“Little Lotta Crabtree,” I explained, “the sweet singer who bewitched the city at a time when gold was still more plentiful than flowers, and her song was greeted by a shower of the glittering metal flung to her feet by enthusiastic miners.  But read the second tablet,” I suggested.  “It was placed there with the permission of Lotta.”

“Tetrazzini!” his voice rang with surprise.

“Can you picture this place surging with people as it was on Christmas night five years ago, when Tetrazzini sang to San Francisco?” I asked.  “The crowd began to gather long before the appointed time—­the wealthy banker from his spacious home on Pacific Heights, the grimy laborer from the Potrero and the little newsboy with the badge of his profession slung over his shoulder.  Flushed with excitement, the courted debutante drew back to give her place to a tired factory girl and close to the platform an old Italian, who had tramped all the way from Telegraph Hill, patiently waited to hear the sweet voice of his country woman.  ‘Tetrazzini is here,’ they said to one another; Tetrazzini, who had been discovered and adored by the people of San Francisco when, as an unknown singer, she appeared in the old Tivoli opera house.  At last she came, wrapped in a rose-colored opera coat, and was greeted with shouts of joy from a quarter of a million throats.  She was radiant; smiling and dimpling she waved her handkerchief with the abandonment of a child.  The storm of applause increased, rolling up the street to the very summit of Twin Peaks.  Suddenly the soft liquid notes of a clear soprano fell upon the air, and instantly the great multitude was wrapped in silence.  Out over the heads of the people the exquisite tones floated, mounting upward to the stars.  It was the ‘Last Rose of Summer,’ and as she sang her opera coat slipped from her, leaving her bare shoulders and white filmy gown silhouetted against the sombre background.  She sang again and again, while the vast throng seemed scarcely to breathe.  Then she began the familiar strains of ‘Old Lang Syne,’ and at a sign, two hundred and fifty thousand people joined in the refrain.”

“There is not a city in all the world except San Francisco which could have done such a thing,” enthusiastically rejoined my companion, but the next instant the eccentricities of the place struck him afresh.

“Furs and apple blossoms!” he exclaimed, observing a woman opposite.  “What a ridiculous combination!” Then, turning, he scrutinized me from the top of my flower-trimmed hat to the bottom of my full skirt until my cheeks burned with embarrassment.  “Why, you have on a thin summer silk, while that woman is dressed for mid-winter!”

“Of course,” I assented.  “She’s on the shady side of the street.”

But still his face did not lighten.  “We’ve been in the sun all morning,” I continued to explain.  “People talk about San Francisco being an expensive place to live in, but really it is the cheapest in the world.  If a woman has a handsome set of furs, she wears them and keeps in the shadow, or if her new spring suit has just come home, she puts that on and walks on the sunny side of the street, being comfortably and appropriately, dressed in either.”