THE day before the destruction of Chinatown, San Francisco, Jessie Juliet Knox, favorably known for her book, "Little Almond Blossoms," completed the interesting paper on the "Shut-in Women of Chinatown," from which the following extract is taken. The article appears in the August Housekeeper. This writer is probably better acquainted with the life of the women of Chinatown than any other American. She says: "A stranger would be frightened here, for one must pass through a large gambling house in order to meet the dear little woman above. At the street door sits the 'look-out man,' somber and stolid as a wooden Indian. Like Poe's raven he sits there day and night. If the police are seen approaching to make a raid on the place, he will press a button to warn the gamblers inside. When the officers enter all will be as serene as a Sunday-school, and no paraphernalia in sight—nothing to be seen save a few sleepy-looking Chinamen, smoking opium, and the altar where the incense burns always for the gods. "The gods are never left out of anything, you know. Sometimes when I pass through this gambling house it is simply packed with men of different nations. Sometimes I fear the white men, but the Chinese—never. I never stop to stare at them, but, giving them a kindly greeting in their own tongue, pass on, through a dark and hellish-looking place called the kitchen, which is always full of smoke and unsavory Chinese smells, and where the oil is ever burning before the 'kitchen god,' and on, into the dark passageway, and up the worst flight of stairs I have ever seen. The rooms are small, dark, and stuffy. A malodorous aroma comes from acres of fish drying on the roofs, and from chickens and ducks in pens. "At the top of the steps is a door, and here I give a cheery 'hoo-hoo,' which is echoed inside the barred door. Here I never have to stand long outside, for the lady inside is my dearest Chinese friend. It is Mrs. Wing. "She has an artist's soul and a poet's heart. There is so much that could be said about her that one could devote whole volumes to it: of the many close years of friendship which have existed between us; of the happy time when her baby boy was born, and the joy she felt at being the proud mother of a son; of all the pretty American things I had taught her to make, and how she had trembled and cried for joy when I showed her the simplest things; how we read aloud to each other in English and Chinese, and cried, and laughed, and prayed, and sang together; how a dear little baby girl was born to her, and they let it lie on the cold, bare floor till it was dead, because—it was a girl, and the father thought it a disgrace. "After that weary time I spent weeks with her, of afternoons. Her life was despaired of, and to me alone did she pour out her innocent heathen heart. It made one cry one minute and laugh the next to hear her talk. 'My baby girl he die; I no got baby now; my little girl he so pletty—nice little hand—nice head—pletty eye—pletty nose—O, my baby so pletty! just like me!' "So she would go on in this way, tearing one's heart out as he listened, and putting her hand on her heart, would say: 'In here I all time go like this (heaving a big sigh). I no can sleep—I no can eat—I want my baby.'"—Christian Advocate.