San Francisco, the last stand of the old, free West.



Fillmore Street



I walk along on Fillmore street. I try to walk very fast with eyes
straight ahead. One needs a strong will to take a-walking on Fillmore
street and keep from spending all his money. In fact it is better to
have no money at all for then one is tempted to hold on to it.

Everything in the world is in the windows on Fillmore street -
everything. There isn't a phase of human activity that isn't
represented. Every nation has left its stamp. Spain - tamales and
enchiladas. France - a pastry shop. Italy - spaghetti and raviolas. The
Islands have for sale all that's hula-hula. Here is a Hungarian
restaurant. And the "O. K. Shoe Shop - While U Wait" is pure American.

There is "Sam's Tailor Shop." I feel as though I should know this fellow
Sam. Apparently he knows me from his chummy sign. Sam, Sam - I ought to
remember Sam.

Do you wish to paint and varnish? Well, here you are. Or to be shaved or
have your eye-brows arched? Walk right in. Here is a place to learn to
paint china. Here are drugs, corsets, religion, fish, statuary, cigars
and choice meats all in a row. Meats, on Fillmore street, are always
"choice" or "selected" or "stall-fed." I doubt if you could get just
"meat" if you tried. Next to the meats, out on a table before a