school books, slates, Christmas cards with silk fringe, lace paper valentines and other necessities. Here I bought those classics, McGuffy’s Fourth Reader, Robinson’s Arithmetic, Harper’s Geography, and Collier and Daniel’s Latin Book.
For years it was necessary for anyone desiring a book other than those standard works known to druggists and stationers to send away for it, so it was a great thing for lovers of literature when Mr. C. C. Parker came to town and opened a book shop for books only,—no twine or glue or notebooks or cosmetics or toys, not even text books admitted to his shelves.
Over east of the shopping district lay Chinatown, at one time a very interesting and picturesque part of Los Angeles, having at least 7,000 inhabitants, but owing to the Exclusion Act of the nineties now dwindled to 2,000. With its going has come a distinct loss in color, to say nothing of the much regretted race of competent and loyal household servants.
There used to be three joss houses, or Chinese temples, and a theatre with a large troupe of players, including a lady star, a rarity, as usually all the actors are men. There was weird music to be heard, there were feasts and fortune tellers and funerals where the chief figure was rushed at break-neck speed to the cemetery, followed by a spring wagon load of food while loyal friends scattered bits of paper to distract the attention of the devil in his pursuit of the newly dead.
But the life was not all picturesque. There were slave women and tong wars and murders and individ
