The Union Democrat

Ruined Umbrellas.

A great many umbrellas have been turned wrong side out on Montgomery street during this storm. I like to see this sort of thing. The wind is no respecter of persons. It hustles, worries and bothers old preciseness as much as it does the beggar girl. It causes him to labor and strive, forcing the North-west wind before him. It waits in ambush at a corner. It suddenly attacks him violently, front, flank and rear. He wrestles vigorously with this impolite atmosphere. The umbrella is shaken mightily. He makes that fatal turn, opposing his shoulder to the tempest. It is for this the mad street zephyr has been waiting. Lo! Presto! Whisk! an inverted, shapeless, inky mass of wires, whale-bone and cloth, shoot straight up in the air. It is gone! It is lost! Where, a second before, was a round and shapely protecting con formation of cloth, there is naught save a useless ruin on the end of an equally useless stick. Old Preciseness gazes thereon ruefully. He realizes not as yet, the extent of the damage. All not vitally interested laugh. The blast crazy with fun, has rushed with a storm burst of merriment over the top of Telegraph Hill. Preciseness for a few moments awkwardly carries the poor ruin before him, quivering from the end of the umbrella handle. He knows not what to do with it. It renders him a marked man. An Emperor, would appear ridiculous carrying an umbrella turned wrong side out. How nice it is that the wind cannot be fined for misdemeanor. At last, he retires around a corner and leaves the crushed agglomeration of wood, wire and whalebone and cloth in some by place. His umbrella after all, was but a common umbrella, and met the fate of all common umbrellas. He was to the storm but a common man, and was hustled like any other common man. Thank God for the storms.