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The Waterfront


What see ye as ye look abroad, along the city's wall,

Where man hath leveled hills for gain, and razed the forests tall?
Where many doubt there be a God; where sailors fight and brawl

Along the city's waterfront,

The waterfront, the waterfront,

Where harbor lights, through murk and gloom, hold tides and thee in thrall.

I see me miles and miles o' streets, and miles o' wharves there be,
Where, 'stead o' craft of Indian make, lie ships from over sea,
And jeweled javelins pierce night's waves that lap, oh, tranquilly
Along the city's waterfront,

The waterfront, the waterfront,

Where man hath worked his problems out an' it were destiny.

What see ye as ye look abroad along the city's wall?
While yonder women, pale and wan, make moan and weep and call
For husbands on ships long o'erdue, men run and pull and haul
Along the city's waterfront,

The waterfront, the waterfront,

At one who makes to drown herself, her shame thus to forestall.

I see the sunset's tender rose the busy wharves enfold;

I see me gallant ships come home, laden with silks and gold.

I see strong men leap from the decks, and love once more is told

Along the city's waterfront,

The waterfront, the waterfront,

And every eye with joy is wet, as happy wives they hold.

What see ye as ye look abroad, along the city's wall,
But bartering of greed and sin; warehouses, large and small?
In driving rain the harbor lights show dimly through night's pall
Along the city's waterfront,

The waterfront, the waterfront,

Where derelicts o' men and ships loom ghast ly as they crawl.

This see I by the harbor lights that gleam through driving rain;

I see the City Beautiful, where men from sin abstain,

And Brotherhood means far, far more than empty words and vain.
Along the city's waterfront,

The waterfront, the waterfront,

I see me visions fair to see when Love alone shall reign.





No. 2


Mrs. William Beckman-As I Knew Her

HE question is what manner of woman is she who has given $100,000 to the University of California to endow a Chair of English Language and Literature-the first of its kind on the Pacific Coast.

The answer is that Mrs. William Beckman is a woman blest with the five senses with which Nature endows all of us, and then she has a plentiful supply of common sense, and that very rare thing called horse sense. Added to these are practical idealism and the power of analysis which gives vision. Of such an individual it is not prudent to say too much that is intimate and personal. Mrs. Beckman thinks and talks of things-not persons. That she avoids the bombastic style of writing is abundantly demonstrated in her own work. That she is shy and reticent is shown in the following statement of her ideas concerning her gift to the University. Imagine a woman creating a situation that will influence literary production on this coast for all time, telling all that she wishes to say about it in eighty-five words; She says:

"In my endowment of a Chair in English Language and Literature to the University of California, the terms were purposely broad, that the Professors would strive and have in view a high general standard for universal education, which is an essential of Americanism. I know full well America can never fail to function wisely and well with universal education, so needed. I realize, for the young that in them the true spirit be instilled, that we must forever keep America as it isfor Americans."

There is no sloppy, mushy sentimentalism expressed; no hint of a tainted. Americanism, and it is safe to conclude that if the spirit of the endowment is


adhered to in the selection of the professors to carry out the plan, no propaganda or other insidious undermining ganda or other insidious undermining of sound nationalism will be permitted.

Mrs. William Beckman

This emphatically does not mean a lack of sympathy with world problems, or a desire to shirk responsibility, but it does mean a safe and sane patriotism in a citizenship that takes a helpful attitude toward all movements that make for betterment anywhere.

Because of Mrs. Beckman's generosity and public spirit our great University will henceforth become a center for the improvement of the rugged, virile English language-still in the making. The stimulus to a higher and better produc

tion of literature will be felt all along the line of endeavor, and like the perfume of the rose, the fragrance of this gift will fall like a benediction for all time to come. Such a consummation is quite in keeping with the theories and practices of the gentlewoman who has bestowed this fruitful blessing on the State of California.

It is hard to class Mrs. William Beckman as a "literary person" despite the fact that she has written muchbooks of travel and newspaper articles by the score. Nellie Sims Beckman has a manysided illusive personality and a character development which makes her an unusual type of woman. Heredity and environment mix freely in her make-up, and the result is unique in this or any other generation.

A pure Nordic strain on the father's side links her ancestry with the Normans who came over to England with William the Conquerer, and left an indelible impress on English history. Later wanderlust brought some of the Sims family to Kentucky, where Mrs. Beckman's cousin Rear Admiral Sims is the outstanding representative today.

The Governor Lane of Continental Virginia, who witnessed the marriage of John Rolfe and Pocohontas, is a maternal forebear, but Mrs. Beckman herself was born in Jacksonville, Illinois, and came to California as a young girl. Sacramento was only a small village when Nellie Sims went there to live. The glamor of Pioneer life and the excitement of the gold fields were among her youthful impressions. This environ


ment tinged by ancestral strains is the background against which the character development of Mrs. William Beckman was worked out. It was amid such scenes that her own great romance blossomed, when she became the wife of William Beckman, one of the best known bankers of Northern California.

For two years the newly-weds traveled, not with a definite itinerary or on scheduled time, but wherever fancy led them. Heredity asserted itself strongly in all of Mrs. Beckman's married life. She was an acknowledged leader socially, but could not be content with the emptiness of it all, even when politics, literature, art and a varied culture composed her brilliant coterie. Frequent and long were her journeys to all parts of the civilized world.

It was while on these pilgrimages that she began writing. First in bright, chatty letters from various interesting places visited. These were published in the "Sacramento Bee," and attracted the favorable notice of the men who made the literature of the 70's and later worthy of the period represented. Editorial writing at this time was a fine art, and the few women who ventured into print not only had something to say, but knew how to say it.

It was twenty years after Mrs. Beckman's first trip to Europe that she finally visited Egypt, the land of her dreams, and the goal she had in mind all of the preceding years. Here she found her true vogue, and her first book Backsheesh" is a classic of travel, because it is not only well written, but is rich in the keen perception and shrewd analysis characteristic of Mrs. Beckman's writings. She is one of those favored mortals-an author who does not have to consider the sales value of her work. She was free to express herself, and this refreshing quality pervades all that she says or does.

It would be impossible to imagine Nellie Sims Beckman in a pose of any kind. She simply does not know how to pretend. Here environment exerts a strong influence in the mental makeup of Mrs. Beckman. From her banker husband she learned brevity, directness and the ability to state a fact concisely.

Like Army and Navy officers the heads of financial institutions content themselves with an exact recital of facts. Conclusions and deductions are left to others. So it is with Mrs. Beckman. She writes well, but cannot talk about her work.

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C. Truman, a world traveler and wellknown critic said of "Backsheesh:" "This gifted American woman has told of the places and things she has seen so pictorially, so sonorously, so delightfully, and yet so modestly, that one may read it and read it, again and again."

The prose poesy of the description of St. Peter's, Rome, in "Backsheesh", is considered a gem of word painting, and is by many travelers pronounced the best thing ever written about the Vatican.

It may be that my love of Mexico and its ruins and ancient civilization makes me think that "Unclean and Spotted from the World" is the best of Mrs. Beckman's books. It is a clever arrangement of letters of travel in Mexico, Italy, the Holy Land, the Grand Canyon, and Yosemite, with a unique triangle of three women intimately associated with the love professions of an unworthy man. The situations are unusual, the suspense well sustained, and the outcome unexpected. This book was just off the press when the fire of April 18, 1906 occurred, and the warehouse where the issue was stored went up in smoke. Better known the book would undoubtedly have attracted much attention.

An optimistic worldly wisdom charac terizes the later writings of Mrs. Beckman. Mellowed by years of pleasant contact with all classes in Europe and America Mrs. Beckman developed a gentle, ironic philosophy which in short paragraphs became epigrams of wit and wisdom. Of these the best known is "Beckie's Book of Bastings" published in 1910. A discriminating critic says of this little book:

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all through the rippings, snippings and snarlings of the Bastings. Great, broad and deep mutterings are voiced in "Longings." Illusion of a pure and healthy tone makes music for the soul in

"Reflections." Seriousness almost akin to retribution ties the knots hard and strong in "Meditations." In it all there is food for laughter, for wit, for wisdom, and for good. Furthermore, all is worthy of emulation." In 1915 1915 Mrs. Beckman "Memory's Potlatches." The preface says: "In giving potlatches the Indians think that food and raiment given away


are for the benefit of the dead, that they may not grow cold and hungry throughout Eternity. My potlatch gifts from the storehouse of memory are for the living, with the hope that they may give food for thought, and lighten hours for hearts that are ahungered for something that will divert and satisfy while living. The dead need nothing."

Among the first pages is this bit of illuminating philosophy: "Flattery is good and helpful if administered properly, but I have had careless, extravagant people mistake me for a piece of toast, and lay it on as thick as butter. I am not fond of too much of either."

The last book written by Mrs. Beckman, "Adventuring in Memory Lands", is now being reviewed as among the last publications of 1923. Picking it up at random the following illuminating paragraph expresses Mrs. Beckman's aversion to gush and insincerity perfectly:

"The gift of speech distinguishes us from animals, but because of it, we need not abuse the privilege, making ourselves objectionable by an over-abundance of words, hackneyed, honeyed or superfluous.


I must be active, plodding every day recurring events do not suit me. The odd. unexpected things, breaking away from the dull mesas of facts to fancies, reveling in change in physical and mental activity, seem to fill up the chinks in my make-up, and lead me to think I was born under a shooting star, comet or heavenly body that was the "run."


Y the weird and mystical Mrs. Beckman was too wise, too practical to be swayed, but she seems rather proud of the fact that she is a seventh daughter. It would not be like her to speak of the intimate things of the soul, but her creed of doing all the good possible, of preaching the doctrine of cheerfulness, and of always lending a hand where a forward movement is made, bespeaks the good citizen in any community.

Of her civic activities, the success of McKinley Park in Sacramento, the first children's playground in the capital, was largely due to the courageous leadership of Mrs. Beckman. Woman suffrage had not been granted in California when this project harassed the city officials at the time when a little group of determined women persuaded the late Albert Galletin to turn over East Park, dilapidated and undesirable in its then condition, to the City of Sacramento for a Children's Playground. The plot contained forty acres, and the price paid. was $12,500. Opposing political interests were like a dog with a bone. They (Continued on page 92)


Vancouver's Pinnacles

UT of the Golden Age of adventure and discovery come tales of conquest and exploration; of unbelievable riches and new lands, when the Conquistadore set out boldly with whole continents-half the world before him to be tamed, and English Sea Rovers sailed the seven seas, risking and daring unquestioningly for their beloved Queen Elizabeth. The richly colored careers of these fearless Empire Builders were followed by the less vivid but more difficult and arduous lives of explorers, sent out to survey or hold the new land, and obtain accurate information for the home government. Among these resourceful and honorable men was George Vancouver. He has left us an accurate, painstaking journal of his voyages, and we, across the span of intervening years, may sail out with him on his venturous mission to glimpse the California of that by-gone day.

A few original copies of his work still exist, and are treasured in the valuable book collections of several large libraries. Printed in 1798, in three large volumes, after the fashion of the period, with huge worn pages, and big print-the s's confusingly made as f's -and now and then a wood cut to illustrate the scenes described, Vancouver's Journal gives the atmosphere of that age of new lands. And the worn pages -how youths must have poured over them; inspired by the unfolding story to adventurous lives of their own.

Around Good Hope, Vancouver sailed, and up the coast of Tasmania, a land with doors as yet locked but soon to open bountifully as Australia. Atter wintering in the Sandwich Islands, he started on across the broad Pacific, whose placid waters seldom felt the cut of a vessel's prow. Now and then a pirate or adventurer, and infrequently an explorer passed by. Once a year these waters bore the lumbering, richly laden Acapulco Galleon from the Spanish Philippines to Mexico. Down to Manila, once a year, came Chinese junks bringing silks, jewels, gunpowdertreasures of the Orient for the yearly trade, which was carried on according to strict Spanish regulation for nearly three centuries, and ended in 1815. During this entire time Spain allowed but the one ship to carry all her trade between the East and the West. She was afraid profits would be lessened by competition. The galleon went out with oriental wares, to return from Acapulco laden with the Mexican silver so desired in the East. Both were cargoes of im


mense value. What a prize the heavily burdened, unarmed galleon made. Our wonder is that it did not fall a victim more often. Cavandish captured it in 1586, and Rogers in 1709 and again in 1742.

Two ships, the Discovery with 100 men, and the Chatham as an armed

A saw-toothed ledge, Vancouver's Pinnacles

tender with 45 men, composed Vancouver's fleet. He arrived at Nootka Sound in the summer of 1792, where he was to receive in restitution the territories and buildings which a Spanish officer had seized from Great Britain in 1789. Vancouver was also to make an accurate survey of the coast from 30 degrees north latitude, northwest, to Cooke's River, and to obtain every possible information that could be collected respecting the nature and political state of that country, according to his instructions, dated March 8, 1791. Of immeasurable importance to us was Vancouver's activities in "New Georgia," so soon to become the American state of Washington, but in his Journal he tells us much more that we know little about. Because most of us are familiar with Vancouver's work around Puget Sound, we shall pass over that part of his record, to the incidents not so well known.

In the early fall he directed his way south to the Bay of Sir Francis Drake, then on to the Spanish port of San Francisco, where he dropped anchor to take on fresh supplies. The picture he gives of the settlement there, in November, 1792, is difficult to imagine, for us who know the city today.

"At San Francisco there is no object to indicate the most remote connection with Europe or any other civilized nation. The establishment of this port, which I should conceive ought to be a principal object of the Spanish crown, as a key to their more southern and valuable settlements on the northern Pacific, is in an unprotected state. Spanish soldiers of the garrison, thirty-five of them with wives, families, and Indian servants, compose the whole of the inhabitants.'

Vancouver was generously entertained by the commander, Sr. Sal, the Donna, his wife, and their two little girls. With an eye for detail, he notes that they were well behaved, which fact showed that they were well trained. He returned their hospitality by entertaining them at dinner on shipboard. Quite an event, I imagine, for the woman so far from home. It is interesting, also, to notice the friendship and pleasant intercourse. of the representatives of two great rival nations, England and Spain, when they meet so far from home. Barriers of language and nationality seem lost in distance. Describing the commandant's house, he says, "The floor was of native soil, raised about three feet from the original level, without being boarded, paved, or even reduced to an even surface. The roof was covered with flags and rushes, and the walls were whitewashed on the inside with a kind of lime made of sea shells. It was of the rudest fashion and the meanest kind of furniture." Yet he adds that he experienced "a very cordial and hearty welcome from our worthy host, who provided a refreshing repast."

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Of the same type, the presidio buildings formed a perfect quadrangle. Further back on better soil, and better kept, stood the mission buildings. They were built up on only two sides, however. "The natives," he remarked, "are inactive in spirit." Three Padres taught them useful arts. As a protection, the native women were locked up in the mission at night. The unarmed Padres might easily have been overcome had the natives wished, but Vancouver not(Continued on page 70)


I! 'TESS! Come on, pick up the paper, come on now! Attagirl!" roared Jim Kelly, field engineer for the Valley Power Co. on the Cache Creek Tunnel job as he stood in the bunkhouse door in his shirt sleeves motioning his dog up the trail with his day old Denver paper which, rolled into a tight, short tube, the up-creek stage driver dropped off every morning just below the camp.

Countess, a rangy, long-muzzled, wolf-gray police dog growled a final warning at the two figures in the road, picked up the paper in her mouth and trotted obediently up the slope, ears erect and forward and tail drooping behind in the beautiful catenary curve of the thoroughbred.

The French-Canadian cook came to the door of the cook-shack with a pan of dish-water which he flipped expertly into the gully.

"W'at de matter," he called, "dat dog chase de rabbit again!"

"Not today, Joe," answered Kelly, "she was barking at old Grigg and that half-wit son of his. I'm afraid they'll get bitten some fine day if they don't quit hanging around the tunnel."

He stooped to pick up the tightly rolled newspaper and gave his canine news-girl an affectionate pat between her long, pointed ears. He couldn't really blame her for disliking the Griggs. Old Eben's bitter hatred of the Valley Power Co. and all its works, and his constant, though futile, opposition to the tunnel had in no-wise contributed to the engineer's peace of mind.

"She's one smart dog for sure," commented Joe, "she know dat ol' Grigg for one bad man wa't hate de tonnel, so she's keep de bright eye on heem, eh, Countess? W't for you tink he sneak around here all tam, M'siu Kelly? No chance for stop de tonnel now, she's finish."

The young engineer laughed as he unrolled the paper.

"I guess he hopes there'll be a cave-in or a landslide and that he'll be on hand to see it," he answered carelessly. "The old man's pretty near as crazy as his son since the court dismissed his suit to restrain us from putting Wolf Creek water through the mountain. It isn't as if we were taking all the water, either, any reasonable man could see that there'll be plenty left for Grigg's farm."

"Well," the little cook wagged his head, "Dat ol' Greeg, she's not what you call reasonable man. Bettaire you keep de eye on heem, M'siu Kelly. You

Wrapped Death


bet I don' let him come in de cookhouse."

"Oh, don't be a calamity howler, Joe," laughed Jim Kelly, turning back toward the bunkhouse, "old Grigg won't make any trouble, and besides, we've only two more days. The Commissioners are coming up the creek tomorrow for final inspection, and next day the water goes through, so we should worry. Come on, Countess."

At the door he paused and shouted over his shoulder. "By the way, Joe, fix me up a couple of sandwiches, will you? I'm going fishing over on Wolf Creek this afternoon."

"Eh bien," answered Joe, ducking back into the kitchen.

Screened from the tunnel camp by a clump of brush, Old Eben Grigg halted, rubbed a gnarled hand musingly over his grizzled chin and stared speculatively up at the great heap of freshly removed rock and debris that towered above them on the hillside, falling away from the lips of the tunnel and spreading fan-like under the lofty conduit that was to bear the waters of Wolf Creek to mingle with those of Cache Creek, entirely contrary to the good will and best intentions of Mother Nature, who had reared the rocky barrier of Cache Mountain between them.

Gazing up at the black portal of the tunnel, his old eyes smouldering, Eben Grigg paid no heed to the gibberings of his idiot boy, Jonas, almost a man in stature, but with the intellect of a babe, who stamped and shook his fist at the tunnel as he had often seen his father do, mouthing obscene curses in his thick voice.

"Go Hell! Dam ol' tunnel! Dam Jim Kelly!"

"Be quiet, Jonas," said the old man finally, "you'll have that cussed dog on us again."

"Dam dog!" muttered Jonas.

"Yes, damn it," repeated his father tonelessly, "I reckon I ought'er kill th' dog fust, will if I get a chance."

Jonas' dull eyes lighted up at the word kill. He understood killing. He liked to wring chickens' necks, and to see his father butcher fat pigs.

Old Eben stared a moment longer, then plucked his son by the sleeve.

"Come on, Jonas, we'll go home now. I've seed what I come ter see. We c'n do it ternight from this side. They're all gone from here now but that cussed engineer an' th' cook. What's left o'

th' gang is yonder on th' Wolf Creek side fixin' ter let th' water in. Looks like they'd drawed off most everybody, damn 'em, they'll wish they hadn't."

He spat venomously in the dust and shambled off up the road toward the trail that led over the mountain to his

Fly-casting for rainbow trout is, as Jim Kelly was wont to exclaim, just about "the fishin'est fishin'" there is. Working slowly up-stream with the icecold water gurgling just below the tops of his waders, and casting his line in long sweeps far ahead into the sun-shot riffles and drawing it lazily back along the marginal shadows, he was entirely oblivious of time, tunnels, and everything save fish and fishing.

All this was very boring to Countess. Having been told to stay close, she moped along the bank beside him, moving when he moved, stopping when he stopped to cast, and lying on the grass with her nose between her paws whenever her master halted to shift flies, disentangle a snarled line, or take a fish off the hook. She heartily wished that he had chosen instead to shoulder his gun and scour the hillsides for rabbits -there was fun, excitement, breathless chases, a sport that a dog could enjoy. This fishing-she stretched herself, yawned, and slowly stalked around a deep pool into which Jim was casting from an opposite gravel bar.

A sudden burst of white water at the end of his line, the reel sang, and the slender bamboo tip of his rod bowed, alarmingly as a mighty rainbow struck. Jim whooped, and Countess pricked up her ears. Maybe something of interest was going to happen, but no, only another fish, that swung around the pool in frantic circles.

Countess turned away disgustedly. A trail, half-hidden in tall grass lured her uphill into a pleasant grove of quaking asp. Squirrels chattered in the branches. A wood-rat's nest of heaped sticks attracted her attention for a moment, but for a moment only. From a clump of fern beyond the nest scurried a big mountain jack-rabbit. Countess could not resist. One half-glance back toward the creek satisfied her conscience, then, with a short yelp, she took off after the jack, whose white tail was bobbing through the aspens ahead.

The rabbit ran up hill, as all rabbits do when pursued, and in a minute they were racing along the open mountainside, Countess scarcely a dozen feet behind. The rabbit ran warily, twisting

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