The Lure of San Francisco | Page 3

he watched the big turban of a Hindoo bobbing among

the crowd on the sidewalk; then his eyes wandered to a Japanese
arrayed in a new suit of American clothes and finally rested on a bright
yellow lei wound about the hat of a swarthy Hawaiian. I smiled as I
nodded to the Japanese who had worked in my kitchen for three years,
and recognized in the dusky Hawaiian one of the regular singers in a
popular café.
The train had now left commercial San Francisco behind and was
climbing the hills to where the nature loving citizens had perched their
houses in order to obtain a better view of the bay. We abandoned the
car and following an upward path, finally stood on the lower shoulder
of Twin Peaks. Tired from our exertions we sank upon the soft grass.
The hills had put on their festival attire, catching up their emerald
gowns with bunches of golden poppies and veiling their shoulders in
filmy scarfs of blue lupins. The air was filled with Spring and the
delicate blush of an apple-tree told of the approach of Summer. Below,
the city, noisy and bustling a few moments ago, now lay hushed to
quiet by the distance and beyond, the sun-flecked waters of the bay
stretched to a girdle of verdant hills, up whose sides the houses of the
towns were scrambling. To the left, resting on the top of Mt. Tamalpais,
could be seen the "sleeping maiden" who for centuries had awaited the
awakening kiss of her Indian lover.
"What a glorious play-ground for San Francisco." His voice rang with
enthusiasm. "Look at the ferryboats plowing up the bay in every
direction. A man could escape from the factory grime on the water
front and in an hour be asleep under a tree on a grassy hillside."
"It is a splendid country to tramp through, but if a man wants to sleep,
why not spend less time and money by selecting a nearer place? There
are plenty of trees and grassy mounds in the Presidio and Golden Gate
Park."
His eyes followed mine to the green patch edging the entrance to the
bay and then ran along the tree-lined avenue to the parked section
extending almost from the center of the city to the Pacific Ocean.
Suddenly he stood up and took his field glasses from his pocket.
"There's a granite cross just visible above the trees in Golden Gate
Park." He focused his glasses for a better view. "It's quite elaborate in
design and seems to be raised on a hill."
He offered me the glasses but I did not need them. "It's the

Prayer-Book Cross and commemorates the first Church of England
service held on this Coast by Sir Francis Drake in 1579. I think it is a
shame that we haven't also a monument for Cabrillo, the real discoverer,
who was here nearly forty years earlier. If Sir Francis hadn't stolen a
Spanish ship's chart, he would never have found the Gulf of the
Farallones. Cabrillo sailed along the coast more than half a century
before Massachusetts Bay was discovered," I added maliciously.
"I had forgotten the old duffer," he smiled back at me. Raising his
glasses again, he scanned the sombre roofs to the right. "There's
another monument," he volunteered, "rising out of the heart of the
city."
I followed the direction indicated to where the outstretched arms of a
white wooden cross were silhouetted against the sky.
"If I were in Europe," he continued, "I should call it a shrine, for the
sides of the hill on which it stands are seamed with paths running from
the net-work of houses to the foot of the cross."
"It is a shrine at which all San Francisco worships. Wrapped in mystery
it stands, for when it was placed there no one knows. It comes to us out
of the past--a token left by the Spanish padres. Three times it has fallen
into decay, but always loving hands have reached forward to restore it,
and as long as San Francisco shall last, a cross will rise from the
summit of Lone Mountain."
"The Spanish padres!" The ring in his voice bespoke his interest. "Are
there any other relics left?"
I pointed to the level section below. "Do you see that low red roof
almost hidden by its towering neighbors? That is the old Mission San
Francisco de Asis, colloquially called Dolores, from the little rivulet on
whose bank it was built."
Through his field glasses he scrutinized the expanse of substantial
houses and paved streets. "I can't find the rivulet," he announced.
"Of course you can't, you stupid man!" I laughed. "If you'll use your
imagination instead of your glasses you will see it easily. The stream
arose, we are told,