The San Francisco call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913, 1895-08-11

What do you think of our climate?" To
tell you the truth | think it beastly right
here in San Francisco. No man can be
quite sure of this until he has been out of
it for some wears and returns to find that
he doesn't know how to take it.
Your City lacks color; was half para
Iyzed when / rediscovered the fact, for |
damp or dusty gray, with occasional
touches of dull brown. There is not one
bit of color in. all your peninsula outside
of your splendid park There you get it in
great splashes of gorse, and in the rich en-
broidery of flowers that beauties miles
and miles of those park highways and by
WAYS. There is color of q sunny Sunday
when the rich lawns are dotted with hun
dreds, perhaps thousands, OF pleasure
seekers, and where the pleasure sought is
rational and Christian, for it is written
that this shall be a day of rest and
there is nothing more restful than an out
ing in such a flower land. There is color
i'll the flying hosts of plump little boomers
on wheels-at least in the faces of some of
them. There is color, by contrast, even in
the naked sands that sweep on to the
ocean, south of the park, and ], for one,
would delight to see real pyramid erected
there and droves of camels wandering at
it's feet. There is color in the infinitely
variej foliage, and the judicious thin
ming out of the too densely planted trees is
sure to encourage the fuller development
of those that are reserved to US.
Take it all in all, the Golden Gate Park
seems to me the most original, the most
varied and in some respects the most in
teresting pleasure ground in the whole
wide world Something for San Fran
cisco to be proud of, and something
of which she is destined to be still
more proud. "Well" cried Haroun-al-
Raschid and at that moment the imposs-
ible steeds, who seem as much interested
in the park and it's development as if it had
been laid out for their especial beneit-at
that moment the steeds took header, car
riage and all, and we landed in whirl-
wind of sand and sagebrush, that at once
carried me back to those dear old desolate
days-the days of about '55. Part of a
house stood on the brink of nowhere-in-
particular; the litter that surrounded this
pathetic ruin was the last remnants
of the late Midwinter Fair; the place
seemed as if it had been recently
struck by lightning. The ruin itself
was perched upon stills preparatory to
taking final leap into the hollow that
was being prepared for it. Will the fowls
be glad of the rest, l wonder, down under
the sand hill? the fowls whose feathers
were blown all the wrong way, and who
were caught up at intervals and merrily
zephyrs of the mild Pacific. There was
door and it opened to US, and within there
was shelter and consolation and traditions
enough that have gone with this old land
mark, and will ever go with it SO long as
one shingle of its sagging roof rests upon
another.
Alas "Chaddy!" we have all seen better
days. for we were all younger once upon a
time! This thought was a little too much
for me and, not caring to have Joe Austin
see me forgetting my Eastern dignity,
went to the door under which the sand
was drifting while the wind walled at the
keyhole, and, looking forth, 10 and behold !
the whole park was deluged with a cloud
OF vapor so dense, SO damp and so all-per-
vading that not trace of its beauty was
left visible to the naked eye. | said moth
ing of this to Haroun-aI Raschid, for he
was lost in deep dream of the great gar
den he loves and glories in and, behold |
even l had seen with my own eyes how,
verify, the desert has blossomed as the
rose! CHARLES WARREN SToDDARD.
San Francisco, August. 1895.