There is a hill-crowned city by a silver sea, near a Golden Gate. For
ages the water has washed from an almost land-locked bay against this
hill-crowned city, and on its northern side has created of the shore an
amphitheatre stretching for some three miles to the western headlands.
Behind this amphitheatre rises, in terraces, the steep hills of this
water-lashed city, and in part, a forest of pines stretches to the west.
Man has flanked this reach of shore by two lowering forts, and in front,
across the sapphire sea, one looks onto the long undulations of hills,
climaxed by grand old Tamalpais.
Just three years ago and one saw in this same low-lying shore only a
marshy stretch, with lagoons working their way far into the land - the
home of the seagull.
There came a time when, had you looked closely, you would have seen
coming thru the Golden Gate a phantom flotilla of caravels, freighted
with clever ideas.
On the vessels came; at the prows were several noble figures: Energy,