purple and gold, or the more soft tones of shimmering gray and
shell-pink. We sit on our terrace feeling as if we were in a proscenium
box on the edge of the world, and watch the ever-varying splendor. At
night there is the same sense of infinity, with the unclouded stars
above, and only the twinkling lights of motors threading their way down
the zigzag of the coast road as it descends the cliffs to the plain
below us. These lights make up in part for the fewness of the harbor
lights in the bay. The Pacific is a lonely ocean. There are so few
harbors along the coast where small boats can find shelter that yachts
and pleasure craft hardly exist. Occasionally we see the smoke of a
steamer on its way to or from ports of Lower California, as far south as
the point where the curtain drops on poor distracted Mexico, for there
trade ceases and anarchy begins. There is a strip of land, not belonging
to the United States, called Lower California, controlled by a handsome
soldierly creature, Governor Cantu, whose personal qualities and motives
seem nicely adapted to holding that much, at least, of Mexico in
equilibrium. Only last summer he was the guest of our small but
progressive village at a kind of love feast, where we cemented our
friendship with whale steaks and ginger ale dispensed on the beach, to
the accompaniment of martial music, while flags of both countries shared
the breeze. Though much that is picturesque, especially in the way of
food--enciladas, tamales and the like--strays across the border, bandits
do not, and we enjoy a sense of security that encourages basking in the
sun. Just one huge sheet of water, broken by islands, lies between us
and the cherry blossoms of Japan! There is a thrill about its very
emptiness, and yet since I have seen the Golden Gate I know that that
thrill is nothing to the sensation of seeing a sailing ship with her
canvas spread, bound for the far East. From the West to the East the
spell draws. First from the East to the West; from the cold and storms
of New England to our land of sun it beckons, and then unless we hold