The Morning of April 18th



In common with the other half million citizens of San Francisco on that
fateful morning, I was awakened from a sound sleep by a continuous and
violent shaking and oscillation of my bed. I was bewildered, dazed, and
only awakened fully when my wife suddenly screamed, "Earthquake!" It was
a whopper, bringing with it a ghastly sensation of utter and absolute
helplessness and an involuntary prayer that the vibrations might cease.
Short as was the period of the earth's rocking, it seemed interminable,
and the fear that the end would never come dominated the prayer and
brought home with tremendous import the realization of our
insignificance, of what mere atoms we become when turned on the wheel of
destiny in the midst of such abnormal phenomena of nature's forces.

It was 5:15, broad daylight, and as I glanced at my watch those figures
were indelibly fixed in my memory for the rest of my existence. The
terror and horror which suddenly sprang like a beast of prey out of the
gray dawn and grasped our heart strings, came unheralded from a day that
otherwise promised all that should make life worth living. The night had
been particularly warm and inviting. So vivid was this impression of the
glory of the morning that I was possessed by a feeling of irony that
such a beginning should herald the inception of so bitter a calamity.
Fascinated, I stood gazing at a weathervane on the top of a house across
the street. It swayed to and fro like the light branch of a tree in a
heavy gale. I was jarred out of my inanition by a terrific shock. The
house lurched and trembled and I felt that now was the end. It was