Vignettes Of San Francisco | Page 5

and the muscles of his body play into the movement of the waves until
he and his green canoe and the white capped waves are all one motif of
the whole symphony. Men play around the yacht club like a lot of
school boys, and now - "Shoot," they push a long slim racer into the
water. Dainty white yachts go dipping to the waves and seem like
lovely young girls in among the sturdier boats.
Now the fishermen come in from their night's work, making music all
in an orderly procession, and every boat of them a brilliant blue inside.
I'd like to catch a Maine fisherman allowing color in his boat, like a
"dago" or a "wop."
Over all the swing and dip and rhythm of the sea gulls. How beautifully
they accent the movement of the symphony, like the baton of some
great leader - this great beautiful Sunday morning symphony.
Then there is Alcatraz. Oh, Alcatraz, why should they have placed a
prison there as a monument to men's failure to order their lives in
harmony with nature. Alcatraz, most beautiful island in the most
beautiful bay, you sound an ugly, sinister, most unhappy undertone in
the morning's symphony.
Still it is a symphony. A symphony of San Francisco Bay. Why
shouldn't the composers put it into music. We're sick of the song of the
huntsman by the brasses, the strings and the wood instruments. With
Whitman we exclaim: "Come, Muse, migrate from Aeonia," and come
out here to the West, and conserve the symphony of the bay which is
already composed and waiting.
And for the argument, the overture, the prelude, there could be a sailing
schooner with sails all set coming into the Golden Gate, in the full
brilliant sunlight, or mysteriously through a fog, or against a sunset sky.
It should be "full and by" like that beautiful painting by Coulter in the

stock exchange of the Merchants' Building.
Symphony of San Francisco Bay, boom of fog horns, calls and answers
of the ferries, chug of the fishermen's boats, twink of lights in the
harbor at night, rhythm of sea gulls, and the brooding fog to soften it all.
"Come, Muse, migrate from Aeonia."

Safe on the Sidewalk

Are there others, I wonder, who feel as I do about crossing the street?
There must be. Now I, when I cross, say Market street at Third, I run. I
take my life and my bundles in my hand and run, darting swift glances
to the left and to the right. It looks "hick." I know it looks "hick." And I
care. But I prefer to be alive and countrified than sophisticated in an
ambulance and so I run.
At corners, too. I think corners are worse. For there the machines may
turn around and chase me, which they often do. It's a horrible feeling.
There must be others who feel as I do about crossing the street, but they
never betray it. I watch to see and when they cross, they just cross -
that's all. Not with nonchalance exactly, but with ease and assurance.
Once I actually saw a man, a native son, I'm sure, roll a cigarette as he
crossed at a point where even the traffic cop looked nervous.
No one ever gets killed or even injured. But always everybody is
getting almost killed and almost injured. They like it. It's a sort of sport.
I've noticed it more since the city's gone dry. The game is, if you are
walking, to see how close to a machine you can come and not hit it.
Street cars, machines and people all go straight ahead and they all come
out right. It's the only city where it's done with such abandon. They
never stop for anything except taxis - not even fire engines.
The secret of it is, I think, that no one ever hesitates. This is understood

by all San Franciscans - that, no one is ever going to hesitate. That's
why there are no accidents. It's the unexpected in people that makes
disasters and creates a demand for traffic cops.
I try to cross the street as others cross. I choose a chalk mark and,
pretending I am a native daughter, launch out. I get on fine - suddenly a
monster machine is on me. Or would be if I did not jump back. I
shouldn't have jumped back it seems. But how was I to know? In the
jaws of death you don't reason, you jump. In jumping back I hit another
machine and it stops. And that stops a street car. That stops something
else. And in a minute Market street, the famous Market street, is all
balled up because I jumped back. Drivers, red in the face,