To live in a hovel; to drag my weary body for miles in search of work;
to cough my lungs out like the man next door; to be submerged like a
drowning rat in a sewer; this will be my life in Chicago. My eyes ache
from gazing at confined spaces; across the way the bare walls rise; down
the canyon streets I see the black ants of humanity crawl; overhead the
sky is leaden.
Oh, my beautiful, my California! The whistle of the quail on the open
benches is calling me; the mating songs of the mocking birds vibrate in
my heart. Up the wide valley the warm wind sweeps, heavy with the
fragrance of blossoming trees; on the uplands brilliant masses of
flaming poppies and the silvery blue of slender lupines spread a feast
of colour for my weary eyes; oranges blaze out in golden glory against
the dark green foliage of the thrifty groves; the deep blue of the
cloudless sky seems infinite in depth; and in the purple distance the
white-capped peaks of San Bernardino and Grayback rear their lofty
heads.