going to the Orpheum, motoring through the Park afterwards; and finally
indulging in another bite before he gets to bed. Sometime during the
process, he has assisted in playing a graceful practical joke on a
trusting friend. He has attended a meeting to boost a big, new
developing project for California. He has made a speech. He has
contributed to some pressing charity. He has swung into at least two
political fights. He has attended a pageant or a fiesta or a carnival.
And he has managed to conduct his wooing of that beautiful (and
fortunate) Native Daughter who will some day become Mrs. Native Son.

Really my favorite hour is every hour.

Every hour in San Francisco is a charming hour. Perhaps my favorite
comes anywhere between six and eight. Then "The City" is brilliant with
lights; street lamps, shop windows, roof advertising signs. The hotels
are a-dance and a-dazzle with life. Flowers and greens make mats and
cushions of gorgeous color at the downtown corners. At one end of Market
Street, the Ferry building is outlined in electricity, sometimes in
color; at the other end the delicate outlines of Twin Peaks are merging
with night. Perhaps swinging towards the horizon there is a crescent
moon - that gay strong young bow which should be the emblem of
California's perpetual youth and of her augmenting power. Perhaps close
to the crescent flickers the evening star - that jewel on the brow of
night which should be a symbol of San Francisco's eternal sparkle. And,
perhaps floating over the City, a sheer high fog mutes the crescent's
gold to a daffodil yellow; winds moist gauzes over the thrilling evening
star. At the top of the high hill-streets, the lamps run in straight
strings or pendant necklaces. Down their astonishing slopes slide cars
like glass boxes filled with liquid light; motors whose front lamps
flood the asphalt with bubbling gold. If it be Christmas - and nowhere