THE FILM RUNS BACKWARDS
(Transcontinental)
one sunny afternoon it started.   For the first time in
months we were going East; and with the thought we were
a little solemn,   As the big car slid forward, all the faces in
the porch faded into the shade behind them and California
became a memory.   Not quite a memory, though; for
there was still the ride to San Francisco, to say nothing of
seven hundred miles or so of assorted Paradise and desert
that lay between us and Arizona.   All down the road, where
Santa Clara waved plum-blossom at us in a still farewell,
the Sunday crowds in every size and shape of automobile
responded to unnumbered invitations to chicken dinners;
taller than ever in the spring evening, the big redwoods at
Palo Alto watched the dark river of their shadows; and
the empty streets in their Sabbath mourning seemed just
a little sorry to see us go,   We took a sad farewell of the
Pacific in her largest, bluest oysters and strolled, uneasy
wanderers with a night train to catch, through Chinatown.
But another East was calling.   The rueful little walk con-
cluded ; and, alone with our luggage, we dropped down the
hill towards the station.
ie
The big ferry moved punctually across the Bay; and
behind us the tall city lights, like open windows on the sky,
all turned to watch us go. A line of Pullmans waited in
the hushed darkness of the station; our invariable darkey,
guardian of Caesar and his fortunes, received his guests;
and the long train pulled out for Europe. A night slipped
by; and as we rumbled into daylight, the big hills along the
San Joaquin glowed blue and yellow with wildflowers. But
the desert claimed us; and in the desert, being rash, we
changed, We changed, to be precise, at Barstow^CaL,
where the eager pen of Mr. Kipling once wrote of" engineers
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