Union street car. It switches from subject to subject just
like that. It begins with the wonderful retail markets of San Francisco,
and then changes abruptly to all sorts of sociological problems, then
before we know it gives us a beautiful marine view, and then drops us
down where the proletariat lives, then up to the homes of the rich and
mighty, and ends in the military.

Everyone should sight-see by the little Union street car.

The Latin Meets the Oriental

In that spot where Chinatown merges into the Latin quarter there must
be, I think, a Director of Delightful Situations who holds dominion
there. For instance, can you imagine anything more subtle than a group
of large fat women haranguing, in Italian-American, a poor thin Chinaman
over some bargains in vegetables?

In a place which marks the line of cleavage between the two quarters is
a picture store containing in its window religious pictures, enlarged
family photographs of Filipinos, and, of course, views of the Point
Lobos cypress. There is something very appealing about that window.
Pictures of Jesus, no matter how lurid they are, never fall short of
dignity. And it seems not at all incongruous that He should be there in
the midst of all those strange human contacts.

There are not only contacts between the Latin and the Oriental, but
anything unusual may come to light in that particular neighborhood. A
buff cochin rooster was wandering about the street the other day.
Stepping high and picking up choice tidbits and showing off before his
harem of hens who peeked at him from their boxes, he strutted about
exactly as though he had been in his own Petaluma barnyard.

One day I saw an enormous negro running through the streets with a piece
of new, green felt bound around his stomach. Now why should a huge negro
run through the street with a piece of new green felt around his
stomach? No one knows. And another time a small Chinese maiden bumped
into me because she was so absorbed in that great American institution,
the funny sheet.

On one of those side streets, in there somewhere, one of those streets
untoured by tourists, I saw some Chinese boys, dressed in American "Boss
of the Road" unionalls, playing baseball and calling the call of Babe
Ruth in sing-song Chinese. Then near them was an empty lot and what do
you suppose it was filled with? Scotch thistles, and edged with wild
corn flowers. Even Nature enters into the fun.

There is a story o