as much as Boston or New York is elated when it triumphs.  Distance is nothing.  It is America from Sandy Hook to the Golden Gate.  The one thing that impresses you here in San Francisco is the intense patriotism of the people, and your own heart is warmed as you see the evidences of loyalty to the flag.  I could not but be touched too at the devotion which the people everywhere displayed to the memory of President McKinley.  Even in Chinatown a deep sentiment prevailed, and his draped portrait with his benignant countenance might be seen in houses and stores and in other conspicuous places.

As you walk leisurely along you will see on the sidewalk, on the south side of the street, west of the Palace Hotel and opposite No. 981, a newstand with American flags decorating its roof; and you will be interested in the man who stands in his sheltered place behind the counter on which are the daily papers.  It is George M. Drum, a blind man.  Poor Drum, a man about fifty years old, lost his eyesight in a premature explosion of giant powder, in a quarry near Ocean View, on the 3rd of November 1895.  Yet he takes his misfortune cheerfully.  He is chatty and witty and somewhat of a poet and is the author of a highly imaginative story about a “Bottomless Lake” and a “Haunted Cavern” in which that strange character, Joaquin Murietta, well known in all California mining camps fifty years ago, figures.  This Joaquin Murietta has also been the theme of the “Poet of the Sierras,” Joaquin Miller.  Indeed it was from this “Joaquin” that Miller has taken his name Joaquin, being otherwise called Cincinnatus Heine Miller.  It was my custom to purchase The Call and The Chronicle each morning from Mr. Drum; and on the second time that I saw him he said, “I wish to shake hands with you; I know you.”  “Who am I?” I asked, with no little surprise.  Said he, “You are Bobby Burns.”  “Bobby Burns!” I exclaimed; and, thinking only of the Ayrshire poet, I said, “Burns is dead!” “Oh,” he said, “there is a man here in San Francisco, whom I call Bobby Burns, and T thought that you were he.”  So the mystery was explained; and I could not but reflect that many other things which puzzle us are just as easy of solution when we have the proper key to them.

If your walk is extended into the evening through the brilliantly lighted streets, which electricity makes almost as bright as day, you will meet here and there detachments of the Salvation Army and the American Volunteers; then you will see a group of men around some temperance lecturer or street orator.  You will also hear the voice of some fakir selling his fakes or wares, or some juggler who is delighting his audience with his tricks of legerdemain.

If you desire to make purchases of silver articles or gold ornaments you will go to Hammersmith and Field’s at No. 36 Kearney Street; and if you wish to spend an hour pleasantly and profitably among books on all subjects, you will visit No. 1149 Market Street or 704 Mission Street.  Here you will learn that books on California, whether old or new, are in great demand.  Indeed all books relating to the Golden State are eagerly sought for; and if you chance to have any such you will be reluctant to part with them.  They increase in value year by year.