bosom, and the soft sibilants of the Spanish names suggested saints and sinners. San Rafael, San Anselmo, and so on. We have wiped out these superstitions, of course. Now we have St. Riley and St. Straton. Well, Anselmo was at least a conscientious scholar in his time, and Rafael, if tradition be worth aught, was a comely youth. But these modern saints and sages. . . .
We are in Santa Rosa and this is the house of the man who did as much as any to impress on the world the beneficent power of science. He added billions to the wealth of the world, but this is no marble palace softly gleaming through the palms and cypresses. A very plain house, and a very pretty maid looks at me cynically through the mosquito-net door. She is used to visitors, and does not trouble to unfasten the door.
"Is Mr. Burbank in?"
"Yes, he is in," she says, and she does not add in words, "And you are out." Even the dog is hostile, silently disdainful. "Another old fool trying to see the master," it insinuates. But my card throws down all defense and a moment later I am shaking (very gently) the rather limp hand of the man I would have gone far to see.
Pathetically he points to a pile of opened letters, ankle-deep, on the floor. "Today's crop," he says. A smaller pile lies on the desk and must be answered. We must hurry, though there is no mistaking his genuine pleasure to see me.
