Our San Francisco Climate
Said I to my friend from the East,—
A tenderfoot he,—
As I showed him the greatest and least
Of our hills by the sea,
“How do you like our climate?”
And I smiled in my glee.
I showed him the blue of the hills,
And the blue of the sky,
And the blue of the beautiful bay
Where the ferry-boats ply;
And “How do you like our climate?”
Securely asked I.
Then the wind blew over the sand,
And the fog came down,
And the papers and dust were on hand
All over the town.
“How do you like our climate?”
I cried with a frown.
On the corner we stood as we met
Awaiting a car;
Beneath us a vent-hole was set,
As our street corners are—
And street corners in our San Francisco
Are perceptible far.
He meant to have answered, of course,
I could see that he tried;
But he had not the strength of a horse,
And before he replied
The climate rose up from that corner in force,
And he died!
San Francisco, 1895.