When we attained to one wildly well-kept garden, the whole bay of the Golden Gate stretched before us. A thousand villages knelt humbly like vassals.
I saw a tiny gate with the sign:
“Fruit Grower.”
An old gentleman appeared from a cottage, singing.
“Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!”
“Poet!” Uncle whispered.
Let me now examine him!
What lengthy hair he wore!
It didn’t annoy me, however, because he stamped himself on my mind as if he were an ancient statue. I imagined him a type of mediæval squire. I thought of him truly as one metamorphosed from the frontispiece of a wholly forgotten volume in a cobwebbed recess of a library.