A thin, pure type. He was dressed in field
glasses and a bag full of green weeds and stout walking boots. There was
an ecstatic glint in his eye which meant that he had discovered a
long-billed, yellow-tailed Peruvian fly-catcher, "very rare in these
parts."
So there they sat packed in so close and so terribly far apart, both so
necessary to the making of a world.
And as they sat a boy entered the car with a shoe-box, full of holes,
and out of the holes came a "peep" and then another. And the Berkeley
man lost his abstracted look and the man-about-town laid down his paper
and pretty soon the boy lifted the lid a bit and both men peeked in.
The Fog in San Francisco
Sunsets in the desert, spring in New England, black-green oaks lying on
tawny hills in Marin County, fields of cotton on red soil in Georgia,
surf on the rocks of Maine, moonlight on Mobile Bay, and the way the fog
comes upon San Francisco on summer afternoons.
Sometimes when all its hills lie sparkling in the sunshine and children
play on the sidewalks, young fellows whistle, business autos go
zippity-ip around the corners, and the whole city is out of doors or
hanging out of the windows, then suddenly in great billows the fog comes
rolling in through the Golden Gate, and between the hills right up the
streets into the city.
Then immediately all is changed and everything is nearer and more
intimate and nothing of the city is left but the street you're on.
Pages:
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82