During the first few days the German people got over the excitement, but not so with those whose homes were in this city. A letter which I mailed to her on April 22d reached her on May 8th, which was the first one she received, and which assured her of the safety of her family and friends.
Charles Stetson Wheeler, Jr., who was in school at Belmont, sends me an interesting account of his experiences. He says:
I was awakened by the violent shaking of my bed, which rolled across the room and struck the one occupied by my roommate. The pictures and frames fell from the walls, the bowls and pitchers from the washstands, the books from the shelves, and all were scattered over the floor. A piece of plastering and a broken wash-bowl struck me on my head. I at first thought it was the playful prank of the boys, but having got out of my bed, I was thrown headlong on the floor. I knew it was something serious and realized that it was an earthquake. I in some way got down the stairs; I hardly know how. In the yard I found my companions, badly frightened, all in pajamas, gazing at the sagging walls, broken windows and chimneys. My roommate, who had got out ahead of me, rushed up to me, and cried out: "By Jove, I am glad you're out safe; I didn't think of you until I saw you zig-zagging out of the building." I thanked him and joined the crowd, watching one of the teachers, who was climbing the flagpole, so as to be on top of the building if it further collapsed. We were all silent for a few minutes, but when the shock was fully over, we talked glibly and loud enough, and had many jokes.
No fires were started, as in San Francisco. We asked one another "if this was the end of the world or only the beginning." "Do you think we will get a holiday?" etc. As the excitement subsided, we began to shiver, so by common consent we sought in the ruins for our clothing. I felt that another shock might follow, and possibly worse than the first, and got out of the wrecked building as soon as possible.
A little later I found the Head Master of the school. "Good morning," said I. "Unfortunate morning," he replied. "Brick structures do not hold together when acted upon by conflicting motions caused by the vibrations due to earthquakes. This disturbance is purely local, and I think that Belmont is the only place which has suffered." I thought of our home in the city, which is built of brick, and that my mother, father, and sisters were in it. The more I thought of it, the weaker I felt, until my knees were shaking. In about twenty minutes I was at the Belmont Station determined to go to the city to learn the fate of my family.
I tried to telephone, but I was told that both telephone and wire connections between San Francisco and Belmont were broken. This was the first proof that the earthquake was more than local, and my fears were heightened. As I waited I was joined by other boys. All were curious to know what had happened in other places, but few were worried. Soon the entire school was gathered at the station. A teacher on a bicycle arrived and demanded in the name of Mr. R—that we return to school. The majority complied, but five of us refused. We were promised expulsion.
At last the train pulled in. We boarded it with difficulty, for it was packed with Stanford students. They told us that their college was a wreck.
"The buildings are of stone, you know," said one, "and stone buildings can't stand up against, an earthquake."
Hearing remarks like this made me so dizzy with dread that I began picturing to myself the ruins of my home. I could almost hear the groans of those most dear to me buried under tons of stone and beams, It was maddening, and I had to struggle some to keep from crying out like a child.
Slowly the train pulled by the ruins of San Mateo, Burlingame, and Milbrae, but just outside of San Bruno the long line of straining cars came to a sudden halt. We climbed out to find out the cause of the stop. Ahead we saw several hundred yards of track buckled and humped like much crumpled ribbon. We had gone as far as possible by rail.