In men whom men pronounce as ill, I find so much of goodness still In men whom men pronounce divine, I find so much of sin and blot I hesitate to draw the line Between he two, when Cod has not. - Joaquin Miller. HE wrote the greatest poem ever written by an American He lives at Oakland, on the Hights, and his name is Joaquin Mil ler. We took the street car to the end of the line, and the conductor pointed to the road that led up the hill Kke that road and sail on, he said, and smi ed in a way that indicated he had sprung the allusion before and was with it. We followed the road up the hillside. The day was one of Gods own, done by hand, just to show what He could do. The sun was warm and bright a gentle breeze, cool and refreshing, blew in with messages from the sea. The road wound around the hill, and led upward by a gentle rise-back and forth, around and back, and soon we saw the roadway over which we had passed, a hundred feet below, with gardens between. Gardens everyhere Gardens lined off with boxwood and fenced by nodding roses. Just above were orange and acacia trees, with bIo oms that showered their petals upon the passer-by. And, still we climbed. Up and up by that gentle asceit, up and up and up we went. The air was full of aid drowsy with the hum of bees. Birds twittered in the thick foliage, and at a bend in the winding road we saw a flock of quail running ahead of us, and suddenly disappear among the masses of green. Sandy wbs interested in finding out where the quail had gone Ben mopped his forehead, and with coat on arm, talked of the Higher Criticism, the wonders of the universe, and how beauty was free for all-his preacher-habit still upon him Brudder and I turned andlooked down upon the panorama spread out at our feet. Here was color - gorgeous, superb-the lilac of the wistaria winding in and out among the roses, while pale pink azalias, delicate, est hetic and spiritual, trusted to our power of discernment to single them out from the more obtrusive masses of magnolia that everywhere sprang warm and voluptuous, heavy with perfume. A little further away the color was lost in masses of green that ushedof f into a dark purple. Spires and steeples, and giant palms lifting their fronded forms in air, told us the city was down there, five miles away. And then there came a line of dark blue that wound in and out, and marked the bay, where little play-ships stood in the offing-their prows all pointing one way. Submerged in the blue ether across the bay lay the city of San Francisco-her plots and her schemes, her ambitions and her hot desires, her tears of disappointment and her groans and griefs, all veiled and lost be neath t he translucent purpleblue coverlet of this lazy summer day. Over to the left, clinging to the hillside, was Sau salito, replica in little of the villages that line the Bay of Naples. There at Sausalito lives Bill Fav ille, Prince of Architects, making much monies, they say, over in the city, but hiding away here on the hillside in a cottage of three rooms, where Mrs. Bill escapes the servant-girl question and the jealousies of the Smart Set by living the life that is genuine. I will not say, God bless Mr. and Mrs. Bill, because I know that He has and will. Just beyond Richardsons Bay, where phantom ships toss on the tide and wait for cargoes that never come, is San RaphaeI, and Dick Hotalings ranch-f airest of playthings-threethousand acres - belonging to dick and his friends, where plates are always placed for me and the Cublet, and chants from the Good Stuff are done in minor key as the sun goes down through the Golden Gate, with Dicks Beyond is Mt. Tamalpias, and just over there is Mt…