others, if you can imagine such a thing.

Turn another corner after leaving Fiorini's and look down into a
basement. You do not have to go to the country to see wine making. Here
is one of the primitive wine presses of Italy, and if you want to know
why some irreverent people call the red wine of the Italians "Chateau la
Feet," you have but to watch the process of its making in these
Telegraph Hill wine houses. The grapes are poured into a big tub and a
burly man takes off his shoes and socks and emulates the oxen of
Biblical times when it treaded out the grain. Of course he washes his
feet before he gets into the wine tub. But, at that, it is not a
pleasant thing to contemplate. Now you look around with wider and more
comprehensive eyes, and now you begin to understand something about
these strange foreign quarters in San Francisco. As you look around you
note another thing. Italian fecundity is apparent everywhere, and the
farther up the steep slope of the Hill you go the more children you see.
They are everywhere, and of all sizes and ages, in such reckless
profusion that you no longer wonder if the world is to be depopulated
through the coming of the fad of Eugenics. The Italian mother has but
two thoughts--her God and her children, and it is to care for her
children that she has brought from her native land the knowledge of
cookery, and of those things that help to put life and strength in their
bodies.

An Italian girl said to us one day:

"Mama knows nothing but cooking and going to church. She cooks from
daylight until dark, and stops cooking only when she is at church."

It was evident that her domestic and religious duties dominated her