Along the Golden Gate shore for miles are points of interest and charming homes. Many of the bungalows are surrounded by flowers of every description and color, with apparently no attempt to segregate them. All shades of pink, reds, and purples are jumbled together; the sides of the houses are covered with vines, geraniums, heliotrope, fuchsias, and endless other plants, just one heavenly blotch of color! These little gardens seem to say, “Everything will grow in here; it may not be according to the ethics of landscape gardening, but at least you will love it”--and you do! We were especially struck with the absence of large grounds, even about the more pretentious homes, except, of course, out of the city, where the estates are the last word in beauty and luxury. There is a joyousness about the native Californian that is a revelation. In other cities the people were proud of the homes, or the buildings, or the commercial life, or something man-made; here they just seem to glory in the sunshine, the climate, the scenery, and the flora--in fact, everything God-given. The “joy of living” expresses it--to me, at least. I can better understand now the feeling of California friends living in New York. “The place stifles me; I want to get back to the golden sunshine.” Frankly, I used to think it a pose. I apologize! Then, people have time here to be polite. On my first street-car ride, an elderly lady was hurrying to get off. “Take your time, madam,” said the polite conductor, and assisted her off. In New York it would be, “Step lively there; step lively!” giving her a shove. In getting on a car my heel caught and I banged my knee. The conductor said, “I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.” In New York, if he noticed it at all, the conductor would have looked to see if I had injured the car!