With such a grandeur that in sequent years
This period of pain which now appears
Pregnant with doubt, shall vanish as when day
Drives the foreboding dreams of night away.
Born of the womb of Woe, where Sorrow sighs,
Fostered by Faith, undaunted by Dismay,
Earth's fairest City shall from ashes rise.

LOUIS ALEXANDER ROBERTSON,
in _Through Painted Panes._



APRIL 30.


Old San Francisco, which is the San Francisco of only the other
day--the day before the earthquake--was divided midway by the Slot.
The Slot was an iron crack that ran along the center of Market street,
and from the Slot arose the burr of the ceaseless, endless cable that
was hitched at will to the cars it dragged up and down. In truth,
there were two Slots, but, in the quick grammar of the West, time was
saved by calling them, and much more that they stood for, "The Slot."
North of the Slot were the theaters, hotels and shipping district, the
banks and the staid, respectable business houses. South of the Slot
were the factories, slums, laundries, machine shops, boiler works, and
the abodes of the working class.

JACK LONDON,
in _Saturday Evening Post._