the lack of rain; but that is not, of course, so bad in the mountains; and with no persistent, nagging wind to pick it up and fling it spitefully at you, you soon get not to mind it at all.  But of summer in the coast country it is hard to speak tolerantly.  The perfect flower of its unloveliness flourishes in San Francisco, and, more or less hardily, all along the coast.  From the time the rains cease—­generally some time in May —­through the six-months’ period of their cessation, the programme for the day is, with but few exceptions, unvaried.  Fog in the morning —­chilling, penetrating fog, which obscures the rays of the morning sun completely, and, dank and “clinging like cerements,” swathes every thing with its soft, gray folds.  On the bay it hangs, heavy and chill, blotting out everything but the nearest objects, and at a little distance hardly distinguishable from the water itself.  At such times is heard the warning-cry of the foghorns at Fort Point, Goat Island, and elsewhere—­a sound which probably is more like that popularly supposed to be produced by an expiring cow in her last agony than any thing else, but which is not like that or any thing in the world but a foghorn.  The fog of the morning, however, gives way to the wind of the afternoon, which, complete master of the situation by three o’clock P.M., holds stormy sway till sunset.  No gentle zephyr this, to softly sway the delicate flower or just lift the fringe on the maiden’s brow, but what seamen call a “spanking breeze,” that does not hesitate to knock off the hat that is not fastened tightly both fore and aft to the underlying head, or to fling sand and dust into any exposed eye, and which dances around generally among skirts and coat-tails with untiring energy and persistency.  To venture out on the streets of San Francisco at such times is really no trifling matter; and to one not accustomed to it, or to one of a non-combative disposition, the performance is not a pleasant one.  Still the streets are always full of hurrying passengers; for, whether attributable to the extra amount of vitality and vim that this bracing climate imparts to its children, or to a more direct and obvious cause, the desire to get indoors again as soon as possible, the fact remains the same—­that the people of California walk faster than do those of almost any other country.  Not only men either, who with their coats buttoned up to their chins, and hats jammed tightly over their half-shut eyes, present a tolerably secure surface to the attacks of the wind, but their fairer sisters too can be seen, with their fresh cheeks and bright eyes protected by jaunty veils, scudding along in the face or the track of the wind, as the case may he, with wonderful skill and grace, looking as trim and secure as to rigging as the lightest schooner in full sail on their own bay.

But it is after the sun has gone down from the cloudless sky, and the sea has recalled its breezes to slumber for the night, that the fulfillment of the law of compensation is made evident in this matter.  The nights are of silver, if the days be not of gold.  And all over the State this blessing of cool, comfortable nights is spread.  At any season, one can draw a pair of blankets over him upon retiring, sure of sound, refreshing slumber, unless assailed by mental or physical troubles to which even this glorious climate of California cannot minister.