At twenty-two I found myself Register of the Humboldt Land Office, with offices on the first floor of a building at Eureka, the second story of which was occupied by a school. An open veranda extended across the front. When I first let myself into the office, I carelessly left the key in the lock. A mischievous girl simply gave it a turn and I was a prisoner, with a plain but painful way of escape not physically painful, but humiliating to my official pride. There was nothing for it but ignominiously to crawl out of the window onto the veranda and recover the key and that I forthwith did.

The archives of the office proved interesting. The original Register was a Missouri Congressman, who had been instructed to proceed to Humboldt City and open the office. Humboldt City was on the map and seemed the logical location. But it had “died aborning” and as a city did not exist. So the Register took the responsibility of locating the office at Eureka, and in explanation addressed to the President, whom he denominated “Buckhannan,” a letter in which he went at length into the “hole” subject. The original draft was on file.

I was authorized to receive homestead applications, to locate land warrants, to hear contests, and to sell “offered land.” The latter was government land that had been offered for sale at $1.25 an acre and had not been taken. Strangely enough, it embraced a portion of the redwood belt along Mad River, near Arcata.

But one man seemed aware of the opportunity. John Preston, a tanner of Arcata, would accumulate thirty dollars in gold and with it buy fifty dollars in legal-tender notes. Then he would call and ask for the plat, and, after considerable pawing, he would say, “Well, Charlie, I guess I’ll take that forty.” Whereupon the transaction would be completed by my taking his greenbacks and giving him a certificate of purchase for the forty acres of timber-land that had cost him seventy-five cents an acre, and later probably netted him not less than three hundred dollars an acre for stumpage alone. Today it would be worth twice that. The opportunity was open to all who had a few cents and a little sense.

Sales of land were few and locations infrequent, consequently commissions were inconsiderable. Now and then I would hold a trial between conflicting claimants, some of them quite important. It was natural that the respective attorneys should take advantage of my youth and inexperience, for they had known me in my verdant boyhood and seemed to rejoice in my discomfiture. I had hard work to keep them in order. They threatened one another with ink-bottles and treated me with contempt. They would lure me on when I rejected evidence as inadmissible, offering slightly changed forms, until I was forced to reverse myself. When I was uncertain I would adjourn court and think it over. These were trying experiences, but I felt sure that the claimants’ rights would be protected on appeal to the Commissioner of the General Land Office and finally to the Secretary of the Interior. I was glad that in the biggest case I guessed right.

One occurrence made a strong impression on me. It was war-time, and loyalty was an issue. A rancher from Mendocino County came to Eureka to prove up on his land and get a patent. He seemed to me a fine man, but when he was asked to take the oath of allegiance he balked. I tried my best to persuade him that it was harmless and reasonable, but he simply wouldn’t take it, and went back home without his patent.

My experiences while chief clerk in the office of the Superintendent of Indian Affairs are too valuable to be overlooked. I traveled quite freely and saw unfamiliar life. I had a very interesting trip in 1865, to inspect the Round Valley Indian Reservation and to distribute clothing to the Indians. It was before the days of railroads in that part of California. Two of us drove a light wagon from Petaluma to Ukiah, and then put saddles on our horses and started over the mountains to the valley. We took a cold lunch, planning to stay overnight at a stockman’s ranch. When we reached the place we found a notice that he had gone to a rodeo. We broke into his barn to feed our horses, but we spared his house. Failing to catch fish in the stream near by, we made our dinner of its good water, and after a troubled night had the same fare for breakfast. For once in my life I knew hunger. To the nearest ranch was half a day’s journey, and we lost no time in heading for it. On the way I had an encounter with a vicious rattlesnake. The outcome was more satisfactory than it might have been. At noon, when we found a cattleman whose Indian mate served venison and hot bread of good quality and abundant quantity, we were appreciative and happy. The remainder of the trip was uneventful.

The equal division of clothing or supplies among a lot of Indians throws helpful light on the causes of inequality. A very few days suffice to upset all efforts at impartiality. A few, the best gamblers, soon have more than they need, while the many have little or nothing.

The valleys of Mendocino County are fascinatingly beautiful, and a trip direct to the coast, with a spin along ten miles of perfect beach as we returned, was a fine contrast to hungry climbing over rugged heights.

Another memorable trip was with two Indians from the mouth of the Klamath River to its junction with the Trinity at Weitchpec. The whole course of the stream is between lofty peaks and is a continuous series of sharp turns. After threading its winding way, it is easy to understand what an almost solid resistance would be presented to a rapidly rising river. With such a watershed as is drained by the two rivers, the run-off in a storm would be so impeded as to be very slow. The actual result was demonstrated in 1861. In August of that year, A.S. Hallidie built a wire bridge at Weitchpec. He made the closest possible examination as to the highest point the river had reached. In an Indian rancheria he found a stone door-sill that had been hollowed by constant use for ages. This was then ninety-eight feet above the level of the flowing river. He accepted it as absolutely safe. In December, 1861, the river rose thirty feet above the bridge and carried away the structure.

The Indians living on lower Mad River had been removed for safety to the Smith River Indian Reservation. They were not happy and felt they might safely return, now that the Indian war was over. The white men who were friendly believed that if one of the trusted Indians could be brought down to talk with his friends he could satisfy the others that it would be better to remain on the reservation. It was my job to go up and bring him down. We came down the beach past the mouth of the Klamath, Gold Bluff, and Trinidad, to Fort Humboldt, and interviewed many white settlers friendly to the Indians until the representative was satisfied as to the proper course to follow.

In 1851 “Gold Bluff” was the first great mining excitement. The Klamath River enters the ocean just above the bluff that had been made by the deposit of sand, gravel, and boulders to the height of a hundred feet or more. The waves, beating against the bluff for ages, have doubtless washed gold into the ocean’s bed. In 1851 it was discovered that at certain tides or seasons there were deposited on the beach quantities of black sand, mingled with which were particles of gold. Nineteen men formed a company to take up a claim and work the supposedly exhaustless deposit. An expert report declared that the sand measured would yield each of the men the modest sum of $43,000,000. Great excitement stirred San Francisco and eight vessels left with adventurers. But it soon was found that black sand was scarce and gold much more so. For some time it paid something, but as a lure it soon failed.

When I was first there I was tremendously impressed when shown at the level of the beach, beneath the bluff and its growing trees, an embedded redwood log. It started the imagination on conjectures of when and where it had been clad in beauty as part of a living landscape.

An interesting conclusion to this experience was traveling over the state with Charles Maltby, appointed to succeed my friend, to turn over the property of the department. He was a personal friend of President Lincoln, and he bore a striking resemblance to him and seemed like him in character.

In 1883 a nominee for the Assembly from San Francisco declined the honor, and it devolved on a group of delegates to select a candidate in his place. They asked me to run, and on the condition that I should solicit no votes and spend no money I consented. I was one of four Republicans elected from San Francisco. In the entire state we were outnumbered about four to one. But politics ordinarily cuts little figure. The only measure I introduced provided for the probationary treatment of juvenile delinquents through commitment to an unsectarian organization that would seek to provide homes. I found no opposition in committee or on the floor. When it was reached I would not endanger its passage by saying anything for it. It passed unanimously and was concurred in by the Senate. My general conclusion is that the average legislator is ready to support a measure that he feels is meritorious and has no other motive than the general good.

We were summoned in extra session to act on matters affecting the railroads. It was at a time when they were decidedly in politics. The Central Pacific was generally credited with controlling the legislative body of the state. A powerful lobby was maintained, and the company was usually able to thwart the passage of any legislation the political manager considered detrimental to its interests. The farmers and country representatives did all in their power to correct abuses and protect the interests of the people of the state, but the city representatives, in many instances not men of character, were usually controlled by some boss ready to do the bidding of the railroad’s chief lobbyist. The hope for decency is always in free men, and they generally are from the country.

It was pathetic at times to watch proceedings. I recall one instance, where a young associate from San Francisco had cast a vote that was discreditable and pretty plainly indicated corrupt influence. The measure he supported won a passage, but a motion for reconsideration carried, and when it came up the following day the father of the young man was seated by his side as the vote was taken. He was a much-respected plasterer, and he came from his home on a hurried call to save his son from disgrace. It was a great relief when on recall the son reversed his vote and the measure was lost.

Of course, there were punitive measures, unreasonable and unjust, and some men were afraid to be just if the railroad would in any way be benefited. I tried to be discriminating and impartial, judging each measure on its merits. I found it was a thankless task and bred suspicion. An independent man is usually distrusted. At the end of the session a fine old farmer, consistently against the railroad, said to me: “I couldn’t make you out for a long time. Some days I gave you a white mark, and some days a black one. I finally give you a white mark but it was a close shave.”

I was impressed with the power of the Speaker to favor or thwart legislation. At the regular session some Senator had introduced a bill favoring the needs of the University of California. He wanted it concurred in by the Assembly, and as the leading Democrats were pretty busy with their own affairs he entrusted it to me. The Speaker favored it, and he did not favor a bill in the hands of a leader of the house involving an appropriation. He called me to his seat and suggested that at the reassembling of the Assembly after luncheon I should take the floor to move that the bill be placed on the first-reading file. He knew that the leader would be ready with his pet bill, but he would recognize me. When the gavel fell after luncheon three men leaped for the floor. I arose well at the side of the chamber, while the leader stood directly in front, but the Speaker happened (?) to see me first, and the entrusted bill started for speedy success.

It is always pleasant to discover unsuspected humor. There was a very serious-appearing country member who, with the others of a committee, visited the State Prison at San Quentin. We were there at the midday meal and saw the prisoners file in to a substantially laden table. He watched them enjoy the spread, and quietly remarked, “A man who wouldn’t be satisfied with such food as that deserves to be turned out of the State Prison.”

Some reformer had introduced a bill providing for a complete new code of criminal procedure. It had been referred to the appropriate committee and in due time it made its report. I still can see the committee chairman, a country doctor, as he stood and shook a long finger at the members before him, saying: “Mr. Speaker, we ask that this measure be read in full to the Assembly. I want you to know that I have been obliged to hear it, and I am bound that every member of the house shall hear it.”

My conclusion at the end of the session was that the people of the state were fortunate in faring no worse. The many had little fitness; a few had large responsibility. Doubtful and useless measures predominate, but they are mostly quietly smothered. The country members are watchful and discriminating and a few leaders exercise great power. To me it was a fine experience, and I made good friends. I was interested in proposed measures, and would have willingly gone back the next term. Some of my friends sounded the political boss of the period and asked if I could be given a place on the ticket. He smiled and said, “We have no use for him.” When the nominating convention was held he sent in by a messenger a folded piece of paper upon which was inscribed the name of the man for whom they had use and my legislative career was at an end.

I went back to my printing business, which never should have been neglected, and stayed mildly by it for eleven years. Then, there being a vacancy on the Board of Education, I responded to the wish of friends and accepted the appointment to help them in their endeavor to better our schools.

John Swett, an experienced educator, was superintendent. The majority of the board was composed of high-minded and able men. They had turned over the selection of teachers to the best-fitted professors of the university and were giving an economical and creditable administration. If a principalship was vacant, applications were apt to be disregarded, and the person in the department considered most capable and deserving was notified of election. There were, however, some loose methods. All graduates of the high schools were privileged to attend a normal class for a year and then were eligible without any examination to be appointed teachers. The board was not popular with the teachers, many of whom seemed to consider that the department was mainly for their benefit. At the end of the unexpired term I was elected a member of the succeeding board, and this was continued for five years.

When the first elected board held a preliminary canvass I naturally felt much interest as to my associates, some of whom were entire strangers. Among them was Henry T. Scott, of the firm of shipbuilders who had built the “Oregon.” Some one remarked that a prominent politician (naming him) would like to know what patronage would be accorded him. Mr. Scott very forcibly and promptly replied: “So far as I am concerned, not a damned bit. I want none for myself, and I will oppose giving any to him or anyone else.” I learned later that he had been elected without being consulted, while absent in the East. Upon his return a somewhat notorious woman principal called on him and informed him that she was responsible for his election at least, his name had been submitted to her and received her approval. He replied that he felt she deserved no thanks for that, as he had no desire to serve. She said she had but one request to make; her janitress must not be removed. He gave her no assurances. Soon afterward the matter of appointments came up. Mr. Scott was asked what he wanted, and he replied: “I want but one thing. It involves the janitress of Mrs. ’s school. I want her to be removed immediately.”

“All right,” replied the questioner. “Whom shall we name?”

“Whomever you please,” rejoined Scott. “I have no candidate; but no one can tell me what I must or must not do.”

Substitution followed at once.

Later Mr. Scott played the star part in the most interesting political struggle I ever knew. A Democratic victory placed in the superintendent’s office a man whose Christian name was appropriately Andrew Jackson. He had the naming of his secretary, who was ex-officio clerk of the board, which confirmed the appointment. One George Beanston had grown to manhood in the office and filled it most satisfactorily. The superintendent nominated a man with no experience, whom I shall call Wells, for the reason that it was not his name. Mr. Scott, a Democratic member, and I were asked to report on the nomination. The superintendent and the committee discussed the matter at a pleasant dinner at the Pacific-Union Club, given by Chairman Scott. At its conclusion the majority conceded that usage and courtesy entitled the superintendent to the appointment. Feeling that civil service and the interest of the school department were opposed to removal from position for mere political differences, I demurred and brought in a minority report. There were twelve members, and when the vote to concur in the appointment came up there was a tie, and the matter went over for a week. During the week one of the Beanston supporters was given the privilege of naming a janitor, and the suspicion that a trade had been made was justified when on roll-call he hung his head and murmured “Wells.” The cause seemed lost; but when later in the alphabetical roll Scott’s name was reached, he threw up his head and almost shouted “Beanston,” offsetting the loss of the turncoat and leaving the vote still a tie. It was never called up again, and Beanston retained the place for another two years.

Early in 1901 I was called up on the telephone and asked to come to Mayor Phelan’s office at once. I found there some of the most ardent civil service supporters in the city. Richard J. Freud, a member of the Civil Service Commission, had suddenly died the night before. The vacancy was filled by the mayor’s appointment. Eugene Schmitz had been elected mayor and would take his seat the following day, and the friends of civil service distrusted his integrity. They did not dare to allow him to act. Haste seemed discourteous to the memory of Freud, but he would want the best for the service. Persuaded of the gravity of the matter, I accepted the appointment for a year and filed my commission before returning to my place of business. I enjoyed the work and its obvious advantage to the departments under its operation. The Police Department especially was given an intelligent and well-equipped force. An amusing incident of an examination for promotion to the position of corporal concerned the hopes we entertained for the success of a popular patrolman. But he did not apply. One day one of the board met him and asked him if he was not to try for it. “I think not,” he replied. “My early education was very unlimited. What I know, I know; but I’ll be damned if I’m going to give you fellows a chance to find out what I don’t know!”

I chanced to visit Washington during my term as commissioner, and through the courtesy of Senator Perkins had a pleasant call on President Roosevelt. A Senator seems to have ready access to the ordinary President, and almost before I realized it we were in the strenuous presence. A cordial hand-clasp and a genial smile followed my introduction, and as the Senator remarked that I was a Civil Service Commissioner, the President called: “Shake again. I used to be one of those fellows myself.”

Senator Perkins went on: “Mr. Murdock and I have served for many years as fellow trustees of the Boys and Girls Aid Society.”

“Ah,” said the President, “modeled, I presume, on Brace’s society, in which my father was greatly interested. Do you know I believe work with boys is about the only hope? It’s pretty hard to change a man, but when you can start a boy in the right way he has a chance.” Turning to me he remarked, “Did you know that Governor Brady of Alaska was one of Brace’s placed-out boys!” Then of Perkins he asked, “By the way, Senator, how is Brady doing?”

“Very well, I understand,” replied the Senator. “I believe he is a thoroughly honest man.”

“Yes; but is he also able? It is as necessary for a man in public life to be able as to be honest.”

He bade us a hearty good-by as we left him. He impressed me as untroubled and courageous, ready every day for what came, and meeting life with cheer.

The story of the moral and political revolution of 1907 has never been adequately told, nor have the significance and importance of the event been fully recognized. The facts are of greater import than the record; but an eyewitness has responsibility, and I feel moved to give my testimony.

Perhaps so complete a reversal of spirit and administration was never before reached without an election by the people. The faithfulness and nerve of one official backed by the ability of a detective employed by a public-spirited citizen rescued the city government from the control of corrupt and irresponsible men and substituted a mayor and board of supervisors of high character and unselfish purpose. This was accomplished speedily and quietly.

With positive proof of bribery that left conviction and a term in prison as the alternative to resignation, District Attorney William H. Langdon had complete control of the situation. In consultation with those who had proved their interest in the welfare of the city, he asked Edward Robeson Taylor to serve as mayor, privileged to select sixteen citizens to act as supervisors in place of the implicated incumbents, who would be induced to resign. Dr. Taylor was an attorney of the highest standing, an idealist of fearless and determined character. No pledges hampered him. He was free to act in redeeming the city. In turn, he asked no pledge or promise of those whom he selected to serve as supervisors. He named men whom he felt he could trust, and he subsequently left them alone, asking nothing of them and giving them no advice.

It was the year after the fire. I was conducting a substitute printing-office in the old car-barn at Geary and Buchanan streets. One morning Dr. Taylor came in and asked if he might speak to me in private. I was not supplied with facilities for much privacy, but I asked him in and we found seats in the corner of the office farthest from the bookkeeper. Without preliminary, he said, “I want you to act as one of the supervisors.” Wholly surprised, I hesitated a moment and then assured him that my respect for him and what he had undertaken was so great that if he was sure he wanted me I would serve. He went out with no further comment, and I heard nothing more of it until I received a notice to meet at his office in the temporary City Hall on July 16th.

In response to the call I found fifteen other men, most of whom I knew slightly. We seemed to be waiting for something. Mr. Langdon was there and Mr. Burns, the detective, was in and out. Mr. Gallagher, late acting mayor and an old-time friend of the District Attorney, was helping in the transfer, in which he was included. Langdon would suggest some procedure: “How will this do, Jim?” “It seems to me, Billy, that this will be better,” Gallagher would reply. Burns finally reported that the last of the “bunch” had signed his resignation and that we could go ahead. We filed into the boardroom. Mayor Taylor occupied the chair, to which the week before he had been obediently but not enthusiastically elected by “those about to die.” The supervisor alphabetically ranking offered his written resignation, which the mayor promptly accepted. He then appointed as successor the first, alphabetically, on his list. The deputy county clerk was conveniently near and promptly administered the oath and certified the commission. The old member slunk or swaggered out and the new member took his place. So the dramatic scene continued until the transformation was accomplished and a new era dawned. The atmosphere was changed, but was very serious and determined. Everyone felt the gravity of the situation and that we had no easy task ahead. Solemnity marked the undertaking and full realization that hard work alone could overcome obstacles and restore endurable conditions.

Many of the men selected by Dr. Taylor had enjoyed experience and all were anxious to do their best. With firm grasp and resolute procedure, quick results followed. There was to be an election in November. Some of the strongest members had accepted service as an emergency call and could not serve longer; but an incredible amount of planning was accomplished and a great deal disposed of, so that though ten of the appointed board served but six months they had rendered a great service and fortunately were succeeded by other men of character, and the good work went steadily on. In looking back to the problems that confronted the appointed board and the first elected board, also headed by Dr. Taylor, they seem insurmountable.

It is hard now to appreciate the physical conditions of the city. It was estimated that not less than five million dollars would be required to put the streets into any decent condition. It was at first proposed to include this, sum in the bond issue that could not be escaped, but reflection assured us that so temporary a purpose was not a proper use of bond money, and we met the expenditure from the annual tax levy. We found the smallest amount required for urgent expenditure in excess of the tax levy was $18,200,000, and at a special election held early in 1908 the voters endorsed the proposed issue by a vote of over 21,000 to 1800. The three largest expenditures were for an auxiliary water system for fire protection ($5,200,000), for school buildings ($5,000,000), and for sewers ($4,000,000).

I cannot follow the various steps by which order was brought out of chaos, nor can I give special acknowledgment where it is manifestly due; but I can bear testimony to the unselfishness and faithfulness of a remarkable body of public officials and to a few of the things accomplished. To correct gross evils and restore good conditions is no slight task; but to substitute the best for the worst is a great achievement. This San Francisco has done in several marked instances.

There was a time when about the only thing we could boast was that we spent a less sum per capita than any city in the Union for the care of hospital patients. I remember hearing that fine citizen, Frederick Dohrmann, once say, “Every supervisor who has gone out of public service leaving our old County Hospital standing is guilty of a municipal crime.” It was a disgrace of which we were ashamed. The fire had spared the building, but the new supervisors did not. We now have one of the best hospitals in the country, admirably conducted.

Our City Prison is equally reversed. It was our shame; it is our pride. The old Almshouse was a discreditable asylum for the politician who chanced to superintend it. Today our “Relief Home” is a model for the country. In 1906 the city was destroyed because unprotected against fire. Today we are as safe as a city can be. In the meantime the reduced cost of insurance pays insured citizens a high rate of interest on the cost of our high-pressure auxiliary fire system. Our streets were once noted for their poor construction and their filthy condition. Recently an informed visitor has pronounced them the best to be found. We had no creditable boulevards or drives. Quietly and without bond expenditure we have constructed magnificent examples. Our school buildings were shabby and poor. Many now are imposing and beautiful.

This list could be extended; but turn for a moment to matters of manners. Where are the awful corner-groceries that helped the saloons to ruin men and boys, and where are the busy nickel-in-the-slot machines and shameless smokers in the street-cars? Where are the sellers of lottery tickets, where the horse-races and the open gambling?

It was my fortune to be re-elected for eight years. Sometimes I am impressed by how little I seem to have individually accomplished in this long period of time. One effect of experience is to modify one’s expectations. It is not nearly so easy to accomplish things as one who has not tried is apt to imagine. Reforming is not an easy process. Inertia is something really to be overcome, and one is often surprised to find how obstinate majorities can be. Initiative is a rare faculty and an average legislator must be content to follow. One can render good service sometimes by what he prevents. Again, he may finally fail in some good purpose through no fault of his own, and yet win something even in losing. Early in my term I was convinced that one thing that ought to be changed was our absurd liquor license. We had by far the lowest tax of any city in the Union, and naturally had the largest number of saloons. I tried to have the license raised from eighty-four dollars to one thousand dollars, hoping to reduce our twenty-four hundred saloons. I almost succeeded. When I failed the liquor interest was so frightened at its narrow escape that it led the people to adopt a five-hundred-dollar substitute.

I was led to undertake the correction of grave abuses and confusion in the naming of the city streets. The post-office authorities were greatly hampered in the mail delivery by the duplicate use of names. The dignified word “avenue” had been conferred on many alleys. A commission worked diligently and efficiently. One set of numbered streets was eliminated. The names of men who had figured in the history of the city were given to streets bearing their initials. Anza, Balboa, and Cabrillo gave meaning to A, B, and C. We gave Columbus an avenue, Lincoln a “way,” and substituted for East Street the original name of the waterfront, “The Embarcadero.” In all we made more than four hundred changes and corrections.

There were occasional humorous incidents connected with this task. There were opposition and prejudice against names offered. Some one proposed a “St. Francis Boulevard.” An apparently intelligent man asked why we wanted to perpetuate the name of “that old pirate.” I asked, “Who do you think we have in mind?” He replied, “I suppose you would honor Sir Francis Drake.” He seemed never to have heard of Saint Francis of Assisi.

It was predicted that the Taylor administration with its excellent record would be continued, but at the end of two years it went down to defeat and the Workingmen’s party, with P.H. McCarthy as mayor, gained strong control. For two years, as a minority member, I enjoyed a different but interesting experience. It involved some fighting and preventive effort; but I found that if one fought fairly he was accorded consideration and opportunity. I introduced a charter amendment that seemed very desirable, and it found favor. The charter prescribed a two-year term for eighteen supervisors and their election each alternate year. Under the provision it was possible to have every member without experience. By making the term four years and electing nine members every other year experience was assured, and the ballot would be half the length, a great advantage. It had seemed wise to me to allow the term of the mayor to remain two years, but the friends of Mayor McCarthy were so confident of his re-election that they insisted on a four-year term. As so amended the matter went to the people and was adopted. At the following election Mayor James Rolph, Jr., was elected for four years, two of which were an unintentional gift of his political opponents.

I served for four years under the energetic Rolph, and they were fruitful ones. Most of the plans inaugurated by the Taylor board were carried out, and materially the city made great strides. The Exposition was a revelation of what was possible, and of the City Hall and the Civic Center we may well be proud.

Some of my supervisorial experiences were trying and some were amusing. Discussion was often relieved by rare bits of eloquence and surprising use of language. Pronunciation was frequently original and unprecedented. Amazing ignorance was unconcealed and the gift of gab was unrestrained. Nothing quite equaled in fatal facility a progress report made by a former member soon after his debut: “We think we shall soon be able to bring chaos out of the present disorder, now existing.” On one of our trips of investigation the City Engineer had remarked on the watershed. One of the members later cornered him and asked “Where is the watershed?” expecting to be shown a building that had escaped his attention.

A pleasant episode of official duty early in Rolph’s term was an assignment to represent the city at a national municipal congress at Los Angeles. We were called upon, in connection with a study of municipal art, to make an exhibit of objects of beauty or ornament presented to the city by its citizens. We felt that San Francisco had been kindly dealt with, but were surprised at the extent and variety of the gifts. Enlarged sepia photographs of structures, monuments, bronzes, statuary, and memorials of all kinds were gathered and framed uniformly. There were very many, and they reflected great credit and taste. Properly inscribed, they filled a large room in Los Angeles and attracted much attention. Interest was enhanced by the cleverness of the young woman in charge. The general title of the collection was “Objects of Art Presented by its Citizens to the City of San Francisco.” She left a space and over a conspicuous panel printed the inscription “Objects of Art Presented by its Citizens to the City of Los Angeles.” The panel was empty. The ordinarily proud city had nothing to show.

Moses at Pisgah gazed upon the land he was not to enter. My Pisgah was reached at the end of 1916. My halls of service were temporary. The new City Hall was not occupied until just after I had found my political Moab; the pleasure of sitting in a hall which is pronounced the most beautiful in America was not for me.

As I look back upon varied public service, I am not clear as to its value; but I do not regret having tried to do my part. My practical creed was never to seek and never to decline opportunity to serve. I feel that the effort to do what I was able to do hardly justified itself; but it always seemed worth trying, and I do not hold myself responsible for results. I am told that in parts of California infinitesimal diatoms form deposits five thousand feet in thickness. If we have but little to give we cannot afford not to give it.