saw him look
reverently at her exquisite hands and at the awkward little legs
sticking out straight ahead. When her mother arranged her ruffles he
watched every move--absorbed. Then he would wait eager, hoping and
praying for her to smile his way again...

Why, I was waiting for her smile too and so was every one of the staid
and grown-up people in the car. I don't know when we would ever have
come out from the spell of that ten-months-old baby girl if just then
the conductor had not called out reproachfully--"Central Avenue--Central
Avenue." Then the pepper-and-salt man jumped and looked
nervously out and rushed for the door. I, myself, had to walk back two
blocks and when I turned at my corner he was still going back to his
street.

The Bay on Sunday Morning

Perhaps to go to Fort Mason on a sunny Sunday morning, that beautiful
relaxed moment of the whole week, and there to sit with others who have
no autos to go gallivanting in, and to sit idly gazing off at the bay.
That's not bad. To read a little and doze a bit, but mostly to gaze out
to sea and dream.

A big foreign steamer in port, perhaps a Scandinavian boat, inert,
enormous, helpless, while the little tugs chatter, around it and finally
get hold of it, and tug it slowly around with its nose pointing out to
sea. Lumber schooners come in slowly and rhythmically, long and low and
clean. The Vallejo boat, looking like a rocking horse, goes importantly
chugging off toward Mare Island. It's hard to read a book with so going
on out there.

Sunday morning, blessed play time, there is a fellow in a green canoe,
and the muscles of his body play into the movement of the waves until he
and his green canoe and the white capped waves are all one motif of the
whole symphony. Men play around the yacht club like a lot of school
boys, and now--"Shoot," they push a long slim racer into the water.
Dainty white yachts go dipping to the waves and seem like lovely young
girls in among the sturdier boats.

Now the fishermen come in from their night's work, making music all in
an orderly procession, and every boat of them a brilliant blue inside.
I'd like to catch a Maine fisherman allowing color in his boat, like a
"dago" or a "wop."

Over all the swing and dip and rhythm of the sea gulls. How beautifully
they accent the movement of the symphony, like the baton of some great
leader--this great beautiful Sunday morning symphony.

Then there is Alcatraz. Oh, Alcatraz