ps on a car down the alley and
a very bossy motorman, and "turns," over which everyone quarreled.

Some dainty little Chinese girls were playing a sidewalk game with a
white stone which was a version of an old, old child game. The child
would hop to the stone and kick it away and hop to it again until she
missed, the object being to beat her opponent in the distance traveled.
And I saw some exquisite little Japanese girls playing jump rope and
chanting one of the numerous litanies that go with that beautiful game.

The sidewalks of San Francisco. They are full of adventure. Robert Louis
Stevenson would have seen it all. But to our dull eyes are only gray
cement block. Just a sidewalk to us and to kiddies there are mountains
in which Roy Gardner hides, and woods, and Tom Mix on a horse dashes
right past us and we never see him at all.

Feet That Pass on Market St.

There is something about walking along Market street with the procession
of people that passes all day, ah, how shall I express it? It is
thrilling and it is amusing; it is cosmic and it is puny. It is often
ridiculous and always sublime. Sometimes when we are in most of a hurry
the consciousness of the procession will come to us. It is as though we
were one of a moving crowd that never began and will never end. At such
times we listen to the sound of their feet, the steady, unceasing step
by step, an endless tramp as though it were beating out the
rhythm--"Eternity, eternity, eternity."

As we pass voices call to us from the wayside, a cripple so far down
below us on the very ground offering his silent pencils; the allurement
of flowers; a hoarse newsboy with his old, old face screwed into a
thousand anxious wrinkles; a blind man, silent supplicant, twirling his
thumbs; and from the windows the call of strawberries at 15 cents a
basket. Overhead an aeroplane hums its way and receives from us the
tribute of an upward glance. We gaze upward and think how many years
before our day aeroplanes were flying overhead in the dreams of men who
passed and passed in the long procession.

Idly we glimpse faces that pass us in the procession that meets ours. We
pass them and are never the wiser for the struggle and tragedy that may
be going on behind their show of brave masks. A man clutching his last
dime and wondering whether to spend it for rolls and coffee or coffee
and rolls. A business man absorbed and a lady pondering deeply some
detail of her dress. A