In an altogether delightful little essay, Mrs. Irwin sketches some of the charms of the country on the Pacific Slope, and especially of San Francisco. In a spirit of clever satire she pokes fun at the people out there who are conversationally enthusiastic to the exclusion of all topics but that of local charm.
I should travel in California, it would be in the early summer. All the rest of the world at that moment is green. California alone is sheer gold. One composite picture remains in my memory-the residuum of that single trip into the south. On one side the Pacific - tigerish, calm, powerfully palpitant, stretching into eternity in enormous bronze-gold, foam-laced planes. On the other side, great, bare, voluptuously - contoured hills, running parallel with the train and winding serpentinely on for hours and hours of express speed; hills that look, not as though they were covered with yellow grass, but as though they were carved from massy gold. At intervals come ravines filled with a heavy green growth. Occasionally on those golden hill-surfaces appear trees.
Oh, the trees of California!
If they be live-oaks - and on the hills they are most likely to be live-oaks - they are semi-globular in shape like our apple trees, only huge, of a clamant, virile, poisonous green. They grow alone, and each one
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