At Clay and Kearny streets, in
the heart of the business district, some wag had placed a
placard reading:
THIS STREET IS IMPASSABLE
NOT EVEN JACKASSABLE
In which there was both truth and poetry. Passersby who laughed at the
inscription witnessed simultaneously the rescue of an almost-submerged
donkey by means of an improvised derrick.
* * * * *
Benito was showing his friend David Broderick, a recent arrival from New
York, some of San Francisco's sights. "Everything is being used to
bridge the crossings," said the former laughingly ... "stuff that came
from those deserted ships out in the bay. Their masts are like a
forest--hundreds of them."
"You mean their crew deserted during the gold rush?" Broderick inquired.
"Yes, even the skippers and officers in many cases.... See, here is a
cargo of sieves with which some poor misguided trader overwhelmed the
market. They make a fair crossing, planted in the mud. And there are
stepping stones of tobacco boxes--never been opened, mind you--barrels
of tainted pork and beef. On Montgomery street is a row of cook stoves
which make a fine sidewalk, though, sometimes the mud covers them.
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