Chapter II: Part 2

To you, my friend, who know right well
That life is more than money's spell,
Who hear the universal call,
"Let all love all, as He loves all,"
Oh, list me in your ranks benign,
Accept this falt'ring hand of mine
Which, though unworthy, I extend.
And hold me friend.

A.J. WATERHOUSE.

MARCH 12.

Strength is meant for something more than merely to be strong;
And Life is not a lifetime spent in strain to keep alive.

CHARLES F. LUMMIS, in _The Transplantation._

MARCH 13.

HER KING.

A winsome maiden planned her life--
How, when she was her hero's wife,
He should be royal among men,
And worthy of a diadem.
Through all the devious ways of earth
She sought her king;
The snows of Winter fell before--
She walked o'er flowers of vanished Spring
Into the Summer's fragrant heat;
She bent her quest, with rapid feet,
Then saddened; still she journeyed down
The Autumn hillsides, bare and brown,
Through shadowy eves and golden morns;
And lo! she found him--crowned with thorns.

ANNA MORRISON REED.

MARCH 14.

The area of San Francisco Bay proper is two hundred and ninety square miles; the area of San Pablo Bay, Carquinez Straits, and Mare Island, thirty square miles; the area of Suisun Bay, to the confluence of the San Joaquin and Sacramento rivers, is sixty-three square miles. The total bay area is therefore four hundred and eighty square miles; and there are hundreds of miles of slough, river, and creek. A yachtsman, starting from Alviso, at the southern end of the bay, may sail in one general direction one hundred and fifty-four miles to Sacramento, before turning. All of this, of course, in inland waters.

CHARLES G. YALE, in _The Californian._

MARCH 15.

It was the green heart of the canyon, where the walls swerved back from the rigid plain and relieved their harshness of line by making a little sheltered nook and filling it to the brim with sweetness and roundness and softness. Here all things rested. Even the narrow stream ceased its turbulent down-rush long enough to form a quiet pool. Knee-deep in the water, with drooping head and half-shut eyes, drowsed a red-coated, many-antlered buck.

On one side, beginning at the very lip of the pool, was a tiny meadow, a cool, resilient surface of green, that extended to the base of the frowning wall. Beyond the pool a gentle slope of earth ran up and up to meet the opposing wall. Fine grass covered the slope--grass that was spangled with flowers, with here and there patches of color, orange and purple and golden. Below, the canyon was shut in. There was no view. The walls leaned together abruptly and the canyon ended in a chaos of rocks, moss-covered and hidden by a green screen of vines and creepers and boughs of trees. Up the canyon rose far hills and peaks, the big foot-hills, pine covered and remote. And far beyond, like clouds upon the border of the sky, towered minarets of white, where the Sierra's eternal snows flashed austerely the blazes of the sun.

JACK LONDON, in _All Gold Canyon._

MARCH 16.

Except you are kindred with those who have speech with great spaces, and the four winds of the earth, and the infinite arch of God's sky, you shall not have understanding of the desert's lure.

IDAH MEACHAM STROBRIDGE, in _Miner's Mirage Land._

MARCH 17.

ST. PATRICK'S DAY IN CALIFORNIA.

This day we celebrate is a day of faith, faith in God and the motherland. It is a day of gratitude to the God whose grace brought our fathers into the Christian life, a day of gratitude to the nations which received our fathers and blessed them with the privileges of citizenship. Let us not mind the minor chord of sorrow and persecution. Let us rather take the major chord of glory and of honor, and from the days of scholarship and of freedom to the present moment of a world's national power, let us chant the hymns of glory and sing of victory.

BISHOP THOMAS J. CONATY.

MARCH 18.

Said one, who upward turned his eye,
To scan the trunks from earth to sky:
"These trees, no doubt, well rooted grew
When ancient Nineveh was new;
And down the vale long shadows cast
When Moses out of Egypt passed,
And o'er the heads of Pharaoh's slaves
And soldiers rolled the Red Sea waves."
"How must the timid rabbit shake,
The fox within his burrow quake,
The deer start up with quivering hide
To gaze in terror every side,
The quail forsake the trembling spray,
When these old roots at last give way,
And to the earth the monarch drops
To jar the distant mountain-tops."

PALMER COX, in _The Brownies Through California._

MARCH 19 AND MARCH 20.

A WINDOW AND A TREE IN ALTADENA.

By my window a magician, breathing whispers of enchantment,
Stands and waves a wand above me till the flowing of my soul,
Like the tide's deep rhythm, rises in successive swells that widen
All my circumscribed horizon, till the finite fades away;
And the fountains of my being in their innermost recesses
Are unsealed, and as the seas sweep, sweep the waters of my soul
Till they reach the shores of Heaven and with ebb-tide bear a pearl
Back in to the heart's safe-keeping, where no thieves break through
nor steal.

* * * * *

By my window stands confessor with his hands outstretched to bless me,
And on bended knee I listen to his low "Absolvo te."
Ne'er was mass more sacramental, ne'er confessional more solemn,
And the benediction given ne'er shall leave my shriven soul.

* * * * *

Just a tree beside my window--just a symbol sent from Heaven--
But with Proteus power it ever changes meaning--changes form--
And it speaks with tongues of angels, and it prophesies the rising
Of the day-star which shall shine out from divinity in man.

LANNIE HAYNES MARTIN.

MARCH 21.

IN THE REDWOOD CANYONS.

Down in the redwood canyons cool and deep,
The shadows of the forest ever sleep;
The odorous redwoods, wet with fog and dew,
Touch with the bay and mingle with the yew.
Under the firs the red madrona shines,
The graceful tan-oaks, fairest of them all,
Lean lovingly unto the sturdy pines,
In whose far tops the birds of passage call.
Here, where the forest shadows ever sleep,
The mountain-lily lifts its chalice white;
The myriad ferns hang draperies soft and white
Thick on each mossy bank and watered steep,
Where slender deer tread softly in the night--
Down in the redwood canyons dark and deep.

LILLIAN H. SHUEY, in _Among the Redwoods._

MARCH 22.

You rode three miles on the flat, two in the leafy and gradually ascending creek-bed of a canyon, a half hour of laboring steepness in the overarching mountain lilac and laurel. There you came to a great rock gateway which seemed the top of the world. * * * Beyond the gateway a lush level canyon into which you plunged as into a bath; then again the laboring trail, up and always up toward the blue California sky, out of the lilacs, and laurels, and redwood chaparral into the manzanita, the Spanish bayonet, the creamy yucca, and the fine angular shale of the upper regions. Beyond the apparent summit you found always other summits yet to be climbed, and all at once, like thrusting your shoulders out of a hatchway, you looked over the top.

STEWART EDWARD WHITE, in _The Mountains._

MARCH 23.

DONNER LAKE.

So fair thou art--so still and deep--
Half hidden in thy granite cup.
From depths of crystal smiling up
As smiles a woman in her sleep!

The pine trees whisper where they lean
Above thy tide; and, mirrored there
The purple peaks their bosoms bare,
Reflected in thy silver sheen.

So fair thou art! And yet there dwells
Within thy sylvan solitudes
A memory which darkling broods
And all thy witchery dispels.

DANIEL S. RICHARDSON, in _Trail Dust._

MARCH 24.

DONNER LAKE.

Donner Lake a pleasure resort! Can you understand for one moment how strange this seems to me? I must be as old as Haggard's "She," since I have lived to see our papers make such a statement. It is years since I was there, yet I can feel the cold and hunger and hear the moan of the pines; those grand old trees that used to tell me when a storm was brewing and seemed to be about the only thing there alive, as the snow could not speak. But now that the place is a pleasure resort--the moan of the pines should cease.

VIRGINIA REED MURPHY.

MARCH 25.

THE LURE OF THE DESERT LAND.

Have you slept in a tent alone--a tent
Out under the desert sky--
Where a thousand thousand desert miles
All silent 'round you lie?
The dust of the aeons of ages dead,
And the peoples that tramped by!

* * * * *

Have you lain with your face in your hands, afraid,
Face down--flat down on your face--and prayed,
While the terrible sandstorm whirled and swirled
In its soundless fury, and hid the world
And quenched the sun in its yellow glare--
Just you and your soul, and nothing there?
If you have, then you know, for you've felt its spell,
The lure of the desert land.
And if you have not, then you could not tell--
For you could not understand.

MADGE MORRIS WAGNER, in _Lippincott's._

MARCH 26.

One of the most beautiful lakes in the world is Lake Tahoe. It is six thousand feet above sea-level, and the mountains around it rise four thousand feet higher. * * * The first thing one would notice, perhaps, is the wonderful clearness of the lake water. As one stands on the wharf the steamer _Tahoe_ seems to be hanging in the clear green depths with her keel and propellers in plain sight. The fish dart under her and all about as in some large aquarium. * * * Every stick or stone shows on the bottom as one sails along where the water is sixty or seventy feet deep.

ELLA M. SEXTON, in _Stories of California._

MARCH 27.

A PLAINSMAN'S SONG--MY LOVE.

Oh, give me a clutch in my hand of as much
Of the mane of a horse as a hold,
And let his desire to be gone be a fire
And let him be snorting and bold!
And then with a swing on his back let me fling
My leg that is naked as steel
And let us away to the end of the day
To quiet the tempest I feel.
And keen as the wind with the cities behind
And prairie before--like a sea,
With billows of grass that lash as we pass.
Make way for my stallion and me!
And up with his nose till his nostril aglows,
And out with his tail and his mane,
And up with my breast till the breath of the West
Is smiting me--knight of the plain!
Oh, give me a gleam of your eyes, love adream
With the kiss of the sun and the dew,
And mountain nor swale, nor the scorch nor the hail
Shall halt me from spurring to you!
For wild as a flood-melted snow for its blood--
By crag, gorge, or torrent, or shoal,
I'll ride on my steed and lay tho' it bleed,
My heart at your feet--and my soul!

PHILIP VERRILL MICHELS, in _Harper's Weekly._

MARCH 28.

Lo, a Power divine, in all nature is found,
A Power omniscient, unfailing, profound;
A great Heart, that loves beauty and order and light.
In the flowers, in the shells, in the stars of the night.

JOSIAH KEEP, in _Shells and Sea-Life._

MARCH 29.

BACK TO THE DESERT.

Call it the land of thirst,
Call it the land accurst,
Or what you will;
There where the heat-lines twirl
And the dust-devils whirl
His heart turns still.

* * * * *

Back to the land he knows,
Back where the yucca grows
And cactus bole;
Where the coyote cries,
Where the black buzzard flies
Flyeth his soul!

BAILEY MILLARD, in _Songs of the Press._

MARCH 30.

DRIVING THE LAST SPIKE, 1869.

Under the desert sky the spreading multitude was called to order. There followed a solemn prayer of thanksgiving. The laurel tie was placed, amidst ringing cheers. The golden spike was set. The trans-American telegraph wire was adjusted. Amid breathless silence the silver hammer was lifted, poised, dropped, giving the gentle tap that ticked the news to all the world! Then, blow on blow, Governor Stanford sent the spike to place! A storm of wild huzzas burst forth; desert rock and sand, plain and mountain, echoed the conquest of their terrors. The two engines moved up, touched noses; and each in turn crossed the magic tie. America was belted! The great Iron Way was finished.

SARAH PRATT CARR, in _The Iron Way._

MARCH 31.

THE SPIRIT OF THE WEST.

All wearied with the burdens of a place
Grown barren, over-crowded and despoiled
Of vital freshness by the weight of years.
A sage ascended to the mountain tops
To peer, as Moses once had done of old,
Into the distance for a Promised Land:
And there, his gaze toward the setting sun.
Beheld the Spirit of the Occident,
Bold, herculean, in its latent strength--
A youthful destiny that beckoned on
To fields all vigorous with natal life.
The years have passed; the sage has led a band
Of virile, sturdy men into the West.
And these have toiled and multiplied and stamped
Upon the face of Nature wondrous things.
Until, created from the virgin soil,
Great industries arise as monuments
To their endeavor; and a mighty host
Now labors in a once-untrodden waste--
Quick-pulsed with life-blood, from a heart that throbs
Its vibrant dominance throughout the world.
Today, heroic in the sunset's glow,
A figure looms, colossal and serene.
In royal power of accomplishment,
That claims the gaze of nations over sea
And beckons, still, as in the years agone.
The weary ones of earth to its domain--
That they may drink from undiluted founts
An inspiration of new energy.

LOUIS J. STELLMAN, in _Sunset Magazine, August_, 1903.

DESERT LURE.

The hills are gleaming brass, and bronze the peaks,
The mesas are a brazen, molten sea,
And e'en the heaven's blue infinity,
Undimmed by kindly cloud through arid weeks,
Seems polished turquoise. Like a sphinx she speaks,
The scornful desert: "What would'st thou from me?"
And in our hearts we answer her; all three
Unlike, for each a different treasure seeks.
One sought Adventure, and the desert gave;
His restless heart found rest beneath her sands.
One sought but gold. He dug his soul a grave;
The desert's gift worked evil in his hands.
One sought for beauty; him She made her slave.
Turn back! No man her 'witched gift withstands.

CHARLTON LAWRENCE EDHOLM, in _Ainslee's, July_, 1907.

APRIL 1.

Hark! What is the meaning of this stir in the air. why are the brooks so full of laughter, the birds pouring forth such torrents of sweet song, as if unable longer to contain themselves for very joy? The hills and ravines resound with happy voices. Let us re-echo the cheering vibrations with the gladness of our hearts, with the hope arisen from the tomb of despair. With buoyant spirit, let us join in the merry mood of the winged songsters; let us share the gaiety of the flowers and trees, and let our playful humor blend with the musical flow and tinkle of the silvery, shimmering rivulet. Greetings, let fond greetings burst from the smiling lips on this most happy of all occasions! The natal day of the flowers, the tender season of love and beauty, the happy morn of mother Nature's bright awakening! The resurrection, indeed! The world palpitating with fresh young life--it is the Holiday of holidays, the Golden Holiday for each and all--the Birth of Spring.

BERTHA HIRSCH BARUCH, _Copyright_, 1907.

APRIL 2.

Almost has the Californian developed a racial physiology. He tends to size, to smooth symmetry of limb and trunk, to an erect, free carriage; and the beauty of his women is not a myth. The pioneers were all men of good body; they had to be to live and leave descendants. The bones of the weaklings who started for El Dorado in 1849 lie on the plains or in the hill cemeteries of the mining camps. Heredity began it; climate has carried it out.

WILL IRWIN, in _The City That Was._

APRIL 3.

AN EASTER OFFERING.

I watched a lily through the Lenten-tide;
From when its emerald sheath first pierced the mould.
I saw the satin blades uncurl, unfold,
And, softly upward, stretch with conscious pride
Toward the fair sky. At length, the leaves beside,
There came a flower beauteous to behold,
Breathing of purest joy and peace untold;
Its radiance graced the Easter altar-side.
And in my heart there rose a sense of shame
That I, alas, no precious gift had brought
Which could approach the beauty of this thing--
I who had sought to bear the Master's name!
Humbly I bowed while meek repentance wrought,
With silent tears, her chastened offering.

BLANCHE M. BURBANK

APRIL 4.

For all the toll the desert takes of a man it gives compensations, deep breaths, deep sleep, and the communion of the stars. It comes upon one with new force that the Chaldeans were a desert-bred people. It is hard to escape the sense of mastery as the stars move in the wide, clear heavens to risings and settings unobscured. They look large and near and palpitant; as if they moved on some stately service not needful to declare. Wheeling to their stations in the sky, they make the poor world fret of no account. Of no account you who lie out there watching, nor the lean coyote that stands off in the scrub from you and howls and howls.

MARY AUSTIN, in _The Land of Little Rain._

APRIL 5.

DESERT CALLS.

There are breaks in the voice of the shouting street
Where the smoke drift comes sifting down,
And I list to the wind calls, far and sweet--
They are not from the winds of the town.
O I lean to the rush of the desert air
And the bite of the desert sand,
I feel the hunger, the thirst and despair--
And the joy of the still border land!
For the ways of the city are blocked to the end
With the grim procession of death--
The treacherous love and the shifting friend
And the reek of a multitude's breath.
But the arms of the Desert are lean and slim
And his gaunt breast is cactus-haired,
His ways are as rude as the mountain rim--
But the heart of the Desert is bared.

HARLEY R. WILEY, in _Out West Magazine._

APRIL 6.

In the universal pean of gladness which the earth at Eastertide raises to the Lord of Life, the wilderness and the solitary place have part, and the desert then does in truth blossom as the rose. And how comforting are the blossoms of the desert when at last they have come! When the sun has sunk behind the rim of the verdure-less range of granite hills that westward bound my view, and the palpitating light of the night's first stars shines out in the tender afterglow, I love to linger on the cooling sands and touch my cheek to the flowers. Now has the desert shaken off the livery of death, and ... is become an abiding place of hope.

CHARLES FRANCIS SAUNDERS, in _Blossoms of the Desert._

APRIL 7.

There had been no hand to lay a wreath upon his tomb. But soon, as if the weeping skies had scattered seeds of pity, tiny flowerets, yellow, blue, red, and white, were sprouting on the sides of the grave. * * * A delicious perfume filled the air. The desert cemetery was now a place of beauty as well as a place of peace. But the silence and solitude remained unbroken, except when a long-tailed lizard scurried through the undergrowth, or a big horned toad, white and black, like patterned enamel, took a blinking peep of melancholy surprise into the yawning ditch that blocked his accustomed way.

EDMUND MITCHELL, in _In Desert Keeping._

APRIL 8.

To those who know the desert's heart, and through years of closest intimacy--have learned to love it in all its moods; it has for them something that is greater than charm, more lasting than beauty a something to which no man can give a name. Speech is not needed, for they who are elect to love these things understand one another without words; and the desert speaks to them through its silence.

IDAH MEACHAM STROBRIDGE, in _Miner's Mirage Land._

At length I struck upon a spot where a little stream of water was oozing out from the bank of sand. As I scraped away the surface I saw something which would have made me dance for joy had I not been weighed down by the long boots. For there, in very truth, was a live Olive, with its graceful shell and a beautiful pearl-colored body.

JOSIAH KEEP, in _West Coast Shells._

APRIL 9.

DESERT DUST.

With all its heat and dust the desert has its charms. The desert dust is dusty dust, but not dirty dust. Compared with the awful organic dust of New York, London, or Paris, it is inorganic and pure. On those strips of the Libyan and Arabian deserts which lie along the Nile, the desert dust is largely made up of the residuum of royalty, of withered Ptolemies, of arid Pharaohs, for the tombs of queens and kings are counted here by the hundreds, and of their royal progeny and their royal retainers by the thousands. These dessicated dynasties have been drying so long that they are now quite antiseptic.

The dust of these dead and gone kings makes extraordinarily fertile soil for vegetable gardens when irrigated with the rich, thick water of the Nile. Their mummies also make excellent pigments for the brush. Rameses and Setos, Cleopatra and Hatasu--all these great ones, dead and turned to clay, are said, when properly ground, to make a rich umber paint highly popular with artists.

JEROME HART, in _A Levantine Log-Book._

APRIL 10.

The mountain wall of the Sierra bounds California on its eastern side. It is rampart, towering and impregnable, between the garden and the desert. From its crest, brooded over by cloud, glittering with crusted snows, the traveler can look over crag and precipice, mounting files of pines and ravines swimming in unfathomable shadow, to where, vast, pale, far-flung in its dreamy adolescence, lies California, the garden.

GERALDINE BONNER, in _The Pioneer._

APRIL 11.

MIRAGE IN THE MOHAVE DESERT.

They hear the rippling waters call;
They see the fields of balm;
And faint and clear above it all,
The shimmer of some silver palm
That shines thro' all that stirless calm
So near, so near--and yet they fall
All scorched with heat and blind with pain,
Their faces downward to the plain,
Their arms reached toward the mountain wall.

ROSALIE KERCHEVAL.

APRIL 12.

The desert calls to him who has once felt its strange attraction, calls and compels him to return, as the sea compels the sailor to forsake the land. He who has once felt its power can never free himself from the haunting charm of the desert.

GEORGE HAMILTON FITCH, in _Palm Springs, Land of Sunshine Magazine._

IN SANCTUARY.

The wind broke open a rose's heart
And scattered her petals far apart.
Driven before the churlish blast
Some in the meadow brook were cast,
Or fell in the tangle of the sedge;
Some were impaled on the thorn of the hedge;
But one was caught on my dear love's breast
Where long ago my heart found rest.

CHARLES FRANCIS SAUNDERS, in _Overland Monthly, July_, 1907.

APRIL 13.

For fifteen months the desert of California had lain athirst. The cattle of the vast ranges had fled from the parched sands, the dying, shriveled shrubs, appealing vainly, mutely, for rain, and had taken refuge in the mountains. They instinctively retreated from the death of the desert and sheltered themselves in the green of the foot-hills. North, east, south, and west, rain had fallen, but here, for miles on either side of the little isolated station * * * the plain had so baked in the semi-tropical sun until even the hardiest sage-brush took on the color of the sand which billowed toward the eastern horizon like an untraveled ocean.

MRS. FREMONT OLDER, in _The Giants._

APRIL 14.

The strong westerly winds drawing in through the Golden Gate sweep with unobstructed force over the channel, and, meeting the outflowing and swiftly moving water, kick up a sea that none but good boats can overcome. To go from San Francisco to the usual cruising grounds the channel must be crossed. There is no way out of it. And it is to this circumstance, most probably, we are indebted for as expert a body of yachtsmen as there is anywhere in the United States. Timid, nervous, unskilled men cannot handle yachts under such conditions of wind and waves. The yachtsmen must have confidence in themselves, and must have boats under them which are seaworthy and staunch enough to keep on their course, regardless of adverse circumstances.

CHARLES G. YALE, in _Yachting in San Francisco Bay_, in _The Californian._

APRIL 15.

THE LIZARD.

I sit among the hoary trees
With Aristotle on my knees
And turn with serious hand the pages,
Lost in the cobweb-hush of ages;
When suddenly with no more sound
Than any sunbeam on the ground,
The little hermit of the place
Is peering up into my face--
The slim gray hermit of the rocks,
With bright, inquisitive, quick eyes,
His life a round of harks and shocks,
A little ripple of surprise.

Now lifted up, intense and still,
Sprung from the silence of the hill
He hangs upon the ledge a-glisten.
And his whole body seems to listen!
My pages give a little start,
And he is gone! to be a part
Of the old cedar's crumpled bark.
A mottled scar, a weather mark!

EDWIN MARKHAM, in _Lincoln and Other Poems._

APRIL 16.

I lived in a region of remote sounds. On Russian Hill I looked down as from a balloon; all there is of the stir of the city comes in distant bells and whistles, changing their sound, just as scenery moves, according to the state of the atmosphere. The islands shift as if enchanted, now near and plain, then removed and dim. The bay widening, sapphire blue, or narrowing, green and gray, or, before a storm, like quicksilver.

EMMA FRANCES DAWSON, in _An Itinerant House._

APRIL 17.

Although we dread earthquakes with all their resultant destruction, yet it is well to recognize the fact that if it were not for them we would find here in California little of that wonderful scenery of which we are so proud. Our earthquakes are due to movements similar to those which, through hundreds of thousands of years, have been raising the lofty mountains of the Cordilleran region. The Sierra Nevada range, with its abrupt eastern scarp nearly two miles high, faces an important line of fracture along which movements have continued to take place up to the present time.

HAROLD W. FAIRBANKS, in _The Great Earthquake Rift of California._

APRIL 18.

APRIL EIGHTEENTH.

Three years have passed, oh, City! since you lay--
A smoking shambles--stricken by the lust
Of Nature's evil passions. In a day
I saw your splendor crumble into dust.
So vast your desolation, so complete
Your tragedy of ruin that there seemed
Small hope of rallying from such defeat--
Of seeing you arisen and redeemed.
Yet, three short years have marked a sure rebirth
To splendid urban might; a higher place
Among the ruling cities of the earth
And left of your disaster but a trace.
Refined in flame and tempered, as a blade
Of iron into steel of flawless ring--
City of the Spirit Unafraid!
What wondrous destiny the years will bring!

LOUIS J. STELLMAN, in _San Francisco Globe, April_ 18, 1909.

APRIL 19.

O, EVANESCENCE! (SAN FRANCISCO.)

I loved a work of dreams that bloomed from Art;
A town and her turrets rose
As from the red heart
Of the couchant suns where the west wind blows
And worlds lie apart.
Calm slept the sea-flats; beneath the blue dome
Copper and gold and alabaster gleamed,
And sea-birds came home.
But I woke in a sorrowful day;
The vision was scattered away.
Ashes and dust lie deep on the dream that I dreamed.

HERMAN SCHEFFAUER, in _Looms of Life._

APRIL 20.

SAN FRANCISCO.

What matters that her multitudinous store--
The garnered fruit of measureless desire--
Sank in the maelstrom of abysmal fire,
To be of man beheld on earth no more?
Her loyal children, cheery to the core.
Quailed not, nor blenched, while she, above the ire
Of elemental ragings, dared aspire
On victory's wings resplendently to soar.
What matters all the losses of the years,
Since she can count the subjects as her own
That share her fortunes under every fate;
Who weave their brightest tissues from her tears,
And who, although her best be overthrown,
Resolve to make her and to keep her great.

EDWARD ROKESON TAYLOR, in _Sunset Magazine._

APRIL 21.

They could hear the roar and crackle of the fire and the crashing of walls; but even more formidable was that tramping of thousands of feet, the scraping of trunks and furniture on the tracks and stones. * * * It was a well and a carefully dressed crowd, for by this time nearly everyone had recovered from the shock of the earthquake; many forgotten it, no doubt, in the new horror. * * * They pushed trunks to which skates had been attached, or pulled them by ropes; they trundled sewing machines and pieces of small furniture, laden with bundles. Many carried pillow-cases, into which they had stuffed a favorite dress and hat, an extra pair of boots and a change of underclothing, some valuable bibelot or bundle of documents; to say nothing of their jewels and what food they could lay hands on. Several women wore their furs, as an easier way of saving them, and children carried their dolls. Their state of mind was elemental. * * * The refinements of sentiment and all complexity were forgotten; they indulged in nothing so futile as complaint, nor even conversation. And the sense of the common calamity sustained them, no doubt, de-individualized them for the hour.

GERTRUDE ATHERTON, in _Ancestors._

APRIL 22.

The sun is dying; space and room.
Serenity, vast sense of rest,
Lie bosomed in the orange west
Of Orient waters. Hear the boom
Of long, strong billows; wave on wave,
Like funeral guns above a grave.

JOAQUIN MILLER, in _Collected Poems._

APRIL 23.

SAN FRANCISCO. IN CHRISTMAS TWILIGHT, 1898.

In somber silhouette, against a golden sky,
Francisco's city sits as sunbeams die.
The serrated hills her throne; the ocean laves her feet:
Her jeweled crown the Western zephyrs greet;
Their breath is fragrance, sweet as wreath of bride,
In winter season as at summer tide.

AFTER APRIL 18, 1906.

Clothed with sack-cloth, strewn with ashes,
Seated on a desolate throne
'Mid the spectral walls of stately domes
And the skeletons of regal homes,
Francisco weeps while westward thrashes
Through the wrecks of mansions, stricken prone
By the rock of earth and sweep of flame
Which, unheralded and unbidden, came
In the greatness of her pride full-blown
And at the zenith of her matchless fame.

TALIESIN EVANS.

APRIL 24.

And let it be remembered that whatever San Francisco, her citizens and her lovers, do now or neglect to do in this present regeneration will be felt for good or ill to remotest ages. Let us build and rebuild accordingly, bearing in mind that the new San Francisco is to stand forever before the world as the measure of the civic taste and intelligence of her people.

HUBERT HOWE BANCROFT, in _Some Cities and San Francisco._

APRIL 25.

SAN FRANCISCO.

Queen regnant she, and so shall be for aye
As long as her still unpolluted sea
Shall wash the borders of her brave and free,
And mother her incomparable Bay.
The pharisees and falsehood-mongers may
Be rashly blatant as they care to be,
She yet with dauntless, old-time liberty
Will hold her own indomitable way.
A Royal One, all love and heart can bear.
The all of strength that human arm can wield.
Are thine devotedly, and ever thine;
And thou wilt use them till thy brow shall wear
A newer crown by high endeavor sealed
With gems emitting brilliances divine.

EDWARD ROBESON TAYLOR, in _Sunset Magazine._

APRIL 26.

Until a man paints with the hope or with the wish to stir the minds of his fellows to better thinking and their hearts to better living, or to make some creature happier or wiser, he has not understood the meaning of art.

W.L. JUDSON, in _The Building of a Picture._

CALIFORNIA ON THE PASSING OF TENNYSON.

All silent ... So, he lies in state ...
Our redwoods drip and drip with rain ...
Against our rock-locked Golden Gate
We hear the great, sad, sobbing main.
But silent all ... He passed the stars
That year the whole world turned to Mars.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

APRIL 27 AND 28.

In ended days, a child, I trod thy sands,
The sands unbuilded, rank with brush and brier
And blossom--chased the sea-foam on thy strands,
Young city of my love and my desire!
I saw thy barren hills against the skies,
I saw them topped with minaret and spire,
On plain and slope thy myriad walls arise,
Fair city of my love and my desire.
With thee the Orient touched heart and hands;
The world's rich argosies lay at thy feet;
Queen of the fairest land of all the lands--
Our Sunset-Glory, proud and strong and sweet!
I saw thee in thine anguish! tortured, prone.
Rent with earth-throes, garmented in fire!
Each wound upon thy breast upon my own.
Sad city of my love and my desire.
Gray wind-blown ashes, broken, toppling wall
And ruined hearth--are these thy funeral pyre?
Black desolation covering as a pall--
Is this the end, my love and my desire?
Nay, strong, undaunted, thoughtless of despair,
The Will that builded thee shall build again,
And all thy broken promise spring more fair.
Thou mighty mother of as mighty men.
Thou wilt arise invincible, supreme!
The earth to voice thy glory never tire,
And song, unborn, shall chant no nobler theme,
Proud city of my love and my desire.
But I--shall see thee ever as of old!
Thy wraith of pearl, wall, minaret and spire,
Framed in the mists that veil thy Gate of Gold,
Lost city of my love and my desire.

INA D. COOLBRITH.

APRIL 29.

The cataclysmal force to which we owe
Our glorious Gate of Gold, through which the sea
Rushed in to clasp these shores long, long ago,
Came once again to crown our destiny
With such a grandeur that in sequent years
This period of pain which now appears
Pregnant with doubt, shall vanish as when day
Drives the foreboding dreams of night away.
Born of the womb of Woe, where Sorrow sighs,
Fostered by Faith, undaunted by Dismay,
Earth's fairest City shall from ashes rise.

LOUIS ALEXANDER ROBERTSON, in _Through Painted Panes._

APRIL 30.

Old San Francisco, which is the San Francisco of only the other day--the day before the earthquake--was divided midway by the Slot. The Slot was an iron crack that ran along the center of Market street, and from the Slot arose the burr of the ceaseless, endless cable that was hitched at will to the cars it dragged up and down. In truth, there were two Slots, but, in the quick grammar of the West, time was saved by calling them, and much more that they stood for, "The Slot." North of the Slot were the theaters, hotels and shipping district, the banks and the staid, respectable business houses. South of the Slot were the factories, slums, laundries, machine shops, boiler works, and the abodes of the working class.

JACK LONDON, in _Saturday Evening Post._

MAY 1.

HAWAII, WEDNESDAY, MAY 1. 1907.

A year ago, Jack and I set out on a horseback trip through the northern counties of California. It just now came to me--not the date itself, but the feel of the sweet country, the sweetness of mountain lilacs, the warm summer-dusty air. * * * And here in Hawaii, I am not sure but I am at home, for our ground is red, too, in the Valley of the Moon, where home is--dear home on the side of Sonoma Mountain, where the colts are, and where the Brown Wolf died.

CHARMIAN K. LONDON, in _Log of the Snark._

MAY 2.

A dull eyed rattlesnake that lay
All loathsome, yellow-skinned, and slept,
Coil'd tight as pine-knot, in the sun
With flat head through the center run,
Struck blindly back.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

The air was steeped in the warm fragrance of a California spring. Every crease and wrinkle of the encircling hills was reflected in the blue stillness of the laguna. Patches of poppies blazed like bonfires on the mesa, and higher up the faint smoke of the blossoming buckthorn tangled its drifts in the chaparral. Bees droned in the wild buckwheat, and powdered themselves with the yellow of the mustard, and now and then the clear, staccato voice of the meadow-lark broke into the drowsy quiet--a swift little dagger of sound.

MARGARET COLLIER GRAHAM, in _Stories of the Foothills._

MAY 3.

THE SEA GARDENS AT CATALINA.

The voyager when the glass-bottom boat starts is first regaled with the sandy beach, in three or four feet of water. He sees the wave lines, the effect of waves on soft sand, the delicate shading of the bottom in grays innumerable; now the collar-like egg of a univalve or the sharp eye of a sole or halibut protruding from the sand. A school of smelt dart by, pursued by a bass; and as the water deepens bands of small fish, gleaming like silver, appear; then a black cormorant dashing after them, or perchance a sea-lion browsing on the bottom in pursuit of prey. Suddenly the light grows dimmer; quaint shadows appear on the bottom, and almost without warning the lookers on are in the depths of the kelpian forest.

CHARLES FREDERICK HOLDER, in _Life in the Open._

MAY 4.

THE HIDEOUS OCTOPUS.

From the glass-bottom boat we can see all the fauna of the ocean, and, without question, the most fascinating of them all is the octopus. Timid, constantly changing color, hideous to a degree, having a peculiarly devilish expression, it is well named the _Mephistopheles of the Sea_, and with the bill of a parrot, the power to adapt its color to almost any rock, and to throw out a cloud of smoke or ink, it well deserves the terror it arouses. The average specimen is about two feet across, but I have seen individuals fourteen feet in radial spread, and larger ones have been taken in deep water off shore.

CHARLES FREDERICK HOLDER, in _The Glass Bottom Boat._

MAY 5.

A SIERRA STORM FROM A TREE TOP.

Being accustomed to climb trees in making botanical studies, I experienced no difficulty in reaching the top of this one (a pine about 100 feet high), and never before did I enjoy so noble an exhilaration of motion. The slender tops fairly flapped and swished in the passionate torrent, bending and swirling backward and forward, round and round, tracing indescribable combinations of vertical and horizontal curves, while I clung with muscles firm braced, like a bobolink on a reed.

JOHN MUIR, in _The Mountains of California._

MAY 6.

There is a breeziness, a spaciousness, an undefiled ecstasy of purity about the High Sierras. Nature, yet untainted by man, has expressed herself largely in mighty pine-clad, snow-topped blue mountains, and rolling stretches of foot-hills; in rivers whose clarity is as perfect as the first snow-formed drops that heralded them; and a sky of chaste and limpid blue, pale as with awe of the celestial wonders it has gazed upon. But there is an effect of simplicity with it all, an omission of sensational landscape contrasts.

MIRIAM MICHELSON, in _Anthony Overman._

The ocean is a great home. Its waters are full of life. The rocks along its shores are thickly set with living things; the mud and sand of its bays are pierced with innumerable burrows, and even the abyss of the deep sea has its curious inhabitants.

JOSIAH KEEP, in _West Coast Shells._

MAY 7.

THE COMING OF THE RAILROAD. (IN CALIFORNIA.)

It was folded, away from strife,
In the beautiful pastoral hills;
And the mountain peaks kept watch and ward
O'er the peace that the valley fills--
Kept watch and ward lest the bold world pass
The fair green rampart of hills.

* * * * *

The rains of the winter fell
In benison on its sod;
And the smiling fields of the spring looked up,
A thanksgiving glad, to God;
And the little children laughed to see
The wild-flowers star the sod.

* * * * *

Hark! hark! to the thundrous roar!
Like a demon of fable old,
The fiery steed of the rail hath swept
Thro' the ancient mountain-hold.
And the green hills shudder to feel his breath--
The challenge of New to Old.

FRANCES MARGARET MILNE, in _For Today._

MAY 8.

JOAQUIN MILLER TO THE MONEY GETTER.

Yes! I am a dreamer.

* * * * *

While you seek gold in the earth, why, I
See gold in the steeps of the starry sky;
And which do you think has the fairer view
Of God in heaven--the dreamer or you?

JOAQUIN MILLER.

MAY 9.

THE GLASS BOTTOM BOAT AT CATALINA.

When you land in the beautiful Bay of Avalon, on Santa Catalina Island, you are met, not by hackmen, but by glass-bottom boatmen: "Here you are! Marine Jimmie's boat, only fifty cents." "Take the _Cleopatra_," or "Right away now for the Marine Gardens." These craft, that look like old-fashioned river side-wheelers are made on the Island, and some range from row-boats with glass bottoms to large side-wheel steamers valued at $3000. There is a fleet of them, big and little, and they skim over the kelp beds, and have introduced an altogether new variety of entertainment and zoological study combined.

CHARLES FREDERICK HOLDER. in _The Glass Bottom Boat._

MAY 10.

THE HANGING SEA GARDENS AT CATALINA.

The animals of the hanging gardens are not confined to the kelp or the rocks of the bottom. The blue water where the sunlight enters brings out myriads of delicate forms, poising, drifting, swimming, the veritable gems of the sea; some are red as the ruby; others blue like sapphire; some yellow, white, brown, or emitting vivid flashes of seeming phosphorescent light. Ocean sapphires they are called; the true gems of the sea, thickly strewn in the deep blue water. Sweeping by, poised in classic shapes, are the smaller jelly-fishes; crystal vases, so delicate that the rich tone of the ocean can be seen through them, changing to a steely blue. Some are mere spectres, a tracery of lace; others rich in colors and flaunting long trains.

CHARLES FREDERICK HOLDER, in _Life in the Open._

MAY 11.

BUILDING THE TRANSCONTINENTAL RAILWAY.

Few can realize the problem before those intrepid men, who, with little money and large hostility behind them, hauled their strenuously obtained subsistence and material over nearly a thousand miles of poorly equipped road. They fought mountains of snow as they had never before been fought. They forced their weak, wheezy little engines up tremendous grades with green wood that must sometimes be coaxed with sage-brush gathered by the firemen running alongside of their creeping or stalled iron horses. There were no steel rails. Engineers worked unhelped by the example of perfected railroad building of later times. No tracks or charts of the man-killing desert! No modern helps, no ready, over-eager capital seeking their enterprise! Only skepticism, hatred from their enemies, and "You can't do it!" flung at them from friend and foe.

SARAH PRATT CARR, in _The Iron Way._

MAY 12.

ANGLING THE SWORDFISH.

As he brought the great fish around again, a wonderful sight with its gaudy fins, enormous black eyes and menacing sword, the head boatman hurled the heavy spear into it. The swordfish fairly doubled up under the shock, deluging with water the fishermen, its sword coming out and striking the boat. A moment more and it might have escaped; but one of the men seized it by the sword, while another threw a rope around it, and the big game was theirs; in all probability the first large swordfish ever taken with a rod and reel.

CHARLES FREDERICK HOLDER, in _Big Game at Sea._

MAY 13.

The old Greeks taught their children how to sing, because it taught them how to be obedient. This is a difficult universe to the man who drives dead against it, but to the man who has learned the secret of harmony through obedience it is a happy place. Discord is sickness; harmony is health. Discord is restlessness; harmony is peace. Discord is sorrow; harmony is joy. Discord is death; harmony is life. Discord is hell; harmony is heaven. He who is in love and peace with his neighbors, filling the sphere where God has placed him, hath heaven in his heart already. Only through blue in the eye, the scientist tells us, can blue out of the eye be seen. Only through C in the ear can C out of the ear be heard. Only through Heaven down here can Heaven up there be interpreted.

MALCOLM McLEOD, in _Earthly Discords._

MAY 14.

As one approaches the mission from the road, it defines itself more and more as a distinct element in the view: the hills ... seem to distribute themselves on either side, as though realizing that here, at least, they are subordinate and must not intrude. This brings Santa Lucia into view, directly behind the mission, and thus the two most prominent, most interesting, most beautiful objects in the landscape are brought together in one perfect whole: Mt. Santa Lucia--Nature's grandest creation for miles around; Mission San Antonio--man's noblest, most artistic handiwork between Santa Barbara and Carrnelo.

CHARLES FRANKLIN CARTER, in _Some By-Ways of California._

MAY 15.

There is what may be called a _sense_ of the sea, which is indefinable. No lesser body of water, no other aspect of Nature affords this. It is in the air, like a touch of autumn, and we know it as much through feeling as through seeing. The coast is saturated for some distance inland with this presence of the sea, much as the beach is soaked with salt water. It is music and poetry to the soul and as elusive as they, wrapping us in dreams and yielding fugitive glimpses of that which we may never grasp, but which skirts, like a beautiful phantom, the mind's horizon. Like music, it is an opiate, and unlocks for us new states of mind in which we wander, as in halls of alabaster and mother-of-pearl, but where, alas, we may not linger. We can as readily sound the ocean as fathom the feelings it inspires. It is too deep for thought. As often as the sea speaks to us of the birth of Venus and of Joy, so also does it remind of Prometheus bound and the thrall of Nature.

STANTON DAVIS KIRKHAM, in _In the Open._

MAY 16.

The morning breeze with breath of rose
Steals from the dawn and softly blows
Beneath the lintel, where is hung
My little bell with winged tongue;
Steals from the dawn, that it may be
An oracle of peace to me;
For hark! athwart my fitful dreams
There mingles with the Orient beams
A wakening psalm of tinkling bell:
"God brings the day, and all is well."

CLIFFORD HOWARD, in _The Wind Bell._

MAY 17.

CATCHING A SWORDFISH.

The swordfish was not disturbed by reflections of any kind. Of an uncertain and vicious temper it was annoyed, then maddened by being held by something it could not see, and dropping into the water it dashed away in blind fear and fury, still feeling the strange, uncanny check which seemed to follow it as a sheet of foam. Cutting the water one hundred, two hundred feet, it shot ahead with the speed of light, then still held, still in the toils, it again sprang into the air with frenzied shake and twist, whirling itself from side to side, striking terrific blows in search of the invisible enemy. Falling, the swordfish plunged downward, and reached two hundred feet below the surface and the bottom, then turned, and rose with a mighty rush, going high into the air again, whirling itself completely over in its madness, so that it fell upon its back, beating the sea into a maelstrom of foam and spume, in its blind and savage fury.

CHARLES FREDERICK HOLDER, in _Big Game at Sea._

MAY 18.

One is disposed to put "climate" in the plural when writing of so large a state as California and one so wonderfully endowed with conditions which make health, comfort and beauty in all seasons. Its great length of coast-line and its mountain ranges irregularly paralleling that, offer a wealth of resource in varying temperature, altitudes, shelter from the sea breezes or exposure to them, perhaps unequaled by any state in the union, or indeed by any country in the world.

MADAME CAROLINE SEVERANCE, in _The Mother of Clubs._

MAY 19.

A GLOUCESTER SKIPPER'S SONG.

Oh, the roar of shoaling waters, and the awful, awful sea,
Busted shrouds and parting cables, and the white death on our lee!
Oh, the black, black night on Georges, when eight score men were lost!
Were ye there, ye men of Gloucester? Aye, ye were; and tossed
Like chips upon the water were your little craft that night--
Driving, swearing, calling out, but ne'er a call of fright.
So knowing ye for what ye are, ye masters of the sea,
Here's to ye, Gloucester fishermen, a health to ye from me!

JAMES B. CONNOLLY, in _Scribner's, May_, 1904.

MAY 20.

DEDICATION TO HIS FIRST BOOK.

* * * It is the proudest boast of the profession of literature, that no man ever published a book for selfish purposes or with ignoble aim. Books have been published for the consolation of the distressed; for the guidance of the wandering; for the relief of the destitute; for the hope of the penitent; for uplifting the burdened soul above its sorrows and fears; for the general amelioration of the condition of all mankind; for the right against the wrong; for the good against, the bad; for the truth. This book is published for two dollars per volume.

ROBERT J. BURDETTE, in _The Rise and Fall of the Mustache._

MAY 21.

THE YOSEMITE ROAD.

There at last are the snow-peaks, in virginal chastity standing!
Through the nut-pines I see them, their ridges expanding.
Ye peaks! from celestial sanctities benisons casting,
Ye know not your puissant influence, lifting and lasting;
Nothing factitious, self-conscious or impious bides in you;
On your high serenities
No hollow amenities
Nor worldly impurities cast their dread blight;
August and courageous, you stand for the right;
The gods love you and lend you their soft robes of white.

BAILEY MILLARD, in _Songs of the Press._

MAY 22.

ON THE STEPS OF THE LECONTE MEMORIAL LODGE, YOSEMITE VALLEY.

I wonder not, whether it is well with this true seer,
Who saw, while dwelling in the flesh, foundations strong and broad;
I do not doubt that when he ceased to worship in this temple,
Serene, he passed from beauty unto beauty, from God to God.

BENJAMIN FAY MILLS.

Within, a whole rainbow is condensed in one of these magnificent shells.

JOSIAH KEEP, in _West Coast Shells._

MAY 23.

TO YOSEMITE.

The silence of the centuries,
The calm where doubtings cease,
And over all the brooding of God's presence
And the spell of perfect peace!
O Granite Cliffs that steadfast face the dawn,
O Forest Kings that heard Creation's sigh!
Teach me thy simple creed, that, living, I
May live like thee, and as serenely die!

E.F. GREEN.

TO THE UNNAMED FALL IN THE YOSEMITE VALLEY.

Thou needest not that any man should name thee;
God counts thine ethereal jewels, one by one;
And, lest some selfish, inappropriate word should claim thee,
Silent, we watch thee sparkle in the sun.

BENJAMIN FAY MILLS.

MAY 24.

The white man calls it Bridal Veil. To the Indian it is Po-ho-no, Spirit of the Evil Wind.

The white man, in passing, pauses to watch the filmy cloud that hangs there like a thousand yards of tulle flung from the crest of the rocky precipice, wafted outward by the breeze that blows ever and always across the Bridal Veil Meadows. By the light of the mid-afternoon the veil seems caught half-way with a clasp of bridal gems, seven-hued, evanescent; now glowing with color, now fading to clear white sun rays before the eye.

BERTHA H. SMITH, in _Yosemite Legends._

MAY 25.

MATCHLESS YOSEMITE.