"Les petits enfants aussi," I added as a child ran past, shouting a response in irreproachable English to the Parisian command of her mother.
We turned through the rude stone wall into Pioneer Park and along the unkept paths shaded by eucalyptus, cypress and acacia trees and came upon the open height where the mountain-hemmed bay lay in broad expanse before us, dotted with islands and with ferries streaking their way across its blue-gray surface.
"Wonderful," he exclaimed under his breath.
'"O, Telegraft Hill, she sits proud as a Queen,
And th' docks lie below in th' glare,'"
I quoted from Wallace Irwin.
He lowered his gaze to the numerous wharves running out into the water, with teams appearing and disappearing at the entrances of the covered docks, like lines of busy ants.
"'And th' bay runs beyant her, all purple and green
Wid th' gingerbread island out there,'"
I continued the quotation.
"What are those terraced buildings?" he queried.
"It has been the military prison for years. It is Alcatraz Island."