Comfortably shrouded in an ulster, and lean- | ing on the forward rail of the incoming ferryboat, Oakland, one night in October last, I looked upon a phantom scene and city as fascinating as any ever described in story, or rhymed and raved about in song. The clouds had been dripping all day with the first rain of the season. Dry country and thirsty city, bronzed fields and dusty roofs, powdered roads and choking streets, creaking bridges, wharves, the masts and spars of the shipping, everything, parched through the long moistureless summer, steamed with delight. When, in the late after-❘ noon, the drops ceased to patter on the sullen surface of the bay, Nature, fresh from her bath, wore a grateful and refreshed look. The thoroughly washed air was deliciously sweet. A long, undulating strip of lace-like mist festooned itself along the hills back of Berkeley. Light ruffles of fog toyed lovingly about the throat of Tamalpais, while great billows of it boomed over the crest of the Saucelito hills, and packed Richardson's Bay solid full to Angel Island. The sun, which had just succeeded in breaking through a rift in the clouds, went down in a perfect glory blaze. The tremendous disk sharply outlined by the interposition of the clearing up and scurrying fragments of mist, hung for a moment, seemingly, just above the square, brick fort at the Point, and then slowly settled into the sea, a glowing ball of color that tinged with beauty the Marin ridges on the right, and streaming down the long perspective burnished into wondrous brightness our famous Gate of Gold. The sun fairly below the horizon line, and a purple, amethyst haze-the most beautiful of all California's sunset effects-distributed itself artistically through the shimmering atmosphere, and a few minutes later, companies and platoons, and finally, whole regiments, of the fog host came marching in through the narrow strait to take possession of the city. All this I saw while crossing to Oakland by the creek boat in the early evening; and, returning by the wharf route a few hours later, I was just in time to catch a glimpse of the phantom city, and witness above it a desperate battle of the clouds. For, be it understood right here, that between the atmosphere of the ocean and that of the bay and the valleys contiguous, there is a constant and a deadly enmity. They fight over San Francisco and the peninsula like dogs over a

bone. The warfare is deliberate and incessant. From the last of June or first of July, all through the dry season, the fog has things its own way, and sweeps in triumph the contested field. Though dissipated in the early part of the day, when the sun is in good heating trim, and warms the bay atmosphere to its work, it nevertheless camps in the city every night, and with the vigorous trade winds as an ally, and the warm gulf stream thirty miles out at sea furnishing reinforcements, it insolently asserts itself in every direction. But as soon as the rains set in, there is a radical change of conditions. Then the atmosphere of the land, heavy with moisture, and backed by north and south and easterly winds, gets on its muscle, and slams a terrible vengeance out of the ocean air. The fog is helpless. The trade winds, which have been so constant to its cause, furnishing transportation, and pushing the fleecy squadrons on to desperate endeavor, have been lulled to sleep far down in the southern seas. The gulf stream, and the cold currents from the north, are no longer to be relied upon, and so, when the little skirmishers of mist come dancing over the sand dunes for their regular evening dissipation in the streets of the city, they are suddenly halted in the park, precipitated on the San Bruno ridge, gulped up by the Saucelito ravines, waltzed back out of the Golden Gate, and totally annihilated in the upper atmosphere. This is the daily routine for the winter or rainy months; but the battle par excellence, the contest à l'outrance, is immediately after the first rains, when the fog hosts and the interior clouds and currents measure then their nearly equal strength in a last grand struggle to decide supremacy for the season. It was a meeting of this kind that I witnessed from the ferry-boat's deck, and reveled in with all the excitement of an active participant.

When the Oakland left the end of the long, creaking wharf, the state of the atmosphere was as peaceful as the night itself. The bay was as smooth as glass. A wide wake of ripples marked the course of the boat's cleaving keel as it left the slip on the other side; the paddle wheels thumped the water with that dreary regularity that is ever ringing in the ears of an Oaklander; the wharf lights twisted down and away from the barnacle covered piles, like huge yellow serpents wriggling their way into the

brine; the bright red and green lights of the creek beacons designated the route to the Alameda shore; and the lonely, luminous eye of the lighthouse on Goat Island seemed to follow the boat up as it boomed along, trailing behind from its huge smoke-stack a dense sulphur-brown stripe on the sable cloaking of the night a night so dark, that, beyond the rail, you could, seemingly, put your hand on a wall of jet. Dead ahead there was a brilliant bit of color where the streets, running up over California, Clay, and Telegraph Hills, stood mapped out by the double line of street lamps, throwing the buildings between into long shadow lines, and making that whole portion of the city look like a flaming gridiron set aslant the sky, along whose red hot bars slid immense glowing coals -the headlights on the dummies of the cable lines. Straggling patches of light were distributed all along the water front; but they were dim and uncertain in contrast. A reach of twinkling lamps marked the line of Long Bridge fading away into the inky blackness of Butchertown and the Potrero. Lanterns, like fire-flies, hung here and there from the rigging of the ships at anchor or moored to the docks. The reflectors of the ferry slips, red, and green, and one dark blue, guided to the landings. The illuminated clock looked out upon the waters like the bull's-eye window of some huge steamer's stateroom. The level portion of the city, from the base of the hills to the left of Market Street, was a solid patch of black, with just the faint reflection of a diffused light above, over which the storm clouds of the bay scurried away into the background as though there was something exciting going on. And there was. The dark spot to the left was the headquarters of the bay forces, and just as the nose of the boat was in mid-channel, I saw a squadron of black-plumed cavalry fairly fly along the line of Kearny Street, and charge through the gap at Montgomery Avenue to North Beach, where the cloud pickets were being driven in.

The battle had begun. The fog, commencing the assault at the Presidio, had taken the fort and the heights above, where the earth batteries are located, and was rattling along with its skirmish line over the sand-hills toward Black Point. The Golden Gate was a solid column of fleecy soldiers. Richardson's Bay, and the stretch of water between Helmet Rock and Lime Point, were a great camp of mist, ready to strike its tents and move on the water front at a moment's notice. From every direction, east and south, the cloud currents were massing to the point of attack. They climbed Telegraph and Lombard Street hills in columns, and from the other side swooped down and smote

the fog host, hip and thigh. I could see, by the twirling cloud and mist shapes shooting high in air, where the lines of battle had met; for these shapes were the atmospheric dead and wounded, that-reversing the human rule-rose instead of fell. The city, shrouded in darkness, and hovered over by those strange shapes, was literally a phantom of the night. Everything was uncertain and unreal. Here and there a spire, or the doubtful outline of one of the Nob Hill mansions, could be distinguished; but all substance was blotted out, and there was nothing of San Francisco but that great glare in the sky, over which the cloud phantoms flitted like veritable ghosts along the famous lone lagoon. It was a Doréesque drawing—a touch, in truth, of the atmosphere of Dante's imaginary hell.

Just here the ferry-boat ran into its cavernous slip, and, excited over the picture, and anxious to see the result of the conflict, I took conveyance, by horse and cable line, to the top of Clay Street Hill, where I could get a splendid view of the entire field of battle. All the way up the slope I encountered the clouds, rushing along like mad, streaking the surrounding atmosphere with their hot and hurried breath, as they clambered to their positions in the line of battle that extended from Telegraph Hill across to Russian; thence to Pacific Heights; thence to Lone Mountain; thence along the crest of the hills to Hunter's Point. From Mission Bay— the rallying ground-the shadow troops surged out in every direction to support those already engaged. There was music along the entire line, but the warmest work was being done in the neighborhood of North Beach. Heading for this point, a double column of inland forces came booming along Larkin and Polk Streets, evidently intending to hit the enemy on the flank. The little valley at my feet was a perfect maelstrom of the elements. The cloud forces, having gained a temporary victory at North Beach, had pushed the mist troops up over Lombard Street Hill, and around its base; and where Polk Street loses itself on the edge of the bay, the contestants were engaged in a hand to hand conflict-beating each other to death on the sand. It was silent, but effective, slaughter; a battle without a sound; a conflict to the death without the shedding of a drop of blood, but a working out of that most terrible species of destruction-total annihilation. Regiment after regiment met to exist no more; reinforcements reinforced nothing but vacancy.

Once I thought the cloud forces had won, for suddenly the great curtain of mist rose and writhed as if about to retreat; but it was a cunning bit of strategy for the advantage. The rise was but a ruse. Lured on by the move

ment, the unsuspecting cloud forces rushed in to occupy the ground, and spread themselves out to the point of weakness. Then I knew that they were gone; for down came the fog cohorts with the strength and the venom of a storm. They fairly blotted out the enemy. There was the drop of a great white mantle, and underneath black shadows grappled with the white. From Pacific Heights a particularly dense streak hurried on after the grand charge to a position on the brow of Russian Hill. This was the heavy artillery of the invading army, and, unlimbering their big guns, they pitched shrapnell, shot, and shell, into the flanking columns that were marching along Polk and Larkin Streets, tearing out whole blocks of the advance. There was a waver, a momentary tremor of uncertainty, and then a complete rout of the cloud divisions. Up Clay Street Hill the broken battalions came, with the fog in close pursuit. It was evidently the idea of the fleecy victors to saturate their old enemy out of existence at once; and, in furtherance of this plan, every available condensation was hurried to the point of flight, there to drop on the fugitives with the might of consolidated moisture. Like a flash of light the retreat scudded away toward the bay. By me flew the beaten troops; and, licking up the stragglers, followed the fog, dripping with the perspiration of its great activity. Down Clay, and Washington, and Jackson, and Pacific Streets, I watched the stampede. In the Chinese quarter, the cloud forces, reinforced by the warm currents of the narrow side streets, and the vapors of the noisome alleys, made another stand; but it was another slaughter. The fog, with its tremendous rush and accumulated down-hill velocity, and first flush of victory, drenched everything to instant death. The huge Chinese lanterns, swinging from the restaurant balconies, looked through the mist like will-o'-thewisps; the red paper on the walls hung long and limp like strips of freshly flayed flesh; the street lamps had about them the halo of ghosts, and through the super-saturated air the streaming lights of the dummies bored their uncompromising way, dragging behind them outlined cars freighted with shadow shapes. Over and through this all went the rout, till I thought the cloud forces would be driven, horse and foot, across to the opposite shores-when, lo! a change in the fortunes of phantom war.

A clearing up of the wet that had been whipping by me revealed the fact that the invader was not altogether and everywhere victorious. Battle was still being done in the little valley; but with an entirely different result. The flanking column of the clouds, whose head had been

so unceremoniously nipped off in the first engagement, now in good shape and discipline, was making it exceedingly interesting for the foe. Marching straight along with its serried ranks, it succeeded in splitting the fog and cutting off the support of the advance, that, crazed with its easy victory, was already far away over the hill, unlinking its long legs in a chase that was leading to certain destruction. Satisfied that it would never return to molest, the cloud forces literally went for the main fog body, crowding in from the rear. Street by street they stormed Russian Hill, and drove back over Pacific Heights the artillery that boomed away in vain from every ridge and crest that it could rally upon. Two full divisions charged directly out Polk and Larkin Streets, and tumbled dead in the bay a whole regiment of white-plumed dragoons, who were riding back for dear life to regain the rapidly receding fog line of battle, from which they suddenly found themselves cut off. Other divisions occupied Clay Street Hill just as the venturesome fog advance saw its danger, and thought of returning. But it was then too late. The spur of the moment had urged it too far. The heights were occupied. Hammered in front, for the chase had turned, the bewildered fog flew to the pass through Montgomery Avenue, and, beaten back there, tried to sneak around by the water line of Telegraph Hill, to communicate with the main army. Here, however, it was promptly met and pressed to the wall, till, in desperation at seeing itself entirely surrounded, it climbed directly up the steep slope, and, neither asking nor getting quarter, it went up in an immense puff from Pioneer Park, literally whisked out of all shape, semblance, or existence. This disposed of the reckless advance guard of the invader with its flash tactics.

Meantime, the main body was being very badly used. From Russian Hill the line of battle, stretching along to the south, rolled up a great billow of destruction. Hayes Valley had been fought over and won by the cloud forces. There was a tremendous tussle of the elements in the cemetery, where white and black phantoms grappled with each other among the tombstones, and tore each other to shreds through the gnarled and twisted laurel bushes, and hurled each other into the cold and clammy vaults. Around Lone Mountain there was commotion enough for the heart of a tornado; and, above the terrible conflict, the great white wooden cross on the top stretched out its arms like the symbol and the sensation in the battles of the old Crusades. There was a stampede out the Cliff House Road; more death and

Chinese burial place on the right. Golden Gate Park and the sand dunes beyond, and the chaparral covered slopes to the left, dripped with the condensed blood of the vanquished. The fog host was being driven into the sea. Beaten at every rally, and check-mated at every move, there was nothing for it to do but throw up its ghostly arms and surrender. But this cowardly course it scorned, and resolved on a final effort. There was just the shadow of a chance that victory could be wrested from the teeth of defeat. So, summoned by some invisible code of signals, the last mist reserve-the forlorn hope of the battle, the Old Guard-came bounding from Saucelito, where it had been impatiently awaiting orders. It was a splendid charge that it made. Hitting hard the cloud forces that opposed on the water-line of the Presidio, it retook the fort and the earth batteries, wiping out of existence battalion after battalion of the enemy, and doing such daring and desperate work as only a forlorn hope, with the odds terribly against it, could do, when all of a sudden the life went out of its struggling, and the marrow out of its misty bones. It had been set upon from the rear-everything was lost. The cloud forces had countered.

Anticipating the movement of the reserves from Richardson's Bay, the phantom general of the inland forces laid his plans accordingly. No sooner had the fog begun to move, than a wild, swarthy, Bashi-Bazouk looking cloud column left the lower bay, flitted by Goat Island to the east, and then, wheeling suddenly, came flying toward the Marin hills. It was the charge of the interior Black Horse Cavalry, and how the dusky devils did ride! Nothing stood in their way. They swooped right over the top of Angel Island, and on the other side came down on the flank of the out-moving fog, driving their imaginary sabres to the hilt. Through Raccoon Straits they tore like a whirlwind, riding to death all the stragglers; and, caroming on the Saucelito shore, they swept everything before them around Lime Point. Then the Golden Gate was gory-so to speak. Crushed in the narrow pass, desperate valor was mixed with victorious haste. It was impossible to tell the victors from the vanquished. It was the last embrace of the tremendous wrestle. Over and over in full retreat rolled the writhing fog, and the darker cloud forces, massing here and there, turned great hand-springs in the air, and came down upon the flying foe with tremendous, flail-like blows. The light at the Point flashed first a yellow and then a blood red spot through the gloom. There was a sudden and last lift

pulled like a mighty and massive atmospheric rope till something broke, and then out upon the broad ocean, scattered and scurrying in wild and unreasoning disorder went the remnants of the fog host, to rally and glower and brood over its discomfiture, far out beyond the Farallones. The battle was done-the victory won, that guaranteed the beautiful weather of the fall, and asserted, for a brief but fitting season, the reign of the phantom plume, under which sign the skies will alternately smile and weep till the trade winds declare themselves again in the late spring. It was a picturesque and splendid sight-a scene impressive and never to be forgotten. The description falls far short of the reality, for language is inadequate to give it proper interpretation; and even were it possible the charm of surroundings would be lost that gives to these phantom scenes their thrilling effect.

One needs to be a student of these atmospheric wonders to appreciate their lifelike movements. The belligerent peculiarities of the fog and cloud elements I first became acquainted with, from the top of Mt. Diablo, some three years ago. The view from this elevated peak is a marvel- a scene that all the climbs in the world can not duplicate for varied beauty. Diablo stands straight up from the great San Joaquin plain in the inner Coast Range, and on a clear day its rifted and wrinkled summits— for it has two-can be seen from the city, looming up directly back of Oakland through a purple blue haze. The afternoon that I made the ascent from Martinez, on the back of a tired, wheezing mustang, the atmosphere was like champagne, and so clear that objects were drawn to my feet as though pulled to a focus by a photographer's lens. The range of vision extended from the far away and white-capped Sierra peaks to the east and south, over the broad brown plain of the San Joaquin to Mt. Hamilton; across the break of the Santa Clara Valley to Mt. Bache; thence along the hogbacked crest of the peninsula, to where San Francisco sits beside the Golden Gate, which like a silver ribbon connects two great bodies of water-the ocean and the bay; thence along the Marin ridges, by the warder, Tamalpais, looking down on imprisoned San Quentin; thence to the Sonoma mountains and the peak of St. Helena, above Calistoga; thence to the Marysville and Lassen Buttes, far up the smoky valley where the scorching north winds liveanother of California's atmospheric peculiarities. At the mountains' base was a narrow fringe of land on which Oakland and Berkeley and Alameda were tucked securely out of sight;