“Great heavens!” he cried, “what a city!”

We passed through the shopping district and lingered for a moment at the edge of Portsmouth Square.  My eyes rested affectionately on the clean-cut lawns and blossoming shrubs.  Then I turned to the skeptic, but before I could speak, he had dismissed it with a nod.

“Too modern,” he commented.  “Looks as if it had been planted yesterday.  Now the Boston Common—­”

A rasping discordant sound burst from a near-by store and the Easterner sent me a questioning glance.

“A Chinese orchestra,” I replied.  “We are in Oriental San Francisco.”

“That park was doubtless made as a breathing place for this congested Chinese quarter,” he glanced back at the green square.  “A good civic improvement.”

“That park is a relic of old Spanish days and one of the most historic spots in San Francisco,” I said severely.

He stopped short.  “You don’t mean—­I didn’t suppose there was anything old in commercial San Francisco.”

“Portsmouth Square was once the Plaza of the little Spanish town of Yerba Buena, and the public meeting place of the community when there were not half a dozen houses in San Francisco.”

“Let’s go back.”  He wheeled about abruptly and started in the direction of the square, but I protested.

“I am hungry and I want some luncheon!” “Then we’ll return this afternoon.”  There was determination in his voice.

“We will hardly have time if we visit Luis Argueello’s home at the Presidio,” I objected.

“All right, we’ll take it in tomorrow, then.”

Hastening on, we were soon in the midst of the huddled houses of the Latin quarter.  Tucked away between two larger buildings, we found a quaint Spanish restaurant.  As we opened our tamales, my companion again referred to Portsmouth Square.

“Tell me about it,” he demanded.  “Does it date with the Mission and Presidio?”

“No, it is of later birth, but still of equal interest in the history of San Francisco.  The city grew up from three points—­the Mission”—­I pulled a poppy from my bouquet and placed it on the table to mark the old adobe—­“the Presidio”—­I moved a salt cellar to the right of the flower—­“and the town of Yerba Buena,” this I indicated by a pepper box below the other two.  “Roads connected these points like the sides of a triangle and gradually the intervening spaces were filled with houses.”

“Go on.”  He leaned back in his chair, but I had already risen.  “It will be more interesting to hear the story on the spot tomorrow,” I assured him as I drew on my gloves.

The Presidio

The Spanish Fortifications and the Love Story of Concepcion and Rezanov

The Presidio Past and Present