shirted firemen with their flower-garlanded, shining engines, drawn by those wisest of animals, the fire horses; bands played, Spanish cavaliers and señoritas appeared again in our midst, marvellous floats vied for first prize—gay days.
Who that saw the many-footed dragon that wound its silken, glistening way out of Chinatown into our streets can ever forget its beauty. Or the floats that carried the bewitching little Chinese children wearing their vivid embroidered garments and beaded headdresses? Alas, they are buried now in their American coveralls and corduroys.
What happened to us? Did we grow too unwieldy, or too sophisticated or were we swamped with midwest sobriety? We gave our parade to Pasadena, who put it in wintry January instead of fragrant, flowering April; San Bernardino has the orange show, fiesta has disappeared altogether. But I have heard whispers that indicate that mayhap the spirit of pageantry and frolic is about to return to Los Angeles.
Many changes have come but each phase as it exists seems the natural condition; the old days that I have been recalling were the “Now” that we knew. In the past there was less hurry and more room in our streets that were built to be but ways between cottage homes where now and then a wagon or carriage might go. However, there were no more hours a day to fill or dispose of than we have now. We could stroll down the street to do our errands, meeting friends at every turn; we could drive if preferred, and although Harry Horse and the phaeton made slower progress than
