Recently I saw a tomboy who had organized the children in her block, and
had confiscated an alley between two straight gray houses, and I don't
know what the game was but it entailed trips on a car down the alley and
a very bossy motorman, and "turns," over which everyone quarreled.

Some dainty little Chinese girls were playing a sidewalk game with a
white stone which was a version of an old, old child game. The child
would hop to the stone and kick it away and hop to it again until she
missed, the object being to beat her opponent in the distance traveled.
And I saw some exquisite little Japanese girls playing jump rope and
chanting one of the numerous litanies that go with that beautiful game.

The sidewalks of San Francisco. They are full of adventure. Robert Louis
Stevenson would have seen it all. But to our dull eyes are only gray
cement block. Just a sidewalk to us and to kiddies there are mountains
in which Roy Gardner hides, and woods, and Tom Mix on a horse dashes
right past us and we never see him at all.



Feet That Pass on Market St.



There is something about walking along Market street with the procession
of people that passes all day, ah, how shall I express it? It is
thrilling and it is amusing; it is cosmic and it is puny. It is often
ridiculous and always sublime. Sometimes when we are in most of a hurry
the consciousness of the procession will come to us. It is as though we