. A retired Kansan widower
passes, glances sidewise. Well, no harm in looking at a comely woman.
Gossip of mothers over baby carriages, "Only nine months old! Mine is a
year. Well, we think he's pretty fine."

Comes the sight-seeing bus. Blare of the megaphone. "Seventeen miles of
driveway, boost, boast, greatest in the world."

All day long the swings are swinging, rhythmic, slow to the touch of
loving hands. Then at night when all is still and dark, they go on
swinging dream children, rhythmic, slow.

Down the slide into the soft sand. Grandpa tending Nellie's children:
"Careful there." Ding, ding l