A Fort point IDYL.

About an hour’s ride from the Plaza there is a high bluff with the ocean breaking uninterruptedly along its rocky beach.  There are several cottages on the sands, which look as if they had recently been cast up by a heavy sea.  The cultivated patch behind each tenement is fenced in by bamboos, broken spars, and driftwood.  With its few green cabbages and turnip-tops, each garden looks something like an aquarium with the water turned off.  In fact you would not be surprised to meet a merman digging among the potatoes, or a mermaid milking a sea cow hard by.

Near this place formerly arose a great semaphoric telegraph with its gaunt arms tossed up against the horizon.  It has been replaced by an observatory, connected with an electric nerve to the heart of the great commercial city.  From this point the incoming ships are signalled, and again checked off at the City Exchange.  And while we are here looking for the expected steamer, let me tell you a story.

Not long ago, a simple, hard-working mechanic had amassed sufficient by diligent labor in the mines to send home for his wife and two children.  He arrived in San Francisco a month before the time the ship was due, for he was a western man, and had made the overland journey and knew little of ships or seas or gales.  He procured work in the city, but as the time approached he would go to the shipping office regularly every day.  The month passed, but the ship came not; then a month and a week, two weeks, three weeks, two months, and then a year.

The rough, patient face, with soft lines overlying its hard features, which had become a daily apparition at the shipping agent’s, then disappeared.  It turned up one afternoon at the observatory as the setting sun relieved the operator from his duties.  There was something so childlike and simple in the few questions asked by this stranger, touching his business, that the operator spent some time to explain.  When the mystery of signals and telegraphs was unfolded, the stranger had one more question to ask.  “How long might a vessel be absent before they would give up expecting her?” The operator couldn’t tell; it would depend on circumstances.  Would it be a year?  Yes, it might be a year, and vessels had been given up for lost after two years and had come home.  The stranger put his rough hand on the operator’s, and thanked him for his “troubil,” and went away.

Still the ship came not.  Stately clippers swept into the Gate, and merchantmen went by with colors flying, and the welcoming gun of the steamer often reverberated among the hills.  Then the patient face, with the old resigned expression, but a brighter, wistful look in the eye, was regularly met on the crowded decks of the steamer as she disembarked her living freight.  He may have had a dimly defined hope that the missing ones might yet come this way, as only another road over that strange unknown expanse.  But he talked with ship captains and sailors, and even this last hope seemed to fail.  When the careworn face and bright eyes were presented again at the observatory, the operator, busily engaged, could not spare time to answer foolish interrogatories, so he went away.  But as night fell, he was seen sitting on the rocks with his face turned seaward, and was seated there all that night.

When he became hopelessly insane, for that was what the physicians said made his eyes so bright and wistful, he was cared for by a fellow-craftsman who had known his troubles.  He was allowed to indulge his fancy of going out to watch for the ship, in which she “and the children” were, at night when no one else was watching.  He had made up his mind that the ship would come in at night.  This, and the idea that he would relieve the operator, who would be tired with watching all day, seemed to please him.  So he went out and relieved the operator every night!

For two years the ships came and went.  He was there to see the outward-bound clipper, and greet her on her return.  He was known only by a few who frequented the place.  When he was missed at last from his accustomed spot, a day or two elapsed before any alarm was felt.  One Sunday, a party of pleasure-seekers clambering over the rocks were attracted by the barking of a dog that had run on before them.  When they came up they found a plainly dressed man lying there dead.  There were a few papers in his pocket, ­chiefly slips cut from different journals of old marine memoranda, ­and his face was turned towards the distant sea.