ay morning when the sun comes
pouring in and it is as though you were looking down on flowers.

Never two alike in the Saturday noon crowd and yet the same type. Free
women, happy women, regular women. Women who can recall a judge or so
and still be graceful and dainty. It is very significant that a San
Francisco woman stands at the very pinnacle of the city, graceful and
alert on that tall slender column in Union Square.

And the Saturday noon men--men?--men? In describing color what can one
say of men? Well, it's not their fault that they can't wear pretty
clothes. They make a nice grey background for the women and a very
desirable audience and that's the best I can do for them.

The street musicians, they contribute a lot to the Saturday noon
atmosphere. And when we drop a penny into their cups, perhaps it is not
so much pity as pay for the joy their piping gives us. And the people
who call papers, of whom the blind are the dearest of all. There's a
blind man on Powell street who sounds exactly as though he were saying
Mass.

Dearie me, I can't describe it. All its lilt and rhythm and color and
humanness as well. And ladies walking along with huge white balloons
from the White House as though they had been blowing bubbles from some
great clay pipes. And a plump, rosy Chinese woman so dainty in her
breeches with her shiny, black hair bound in a head dress of jade and
opal and turquoise.

We need more poets.

Van Ness Avenue

Van Ness avenue is sole. Nowhere in the wide world does the proud and
culminating automobile own and dominate such a wide and sweeping display
boulevard.

The automobile, what a magnificent animal it is, long, low, luxurious,
purring softly, full of a great reserve, ready to dart forward, not to
the cruel touch of a spur or bit, but to the magic touch of a button. It
is the culminating achievement of this period of the machine age. The
airplane, clumsy and awkward as yet, belongs for its consummation to the
men of tomorrow. The automobile is the zenith of today's accomplishment,
and that is why men speak of it as "super" this and "super" that.

The machine age has its own cruelties and its own, ugliness, but it also
has its own art and its own beauty, of which the automobile and the
houses which men have built to accommodate it, are the consummate art.
Not all will agree with me here. The critics will damn me with disdain,
and the King of Van Ness, who ought to agree, but is too