Butfartheron，acrosstheyellowwatersofthebay，beyondGoatIsland，laySanFrancisco，abluelineofhills，ruggedwithroofsandspires。FartothewestwardopenedtheGoldenGate，ableakcuttinginthesand-hills，throughwhichonecaughtaglimpseoftheopenPacific。
ThestationatBStreetwassolitary；notrainspassedatthishour；exceptthedistantrag-pickers，notasoulwasinsight。Thewindblewstrong，carryingwithitthemingledsmellofsalt，oftar，ofdeadseaweed，andofbilge。Theskyhunglowandbrown；atlongintervalsafewdropsofrainfell。
NearthestationTrinaandMcTeaguesatontheroadbedofthetracks，attheedgeofthemudbank，makingthemostoutofthelandscape，enjoyingtheopenair，thesaltmarshes，andthesightofthedistantwater。FromtimetotimeMcTeagueplayedhissixmournfulairsuponhisconcertina。
Afterawhiletheybeganwalkingupanddownthetracks，McTeaguetalkingabouthisprofession，Trinalistening，veryinterestedandabsorbed，tryingtounderstand。
“Forpullingtherootsoftheuppermolarsweusethecow-