It was
my custom to purchase _The Call_ and _The Chronicle_ each morning from
Mr. Drum; and on the second time that I saw him he said, "I wish to
shake hands with you; I know you." "Who am I?" I asked, with no little
surprise. Said he, "You are Bobby Burns." "Bobby Burns!" I exclaimed;
and, thinking only of the Ayrshire poet, I said, "Burns is dead!"
"Oh," he said, "there is a man here in San Francisco, whom I call
Bobby Burns, and T thought that you were he." So the mystery was
explained; and I could not but reflect that many other things which
puzzle us are just as easy of solution when we have the proper key to
them.
If your walk is extended into the evening through the brilliantly
lighted streets, which electricity makes almost as bright as day, you
will meet here and there detachments of the Salvation Army and the
American Volunteers; then you will see a group of men around some
temperance lecturer or street orator. You will also hear the voice
of some fakir selling his fakes or wares, or some juggler who is
delighting his audience with his tricks of legerdemain.
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