co is the intense patriotism of the people, and
your own heart is warmed as you see the evidences of loyalty to the
flag. I could not but be touched too at the devotion which the people
everywhere displayed to the memory of President McKinley. Even in
Chinatown a deep sentiment prevailed, and his draped portrait with his
benignant countenance might be seen in houses and stores and in other
conspicuous places.

As you walk leisurely along you will see on the sidewalk, on the south
side of the street, west of the Palace Hotel and opposite No. 981,
a newstand with American flags decorating its roof; and you will be
interested in the man who stands in his sheltered place behind the
counter on which are the daily papers. It is George M. Drum, a blind
man. Poor Drum, a man about fifty years old, lost his eyesight in a
premature explosion of giant powder, in a quarry near Ocean View, on
the 3rd of November 1895. Yet he takes his misfortune cheerfully. He
is chatty and witty and somewhat of a poet and is the author of a
highly imaginative story about a "Bottomless Lake" and a "Haunted
Cavern" in which that strange character, Joaquin Murietta, well known
in all California mining camps fifty years ago, figures. This Joaquin
Murietta has also been the theme of the "Poet of the Sierras," Joaquin
Miller. Indeed it was from this "Joaquin" that Miller has taken his
name Joaquin, being otherwise called Cincinnatus Heine Miller. It was
my custom to purchase _The Call_ and _The Chronicle_ each morning from
Mr. Drum; and on the second time that I saw him he said, "I wish to
shake hands with you; I know you." "Who am I?" I asked, with no little
surprise. Said he, "You are Bobby Burns." "Bobby Burns!" I exclaimed;
and, thinking only of the Ayrshire poet, I said, "Burns is dead!"
"Oh," he said, "there is a man here in San Francisco, whom I call
Bobby Burns, and T thought that you were he." So the mystery was
explained; and I could not but reflect that many other things which
puzzle us are just as easy of solution when we have the proper key to
them.

If your walk is extended into the evening through the brilliantly
lighted streets, which electricity makes almost as bright as day, you
will meet here and there detachments of the Salvation Army and the
American Volunteers; then you will see a group of men around some
temperance lecturer or street orator. You will also hear the voice
of some fakir selling his fakes or wares, or some juggler wh