one of the poundmaster's assistants is by his side, throwing his rieta around him in every direction, as he twists and turns, until his limbs are securely bound like those of a fly in the web of a spider, and he lies panting, bruised, bleeding, and helpless on the pavement. Such scenes as this are now less common in San Francisco than a few years since, but they may still be witnessed occasionally, and add something to the charm of life in the Golden City.
In a window on Kearney Street a pineapple plant, in full bearing, with the ripe, luscious fruit in perfection upon the top, is on exhibition as an advertisement of a famous suburban garden where it was raised under cover. As the crowd drifts idly along, one and another turn to look at the glory of the tropics with a casual remark. A party of young Spanish-American girls pause longer, and speak in low, soft tones of the memories called up by it. As they too turn to go, a yellow negress, from Panama, Peru, or one of the Spanish West India Islands, clad in a long, loose gown of gaudy-hued calico, with a scarlet handkerchief of rich China silk bound around her head, forming a turban, and loose, slipshod slippers on her feet, lazily puffing away at a cio-arrito which she holds daintily between her thumb and forefinger of the left hand, waddles up before the window and looks in. "Ah, Dios mio! Dios mio! Hijo de mi pais!" she exclaims, clapping her hands in sudden excitement, every trace of listless indifference gone in an instant. Pouring forth a volume of broken English and provincial Spanish
