ng whiteness, "where the
roar of the water dwelt as in a shell upon the chimney," we had our
temporary residence, and here Louis Stevenson came often to visit us
and share our simple meals, each of which became a little fete in the
thrill of his presence and conversation. Something he had in him that
made life seem a more exciting thing, better worth living, to every
one associated with him, and it seemed impossible to be dull or bored
in his company. It is true that he loved to talk, and one of his
friends complained that he was too "deuced explanatory," but it seemed
to me that the flood of talk he sometimes poured out was the overflow
of a full mind, a mind so rich in ideas that he could well afford to
bestow some of it upon his friends without hope of return. His was no
narrow vein to be jealously hoarded for use in his writings, but his
difficulty lay rather in choosing from the wealth of his store. He
once remarked that he could not understand a man's having to struggle
to "find something to write about," and perhaps it is true that one
who has to do that has no real vocation as a writer.

When he came to us at Monterey he was newly arrived in this country,
and seemed to be in a rather peculiar state of mind concerning it,
complaining that it was too much like England to have the piquancy of
a foreign land, and yet not enough like it to have the restfulness of
home, therefore it left him with a strange, unsatisfied feeling. One
of the things in the new land that pleased him much was its food, for
he believed in enjoying the good things of this life, and he was like
a second Christopher Columbus, just discovering green corn and sweet
potatoes. In a letter to his friend Sidney Colvin he says: "In America
you eat better than anywhere else; fact. The food is heavenly!" During
his first days at Monterey he kept singing the praises of certain
delectable "little cakes," which he had found much to his liking in
the railroad eating-houses while crossing the continent. These were a
great mystery to us until one day Ah Sing, the Chinese cook, placed
upon the table a plate of smoking-hot baking-powder biscuits. Behold
the famous "little cakes"!

The unexpected discovery in the town of Jules Simoneau, to whom he
refers in his letters as "a most pleasant old boy, with whom I discuss
the universe and play chess," a man of varied talents, who was able to
furnish him with an excellent dinner, as well as the intelligent
companion