t in the mountains of Virginia,
they are the dominant background.

Poppies and lupine and many others are the flower tradition of
California but they are not what I mean here. It is an impression of
mine that San Francisco more than any other city has taken the
traditional plants and flowers of other sections and made them into a
composite that makes up the plant atmosphere of this city.

Take roses and geraniums and callas, none of which are epochal because
they are always at hand. But with old Mrs. Deacon Rogers in Connecticut
who nursed her calla through the long winter that she might take it to
church on Easter Sunday, the calla was history.

Even the camellia San Franciscans take very philosophically. It has not,
for instance, the supremacy that Dumas gives it in "Camille." In
Sacramento they feature it more and an Easterner who saw them picking it
in branches instead of single flowers, exclaimed: "Why, they think
they're oleanders."

The plant and flower atmosphere of a community is very important. Some
child is now growing up in the city, who some day will be far away when
there will come to him a whiff, perhaps of acacia, and in an instant
there will come surging over him all the feel and urge and thrill and
wistfulness and dreams of his childhood, and he will be once more in the
atmosphere of San Francisco. It will not include winter and summer but
an all-round-the-year-ness, it will not mean a flower, but flowers,
cherry blossoms from Japan, acacia from Australia, and the best from
everywhere which all together will mean to him--San Francisco.

The smell of the acacia, which he knew as the wattle, inspired Kipling
to write those words

"Smells are surer than sounds or sights
To make your heart strings crack."

Perhaps many others see with me this difference between San Francisco
and the rest of the country, as though nature here expresses herself in
bounty more than in resurrection. Oh, well, whether it be "lilac time"
or "all the time" to each locality there is its own beauty and, as for
me, I have yet to find, in all my travels, the "place that God forgot."

It Takes All Sorts

"Hey, hey," called the tall, nervous man with the fat, little wife,
waving his arms at the conductor for fear he would be carried past his
corner.

"It takes all sorts of people to make a world," remarked the
sensible-looking woman beside me.

It is not the first time that I have been impressed with the philo