was impressed by the old fort and the soldiers drawn up in military array, but wondered that no return was made to his salute.  A little later, however, the omission of the courtesy was explained when a Spanish officer boarded the vessel and asked to borrow sufficient powder for this purpose.  Moreover, Robinson tells us that frequently during the afternoon’s siesta a foreign ship would pass the fort, drop anchor in Yerba Buena Cove, and spend several days in the bay before the Presidio officers would know of its presence.  But this was after the time of Luis Argueello.”

One by one the palaces of light in the Exposition grounds below us burst into radiance.  The Horticultural dome turned to a wonderful iridescent bubble and the Tower of Jewels caught and reflected the light that played upon it.  Wide bands of color streaked the sombre sky, transforming the clouds to shades of violet, yellow and rose.  “The rainbow colors of promise,” he said gently as he drew closer.  “I shall take them as a message of hope that I shall win the love of the woman who is dearer to me than all else in life!”

The Plaza

A Chinese Restaurant.  Yerba Buena and the Reminiscences of a Forty-Niner

The Plaza and its Echoes

“Be careful,” I warned, “you’ll get your feet wet.”

We stood on the corner of Montgomery and Commercial Streets, having carried out our resolution of the day previous to continue our search for old landmarks.  The Bostonian moved uncomfortably under the warmth of the noonday sun, and glanced down at the dry, glaring pavement; then he stooped to turn up his trousers.

“All right,” he announced, “is it an arroyo or has the hose used in putting out ‘the fire’ suddenly burst?”

“Neither.  The arroyo was a block further south.  It ran down what is now Sacramento Street, and you ought to know enough about the fire to realize that we couldn’t use our fire hose, because the earthquake broke the water mains.”

“Then there was an earthquake!” He shot an amused glance at me.  “You’re the first Californian I’ve heard acknowledge it.”

“Oh yes, there was an earthquake—­but it didn’t do much damage,” I hastened to add.  “Just ’knocked down a few chimneys and rickety buildings that the city was going to pull down anyway.  It was the fire that destroyed the city.”

“So Mother Nature was just favoring ’Frisco by lending a helping hand to the city officials,” he laughed.  “Well, you see I’m prepared for the deluge.”  He indicated his upturned trousers.  “But if it isn’t an arroyo—­”

“It’s the bay,” I explained.  “It used to touch the shore about where we are standing, forming a little inlet called Yerba Buena Cove.”

“But,” objected the man, mentally measuring the distance down the straight paved street to where the slender shaft-like tower of the Ferry Building broke the sky line, “it must be seven blocks from here to the present waterfront, two thousand feet at least.”