that they could kiss every woman in the room. They went from table to
table and in mellifluous accents, plus a strain of hyperbole, explained
their predicament to each lady, concluding with a respectful demand for
a kiss. Every woman in the room (with the gallant indulgence of her
swain) acceded to this amazing request. In fifteen minutes all the
kisses were collected and the wager won. I don't know on which this
story reflects the greater credit - the Native Daughter or the Native
Son. But I do know that it couldn't have happened anywhere but in
California.

The first time I visited San Francisco shortly after the fire, I was
walking one day in rather a lonely part of the city. There were many
burnt areas about: only a few pedestrians. Presently, I saw a man and
woman leaning against a fence, absorbed in conversation. Apparently they
did not hear my approach; they were too deep in talk. They did not look
out of the ordinary and, indeed, I should not have given them a second
glance if, as I passed, I had not heard the woman say, "And did you kill
anyone else?"

A man told me that once early in the morning he was walking through
Chinatown. There was nobody else on the street except, a little distance
ahead, a child carrying a small bundle. Suddenly just as she passed, a
panel in one of the houses slid open . . . a hand came out . . . the
child slipped the bundle into the hand . . . the hand disappeared . . .
the wall panel closed up. The child trotted on as though nothing had
happened . . . disappeared around the corner. When my friend reached the
house, it was impossible to locate the panel.

A reporter I know was leaving his home one morning when there came a
ring at his telephone. "There is something wrong in apartment number