starting!"

"I am going to take the one behind," I announced. "There must be
something old in San Francisco and I am going to find it."

"You'll have a long hunt," rejoined the skeptic, and with his eyes still
on the tail of the disappearing Exposition car, he reluctantly followed
me.

"Lots of strangers in San Francisco for the Fair," he remarked, as from
the car window 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