APRIL 30.
Old San Francisco, which is the San Francisco of only the other day—the day before the earthquake—was divided midway by the Slot. The Slot was an iron crack that ran along the center of Market street, and from the Slot arose the burr of the ceaseless, endless cable that was hitched at will to the cars it dragged up and down. In truth, there were two Slots, but, in the quick grammar of the West, time was saved by calling them, and much more that they stood for, "The Slot." North of the Slot were the theaters, hotels and shipping district, the banks and the staid, respectable business houses. South of the Slot were the factories, slums, laundries, machine shops, boiler works, and the abodes of the working class.
JACK LONDON,
in Saturday Evening Post.
MAY 1.
HAWAII, WEDNESDAY, MAY 1. 1907.
A year ago, Jack and I set out on a horseback trip through the northern counties of California. It just now came to me—not the date itself, but the feel of the sweet country, the sweetness of mountain lilacs, the warm summer-dusty air. ∗ ∗ ∗ And here in Hawaii, I am not sure but I am at home, for our ground is red, too, in the Valley of the Moon, where home is—dear home on the side of Sonoma Mountain, where the colts are, and where the Brown Wolf died.
CHARMIAN K. LONDON,
in Log of the Snark.
MAY 2.