The Lure of San Francisco | Page 8

be the same answer he had
received so many times, he was, sure, and he dreaded to put the
question again. Ten minutes later he was racing over the sand-dunes to
the Presidio, his face radiant and his hand tightly clasping an official
document. It had come at last--the order from the king! Where was
Rafaela? He hurried to her house and, folding her close in his arms, be
whispered that their long waiting was at an end; that she was his as
long as life should last.
"But, oh, such a little span of happiness was theirs! Only two brief
years, and then the cold hand of death was laid upon the sweet
Rafaela."
For a moment my companion did not move. A bird sang in the tree
above us and the wind sent a shower of pink petals over the green
mound. Then, stooping, he picked a white Castilian rose from a tangle

of shrubbery and laid it at the base of the granite shaft. "In memory of
the lovely Rafaela," he said softly; I unpinned a bunch of fragrant
violets from my jacket and placed, them beside his offering, then we
silently followed the shaded path to the white picket gate and were
once more on the noisy thoroughfare.
"A fitting resting place for the first Mexican governor of California," he
said, glancing back at the heavy façade of the church, "so simple and
dignified. Yet if Luis Argüello had lived in New England, we should
have considered his house of equal importance with his grave and have
placed a bronze tablet on the front, but you Westerners have, so little
regard for old--"
"If you would like to see the home of Luis Argüello, I will show it to
you. It is at the Presidio."
"A hopeless mass of neglected ruins, I suppose. But still I should like to
see the old walls, if you can find them."
"Shall we take the Camino Real on foot, just as the old padres used to?"
"Not if I have my way. I'll acknowledge that the Spanish friars have left
you Californians one legacy that no Easterner can vie with, that is your
love of tramping over these hills. I've seen streets in San Francisco so
steep that teams seldom attempt them, as is evident from the grass
between the cobblestones, and yet they are lined with dwellings."
"Houses that are never vacant," I assured him. "We like to get off the
level, and value our residence real estate by the view it affords."
Noticing that the sun was now high, my companion drew out his watch.
"Luncheon time," he announced. "Shall it be the Palace or St. Francis
hotel?"
"Let's keep in the spirit of the times and go to a Spanish restaurant," I
suggested, and soon we were on a car headed for the Latin quarter.
"May I replace the violets you left at the Mission?" he asked, as
stepping from the car at Lotta's fountain, we lingered before the gay
flower stands edging the sidewalk.
Before I had a chance to reply a fragrant bunch was thrust into his
hands by an urchin who announced: "Two for two-bits."
"Two-bits is twenty-five cents," I interpreted, seeing the Easterner's
mystified look.
"I'll take three bunches." His eyes rested admiringly on the big purple
heads as he held out a dollar bill.

"Ain't you got any real money?" asked the boy, not offering to touch
the currency.
Again the man's hand went to his pocket and drew out some small
change, from which he selected a quarter, a dime and three one-cent
pieces. The urchin turned the coppers over in his palm, then, diving
below the heap of violets, he pulled out several California poppies.
"We always give these to Easterners," he announced as he tucked them
in among the violets.
"I wonder how that boy knew I was an Easterner?" the Bostonian
reflected as we turned away. Then gently touching the golden petals, he
asked: "Where did you get the odd name 'eschscholtzia' for this lovely
flower?"
"It was given by the French-born poet-naturalist, Chamisso, in honor of
the German botanist, Dr. Eschscholz, who came together to San
Francisco on a Russian ship in 1816. However, I like better the Spanish
names, dormidera--the sleepy flower--or copa de oro--cup of gold," I
added as I pinned the flowers to my coat. The man's glance wandered
around Newspaper Corners, when suddenly his look of surprise told me
that he had discovered on this crowded section of commercial San
Francisco a duplicate of the old bell hung in front of the Mission San
Francisco de Asís.
"We are following El Camino Real from the Mission to the Presidio," I
reminded him.
We turned toward the shopping district, but the lure of the place