Life, 1912-03-21 · page 14 of 52
Life — March 21, 1912 — page 14: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a poem celebrating San Francisco's famous fog, not a political cartoon. The piece personifies the fog as a character central to the city's identity and charm. The poem references literary figures who wrote about San Francisco—notably Kipling and Bret Harte—critiquing Harte's portrayal of the city as "indifferent, serene" while celebrating the fog's more dynamic, transformative qualities. It invokes local landmarks (Hyde Street, Yerba Buena's Isle) and San Francisco's distinctive character. The final stanza invokes Robert Louis Stevenson, suggesting the fog embodies adventure and mystery. Essentially, this is romantic, nostalgic verse about San Francisco's fog as an essential element of the city's soul and literary mystique.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
gol Ea la ea The San Francisco Fog ORNING, fellow San Franciscan! Here's my greeting to you! Shake! I’m an exiled sort of relic from the Days Before the Quake, When old Chinatown was greasy, when old Market Street was wood, When half the town was restaurants, and all of ’em were good. Come, you envoy from my Youthland, turn my memory back a cog— Can’t you blow me up a hatful of that San Francisco fog? ' Oh, that fog, fog! How it used to fill my brain With a frantic and romantic Sort of Orient refrain. O’er the hilly Streets and chilly, Energizing as a nog, Blew the soul of San Francisco In her fog, in her fog. Over Hyde Street’s lofty summit, on the north- ern slope of town, We would hie us for a mor-ent when the sun was going down, Just to watch the mist-snake creeping, soft and merciless as Fate, Through the fort-protected entiance of the dis- tant Western Gate; Down the bay it coiled and twisted, spreading whiteness many a mile, Till it sprang upon the City over Yerba Buena’s Isle— ’Twas the fog, the fog, By a sea-enchantment kist— Not a fizzle of a drizzle Like the dismal English mist, But a fluffy Powder-puffy Veil that hid the Decalogue. One could lovs or laugh or murder In that fog, in that fog. Kipling spoke of San Francisco's “ lovely women and mad men.” Bret Harte mocked, “ Serene, indifferent of Fate you sit ’—but then Harte was ever in the highlands with the gold- pursuing scamp, And he never loved his City as he loved his Roaring Camp, Or the imp of nature-faking must have dipped his pen in spleen When he wrote of San Francisco as “ indiffer- ent, serene,” For the fog, the fog, As it clings below, aloof, Turns the shirkers into workers— Here the Heney, there a Reuff, Dan O'Connell, Doc O'Donnell; Various the catalogue Of the energized disciples Of your fog, of your fog. Foreign wines are better, maybe—though I love your native stock From the Santa Clara claret to the Napa Valley hock, But there’s nothing alcoholic you can send me, if you please, Not from Luna’s-by-the-Peppers or from Coppa’s-by-the-Frieze, That will be to me more welcome as a soul- inspiring grog Than a long, rare, ice-cold bottle labeled “ San Francisco Fog.” In the fog, in the fog, T can revel to the last, Nor a headache nor a heartache Will remain when it is past. Here’s the salt on wild Pacific, Where Adventure lurks incog— Come, you ghost of Robert Louis, Jn the fog, in the fog! Wallace Irein, comicbooks.com