Chapter IV: Part 4

You who would find a new delight in the wild and waste places of the earth, a new meaning to life, and an enlarged sympathy with your fellow creatures, should seek them out, not in the books, but in their homes. One bird learned and known as an individual creature, with a life all its own, is worth volumes of reading. Listen to their call-notes; observe their plumage and their motions; seek out their homes, and note their devotion to their young. Then will the lower animals become invested with a new dignity, and the homes builded not with hands will become as sacred as the dwelling-place of your neighbor.

CHARLES KEELER, in _Bird Notes Afield._

AUGUST 5.

THE NAVEL ORANGE 250 YEARS AGO.

Most Americans know an orange by sight, and we of California count it a blood relation. We do grow the best orange in the world, and ship thousands of loads of it in a year; and we have a modest notion that we invented it, and that we "know oranges." But the handsomest, the fullest and the most erudite treatise on oranges ever printed does not derive from California, nor yet from the Only Smart Nation.... On the contrary, it was printed in Rome in the year 1646.... More accurate drawings of these fruits have never been printed; and the illustrations cover not only the varieties and even the "freaks" of the Golden Apple, but the methods of planting, budding, wall-training and housing it. Perhaps the point likeliest to jar our complacent ignorance is the fact that this venerable work describes and pictures seedless oranges, and even the peculiar "sport," now an established variety, which we know as the "Navel." Two hundred and fifty seven years ago it was called the "Female, or Foetus-bearing orange;" but no one today can draw a better picture, nor a more unmistakable, of a navel orange.

CHARLES F. LUMMIS, in _Out West._

AUGUST 6.

THE SIERRA NEVADAS.

Serene and satisfied! Supreme! As lone
As God, they loom like God's archangels churl'd;
They look as cold as kings upon a throne;

* * * * *

A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

AUGUST 7.

TO THE VIOLET.

Welcome little violet,
I gladly welcome thee;
Peeping with thy dewy eyes
So shyly out at me.

Modest little violet
Hide not thy face away.
I love thee and thy sweet perfume,
Thy purple-hued array.

Sweetest little violet,
I'll pluck thee gently dear,
I'll nurture thee so tenderly--
Then have of me no fear.

Sweetest little violet,
Delight of every heart;
No flow'ret rare is like thee fair,
None praised as thou art.

BERTHA HIRSCH BARUCH.

AUGUST 8.

August is a word of dire import in the bird-lover's calendar. It means virtually the end of the bird season. The wooing and nesting and rearing the family are all over, and now looms before the feathered population that annual trouble--the change of dress, the only time in his life--happy soul!--that he has to concern himself about clothes.

In the business of getting a new suit he has more trouble than a fine lady, for he has to shake off the old garments, while getting the new, bit by bit, here a feather and there a feather, today a new wing-quill; tomorrow a new plume on his dainty breast.

OLIVE THORNE MILLER.

AUGUST 9.

CHILDREN IN A CALIFORNIA GARDEN.

Legendry and literature may be taught to your children in the garden. Tell them the pretty story of how Cupid's mother gave the rose its thorns; the tale of the sensitive plant; and point out to them the equipment of the cacti for their strange, hard life on the desert; the lovely human faces filled with the sweetness of remembrance that we find in the pansy bed. Show them the delight of the swift-flying hummingbird in the red and yellow blossoms of the garden, and the sagacity of the oriole in building his nest near the lantana bush--so attractive to the insects upon which the scamp feeds.

BELLE SUMNER ANGIER, in _The Garden Book of California._

AUGUST 10.

ON JOAQUIN MILLER.

Sierra's poet! high and pure thy muse
Enthroned doth sit amongst the stars and snows;
And from thy harp olympian music flows,
Of glacier heights and gleaming mountain dews.
Of western sea and burning sunset hues.
And we who look up--who on the plain repose,
And catch faint glimpses of the mount that throws
Athwart thy poet-sight diviner views.
And not alone from starry shrine is strung
Thy lyre, but timed to gentler lay,
That sings of children, motherhood and home,
And lifts our hearts and lives to sweeter day.
Oh, bard of Nature's heart! thy name will rest
Immortal in thy land--our Golden West!

DORA CURETON, in _Sunset Magazine._

AUGUST 11.

THE PESSIMIST.

The pessimist leads us into a land of desolation. He makes for the sight blossoms of ugliness; for the smell repellant odors; for the taste bitterness and gall; for the hearing harsh discord, and death for the touch that is the only relief from a desert whose scrawny life lives but to distress us.

ABBOTT KINNEY, in _Tasks By Twilight._

The leaves of the wild gourd, lying in great star shaped patches on the ground, drooped on their stems, and the spikes of dusty white sage by the road hung limp at the ends, and filled the air with their wilted fragrance. The sea-breeze did not come up, and in its stead gusts of hot wind from the north swept through the valley as if from the door of a furnace.

MARGARET COLLIER GRAHAM, in _Stories of the Foothills._

AUGUST 12.

ENTICEMENT.

Then haste, sweet April Dear.
Thou alone canst find her.
Her hair so soft, so silken soft thy breezes blow
And thou shall laugh with her, give her thy first sweet kiss.
On her white blossom's snow ...
Why, why, dost thou not fly, on clouds of love.
'Tis thou alone canst find her.
Thou fain would'st ask doth she love thee.
Thou knowest well
She loves thee,
April Dear.

ADRIADNE HOLMES EDWARDS.

AUGUST 13.

Our pitcher-plant is one of the most wonderful and interesting of all the forms that grow, linking, as it were, the vegetable world with the animal, by its unnatural carnivorous habits.

No ogre in his castle has ever gone to work more deliberately or fiendishly to entrap his victims while offering them hospitality, than does this plant-ogre. Attracted by the bizarre yellowish hoods of the tall, nodding flowers, the foolish insect alights upon the former and commences his exploration of the fascinating region.

But at last, when he has partaken to satiety and would fain depart, he turns to retrace his steps. In the dazzlement of the transparent windows of the dome above, he loses sight of the darkened door in the floor by which he entered and flies forcibly upward, bumping his head in his eagerness to escape. He is stunned by the blow and plunges downward into the tube below. Here he struggles to rise, but countless downward-pointing, bristly hairs urge him to his fate.

MARY ELIZABETH PARSONS, in _The Wild Flowers of California._

AUGUST 14.

Sausalito is noted for its abundance of flowers. These not only grow in thick profusion in the quaint hillside gardens, but are planted beside the roadways, covering many an erstwhile bare and unsightly bank with trailing vines, gay nasturtiums and bright geraniums. There is something in the spirit of this hillside gardening, this planting of sweet blossoms for the public at large, that is very appealing.

HELEN BINGHAM, in _In Tamal Land._

AUGUST 15.

A GROUP OF CACTI. (IN CALIFORNIA.)

Flower of the desert, type mysterious, strange,
Like bird or monster on some sculptured tomb
In Egypt's curious fashion wrought, what change
Or odd similitude of fate, what range
Of cycling centuries from out the gloom
Of dusty ages has evolved thy bloom?
In the bleak desert of an alien zone,
Child of the past, why dwellest thou alone?
Grotesque, incongruous, amid the flowers;
Unlovely and unloved, standing aside,
Like to some rugged spirit sheathed in pride;
Unsmiling to the sun, untouched by showers--
The dew falls--every bud has drunk its fill:
Bloom of the desert, thou art arid still!

MARY E. MANNIN.

AUGUST 16.

In late spring and early summer upon the fading grasslands and on the dry sunny slopes of the hills, the Mariposa tulips set their long-stemmed chalices of delicate color. Bulbous plants of the lily family, they are frequently called Mariposa lilies, but as a matter of fact their relationship is very near to the true tulips of the Old World, and like the latter, they have been extensively introduced into cultivation both in this country and abroad.

The petals are often conspicuously marked with lines and dots and eye-like spots in a manner that suggests the gay wings of a butterfly, whence the term, "Mariposa," which is the Spanish word for that insect.

ELIZABETH H. SAUNDERS, in _California Wild Flowers._

AUGUST 17.

COPA DE ORO. (CALIFORNIA POPPY.)

Thy satin vesture richer is than looms
Of Orient weave for raiment of her kings,
Not dyes of olden Tyre, not precious things
Regathered from the long forgotten tombs
Of buried empires, not the iris plumes
That wave upon the tropics' myriad wings,
Not all proud Sheba's queenly offerings,
Could match the golden marvel of thy blooms,
For thou art nurtured from the treasure-veins
Of this fair land; thy golden rootlets sup
Her sands of gold--of gold thy petals spun,
Her golden glory, thou! of hills and plains,
Lifting, exultant, every kingly cup
Brimmed with the golden vintage of the sun.

INA D. COOLBRITH, in _Songs from the Golden Gate._

AUGUST 18.

The Golden Eagle is California's noblest bird of prey. He is more than a match for any animal of his own size. Not a beast of the field or a fowl of the air can dispossess him; he stands intrepid before every earthly power except the hand of man. He is shy and wary at all times, clean and handsome, swift in flight and strong in body. An experience gained in the fiercest of schools makes the Eagle as formidable as any creature of the wild. He is a valuable inhabitant of any cattle range or farming community. His food consists almost entirely of the ground squirrels that are so abundant through the California hills and cause such damage to the grain fields.

WILLIAM L. FINLEY, in _Feathered Foragers._

AUGUST 19.

THE POPPY'S CHIMES.

With all this youth to cheer his eyes
No man is ever old,
With all this wealth to fill his purse
No one need lack for gold.

O rare Ben Jonson, you should see
The draught that I may sup:
How sweet the drink, her kiss within.
The poppy's golden cup.

My lowly queen, I bow to thee
And worship with my soul:
I hope to drink her love from out
The poppy's golden bowl.

Look up, my sweet, and catch my words,
A secret I would tell:
I think I hear her "Yes" ring from
The poppy's golden bell.

CHARLES McKNIGHT SAIN, in _Sunset, August_, 1908.

AUGUST 20.

Flowering vines overhung, climbed and clung about the balcony pillars and balustrades. Roses drooped in heavy-headed cascades from second-story railings; the wide purple flowers of the clematis climbed aloft. On one wall a heliotrope broke in lavender foam and the creamy froth of the Banksia rose dabbled railings and pillars and dripped over on to the ground. It was a big, cool, friendly looking house with a front door that in summer was always open, giving the approaching visitor a hospitable glimpse of an airy, unencumbered hall.

GERALDINE BONNER, in _The Pioneer._

AUGUST 21.

A DREAM OF POPPIES.

Brown hills long parched, long lifting to the blue
Of summer's brilliant sky but russet hue
Of sere grass shivering in the trade-wind's sweep.
Soon, with light footfalls, from their tranced sleep
The first rains bid the poppies rise anew,
And trills the lark exultant summons, too.
How swift at Fancy's beck those gay crowds leap
To glowing life! The eager green leaves creep
For welcome first; then hooded buds, pale gold,
Each tender shower and sun-kiss help unfold
Till smiling hosts crowd all the fields, and still
A yellow sea of poppies breasts each hill
And breaks in joyous floods as children hold
Glad hands the lavish cups as gladly fill!

ELLA M. SEXTON, in _The Golden Poppy._

AUGUST 22.

CALIFORNIA.

Her poppies fling a cloth of gold
O'er California's hills--
Fit emblem of the wealth untold
That hill and dale and plain unfold.
Her fame the whole world fills.

ELIZA D. KEITH.

_How can one convey meaning to another in a language_ which that other does not understand? I can only tell you the charm of the desert, when you, too, have learned to love it. And then there will be no need for me to speak.

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

AUGUST 23.

THE PÆAN OF THE POPPIES.

The mountains sway with flame
Where the frail glories tremble--
Fair fallen stars of fire!
The valleys green acclaim
The legions that assemble
In royal robe and tire,
With timbrel, shawm and choir.

* * * * *

Afar in darker lands
I feel their kisses burning
As sweet, uncertain lips.
As faint, unhindered hands
Are felt by exiles yearning
On shores when tears eclipse
The wan and westering ships.

HERMAN SCHEFFAUER, in _Looms of Life._

AUGUST 24.

PEACE.

No hand have I on rudder laid;
All my oars lie idly by;
All my sheets are steadfast made.
For Love now guides me silently.

His are the waves and flowing tide;
He is my bark and chart and hand;
He is companion at my side;
His the coming and departed land.

Somewhere, I know, I port shall win;
Somewhen I know, dear friends, I'll see;
Love, "The I Am" is lord within!
Daily he brings mine own to me.

HENRY HARRISON BROWN, in _Now, March_, 1900.

AUGUST 25.

IN THE SEASON OF POPPIES.

From the shoulders of Dawn the night shadow slipped,
As the shy, saintly Moon evaded her tryst
With the roystering Sun, who eagerly sipped
From the valley's green cup the golden-white mist.
Day flashed like a smile from Dawn's rosy mouth,
With a passion of birds and fragrant appeals,
And the warm winds up from the sleepy South
Sluiced the red, scented gold of our poppy fields.

HARLEY R. WILEY, in _Overland Monthly, Sept._, 1908.

AUGUST 26.

WHEN THE POPPY GOES TO SLEEP.

Now the sandman comes a-calling,
And those eyes can scarcely peep:
It is little children's bedtime
When the poppy goes to sleep.
In the west the sun is sinking,
And the chickens go to roost:
And the poppy folds its petals
That the beaming sun had loosed.

* * * * *

And the poppy like the Arab,
Silent in the close of day,
Fearful of the coming darkness,
Folds its tent and steals away.
Hear the sandman's final warning
On the land and on the deep,
Saying, "Good night, good night, good night,"
When the poppy goes to sleep.

CHARLES McKNIGHT SAIN, in _The Call of the Muse._

AUGUST 27.

THE SIERRA SNOW-PLANT.

Thou growest in eternal snows
As flower never grew;
The sun upon thy beauty throws
No kiss--the dawn no dew.

Thou knowest not the love-warm marl
Of Earth, but dead and white
The wastes wherein thy roots ensnarl
Ere thou art freed in light.

Where blighted dawns, with twilight blent,
Die pale, thou liftest strong,
A tongue of crimson, eloquent
With one unceasing song.

O Life in vasts of death! O Flame
That thrills the stark expanse;
Let Love and Longing be thy name!
Love and Renunciance.

HERMAN SCHEFFAUER, in _Looms of Life._

AUGUST 28.

IN A CALIFORNIA GARDEN.

Thro' the green cloister, folding us within.
The leaves are audible--our ear to win;
They whisper of the realm of old Romance.
Of sunny Spain, and of chivalric France;
And poor Ramona's love and her despair,
Thrill, like Aeolian harp, the twilight air--
So the dear garden claims its mystic due.
Linking the legends of the Old and New.

FRANCES MARGARET MILNE, in _The Grizzly Bear Magazine, June_, 1909.

AUGUST 29.

The evening primrose covers the lower slopes with long sheets of brightest yellow, and from the hills above, the rock-rose adds its golden bloom to that of the sorrel and the wild alfalfa, until the hills almost outshine the bright light from the slopes and plains. And through all this nods a tulip of delicate lavender; vetches, lupins and all the members of the wild-pea family are pushing and winding their way everywhere in every shade of crimson, purple and white. New bell-flowers of white and blue and indigo rise above the first, which served merely as ushers to the display, and whole acres ablaze with the orange of the poppy are fast turning with the indigo of the larkspur. The mimulus alone is almost enough to color the hills.

T.S. VAN DYKE, in _Southern California._

AUGUST 30.

THE MARIPOSA LILY.

Insect or blossom? Fragile, fairy thing,
Poised upon slender tip, and quivering
To flight! a flower of the fields of air;
A jeweled moth; a butterfly, with rare
And tender tints upon his downy wings,
A moment resting in our happy sight;
A flower held captive by a thread so slight
Its petal-wings of broidered gossamer
Are light as the wind, with every wind astir,
Wafting sweet odor, faint and exquisite.
O dainty nursling of the field and sky.
What fairer thing looks up to heaven's blue
And drinks the noontide sun, the dawning's dew?
Thou winged bloom! thou blossom-butterfly!

INA D. COOLBRITH, in _Songs from the Golden Gate._

AUGUST 31.

CALIFORNIA PHILOSOPHY.

You kin talk about yer eastern states, their stiddy growth 'nd size,
'Nd brag about yer cities, with their business enterprise;
You kin blow about tall buildin's runnin' clean up to the clouds,
'Nd gas about yer graded streets 'nd chirp about yer crowds;
But how about yer "twisters" 'nd the cyclones you have there,
That's runnin' 'round uncorralled 'nd a-gittin' on a tear,
'Nd a-mixin' towns 'nd counties up at sich a tarnal rate
A man can't be dead sartin that he's in his native state.

You needn't talk to me about yer "enterprise" 'nd "go,"
Fer how about them river floods us folks hear tell of so,
Where a feller goes to bed at night with nary thought o' fear,
'Nd discovers in the mornin' that he's changed his hemisphere;
'Nd where grasshoppers eat the crops 'nd all about the place,
But leave that gilt-edged mortgage there ter stare you in the face.
If that is where you want ter live it's where you'd orter be,
But I reckon ol' Cal'forny's good 'nough fer me.

I sort o' low the climate thar is somewhat diff'runt too,
Accordin' to the weather prophet's watchful p'int o' view.
In course, if ten foot snowbanks don't bother you at all,
Er slosh 'nd mud 'nd drizzlin' rain, combined with a snowfall,
It's just the most delightful spot this side o' heaven's dome--
But I kind o' sorter reckon that I couldn't call it home.
When you talk about that climate, it's all tomfoolery,
Fer sunny ol' Cal'forny's good enough fer me.

Oh, you live away back east, you don't know what you miss
By stayin' in that measly clime, without the joy an' bliss
Of knowin' what the weather is from one day to the next;
It's "mebby this," "I hope it's that," er some such like pretext.
Come out to Californy' whar the sky is allers bright,
'Nd where the sun shines all the while, with skeerce a cloud in sight;
You'd never pine fer eastern climes--ther's no denyin' that--
Fer when you want a heaven on earth, Los Angeles stands pat.

E.A. BRININSTOOL.

CALIFORNIA.

In all methinks I see the counterpart
Of Italy, without her dower of art.
We have the lordly Alps, the fir-fringed hills,
The green and golden valleys veined with rills,
A dead Vesuvius with its smouldering fire,
A tawny Tiber sweeping to the sea.
Our seasons have the same superb attire,
The same redundant wealth of flower and tree,
Upon our peaks the same imperial dyes,
And day by day, serenely over all,
The same successive months of smiling skies.
Conceive a cross, a tower, a convent wall,
A broken column and a fallen fane,
A chain of crumbling arches down the plain,
A group of brown-faced children by a stream,
A scarlet-skirted maiden standing near,
A monk, a beggar, and a muleteer,
And lo! it is no longer now a dream.
These are the Alps, and there the Apennines;
The fertile plains of Lombardy between;
Beyond Val d'Arno with its flocks and vines,
These granite crags are gray monastic shrines
Perched on the cliffs like old dismantled forts;
And far to seaward can be dimly seen
The marble splendor of Venetian courts;
While one can all but hear the mournful rhythmic beat
Of white-lipped waves along the sea-paved street.
O childless mother of dead empires, we,
The latest born of all the western lands,
In fancied kinship stretch our infant hands
Across the intervening seas to thee.
Thine the immortal twilight, ours the dawn,
Yet we shall have our names to canonize,
Our past to haunt us with its solemn eyes,
Our ruins, when this restless age is gone.

LUCIUS HARWOOD FOOTE.

SEPTEMBER 1.

THE SCARF OF IRIS.

Something magical is near me--hidden, breathing everywhere,
Shaken out in mystic odors, caught unseen in the mid-air.
Life is waking, palpitating; souls of flowers are drawing nigh;
Flitting birds with fluted warble weave between the earth and sky;
And a soft excitement welling from the inmost heart of things
Such a sense of exaltation, such a call to rapture brings,
That my heart--all tremulous with a virgin wonderment--
Waits and yearns and sings in carols of the rain and sunshine blent,
Knowing more will be revealed with the dawning every day--
For the fairy scarf of Iris falls across the common way.

RUBY ARCHER.

SEPTEMBER 2.

To the left as you rode you saw, far on the horizon, rising to the height of your eye, the mountains of the Channel Islands. Then the deep sapphire of the Pacific, fringed with the soft, unchanging white of the surf and the yellow of the shore. Then the town like a little map, and the lush greens of the wide meadows, the fruit-groves, the lesser ranges--all vivid, fertile, brilliant, and pulsating with vitality.

STEWART EDWARD WHITE, in _The Mountains._

SEPTEMBER 3.

Never was garden more unintentionally started, and never did one prove greater source of pleasure. * * * One day, about Christmas time, my little nephew brought me two small twigs of honeysuckle--not slips or shoots, and I stuck them in the ground by the front porch. * * * When it was just eighteen months old honeysuckle vines were twining tenderly about the corner pillars of the porch, drawing their network across to the other support, and covered with bunches of white, creamy tubes, the air heavy with their perfume. * * * The climbing rose had reached the lattice work, and its yellowish flowers formed a most effective contrast to the sky-blue of the sollya blossoms, trained up on the other side of the porch. The beds were edged variously with dark blue violets and pink daisies, above which bloomed salvias, euphorbias, lantanas, tube-roses, forget-me-nots, carnations, white lilies, Japan lilies, iris, primroses, ranunculus, lilies-of-the-valley, pansies, anemones, dahlias, and roses--white, red, pink, yellow, crimson, cream--in the wildest profusion.

JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD McCRACKIN, in _Another Juanita._

SEPTEMBER 4.

AFTERWARD.

A dying moon fell down the sky,
As one looked out to see
The place where once her soul endured
Its lengthened Calvary.
Of all the mem'ries gathered there--
Their faces wan with tears--
One only smiled--a baby's smile--
To rectify the years.

DOROTHEA L. MOORE.

SEPTEMBER 5.

The harvesting of hops is the conjunction of the rude essentials of farm life with the highest effect in art. What artist but would note enthusiastically the inimitable pose of that young girl tip-toeing to bring down the tuft of creamy blossoms overhead; or the modest nudity of the wee bronze savage capering about a stolid squaw in a red sprigged muslin? Indeed, there is indescribable piquancy in this unconscious grouping of the pickers and their freedom from restraint. For each artistic bit--a laughing face in an aureole of amber clusters, a statuesque chin and throat, Indians in grotesquely picturesque raiment, and the yellow visages of the Chinese--the vines make an idyllic framing with a sinking summer sun in the background lending a shimmering transparency to leaf and flower.

NINETTA EAMES, in _Hop-Picking Time, The Cosmopolitan, November_, 1893.

SEPTEMBER 6.

Golf has spread with great rapidity throughout California, and though many people may have taken it up from an idea that it is the correct thing, the game will always be popular, especially in the Southern part of the State, where more people of leisure live than in the Northern part, and where the large infusion of British and Eastern residents tends to foster a love of out-door sports. Golf may be played in any part of Central or Southern California on any day in the year when a gale is not blowing or heavy rain falling. Occasionally the strong winds render golfing somewhat arduous, but the enthusiast can play on about three hundred and fifty days in the year.

ARTHUR INKERSLEY, in _Overland Monthly._

SEPTEMBER 7.

My roses bud and bloom and fail me never,
From Lent and Whitsun to the Christmas time;
Climbing in eagerness and great endeavor--
Our Southland bushes ever love to climb.

JAMES MAIN DIXON, in _My Garden._

How bright the world looked, to be sure; flowers covered the earth, not scattered in niggardly manner as in the older, colder Eastern states, but covering the earth for miles, showing nothing but a sea of blue, an ocean of crimson, or a wilderness of yellow. Then came patches where all shades and colors were mixed; delicate tints of pink and mauve, of pure white and deep red, and over all floated a fragrance that was never equaled by garden-flowers or their distilled perfume.

JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD McCRACKIN, in _Overland Tales._

SEPTEMBER 8.

The love that gives all, craves all, asks nothing, is so bitter that no one lifts the cup voluntarily, and yet if the sweetness of it could be distilled, prosperous love would regard it enviously and kings seek it on foot.

AMANDA MATHEWS, in _Hieroglyphics of Love._

The world will never be saved from its sin and shame until a larger number of men are ready to lash themselves like Ulysses of old to those enduring principles of righteousness which stand erect like masts and sail on, no matter what sirens of personal indulgence sing along the course.

CHARLES REYNOLDS BROWN.

SEPTEMBER 9.

TO CALIFORNIA:

Queen of the Sunset!
Within the crown upon thy forehead glow
The crystal jewels of eternal snow.
Down at thy feet the broad Pacific towers,
And Summer ever binds thy breast with flowers.

MADGE MORRIS WAGNER, in _Debris._

The religious life of California is characterized by the spirit of freedom and tolerance. The aim has been to "Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's," by legislating only in regard to those secular interests in which all stand alike before the law and to leave to the free and untrammeled decision of the individual conscience those deeper, personal attitudes and relationships "which are God's."

CHARLES REYNOLDS BROWN.

SEPTEMBER 10.

Gay little oriole, fond little lover,
Watching thy mate o'er her tiny ones hover,
Tell me, I pray, from your cottonwood tree,
When will my true love come riding to me?

Will he come with his lariat hung at his side?
On a wild prancing bronco, my love, will he ride?
So high on your tree top you surely can see,
O, how will my true love come riding to me?

Sing of my lover and tell me my fate,
Will he guard me as fondly as thou dost thy mate?
Dear oriole, sing, while I listen to thee--
When will my true love come riding to me?

CHARLES KEELER, in _Overland Monthly._

SEPTEMBER 11.

LOOKING BACKWARD!

My heart aches, and a poignant yearning pains
My pulse, as though from revel I had waked
To find sore disenchantment.
Oh for the simple ways of childhood,
And its joys!
Why have I grown so cold and cynical?
My life seems out of tune;
Its notes harsh and discordant;
The crowded thoroughfare doth fret me
And make lonely.
Darkling I muse and yearn
For those glad days of yore,
When my part chorded too,
And I, a merry, trustful boy,
Found consonance in every friend without annoy.
Since then, how changed!
Strained are the strings of friendship; fled the joys;
Seeming the show.
An alien I, unlike, alone!
And yet my mother! The welcome word o'erflows the eye,
And makes the very memory weep.
No, love is not extinct--that sweetest name--
The covering ashes keep alive the flame.

MALCOLM McLEOD, in _Culture Simplicity._

SEPTEMBER 12.

The overgoing sun shines upon no region, of equal extent, which offers so many and such varied inducements to men in search of homes and health, as does the region which is entitled to the appellation of "Semi-Tropical California."

BEN C. TRUMAN, in _Semi-Tropical California._

SEPTEMBER 13.

THE CRESTED JAY.

The jay is a jovial bird--heigh-ho!
He chatters all day
In a frolicsome way
With the murmuring breezes that blow--heigh-ho!
Hear him noisily call
From a redwood tree tall
To his mate in the opposite tree--heigh-ho!
Saying: "How do you do?"
As his top-knot of blue
Is raised as polite as can be--heigh-ho!
O impudent jay,
With your plumage so gay,
And your manners so jaunty and free--heigh-ho!
How little you guessed
When you robbed the wren's nest,
That any stray fellow would see--heigh-ho!

CHARLES KEELER, in _Elfin Songs of Sunland._

SEPTEMBER 14.

It is to prevent the wholesale slaughter of songbirds that I appeal to you. The farmer or the fruit-raiser has not yet learned enough to distinguish friend from foe, and goes gunning in season and out of season, so that the cherry orchard, when the cherries are ripe, looks like a battle-field in miniature, the life-blood of the little slain birds rivaling in color the brightness of their wings and breast. And all this destruction of song, of gladness, of helpfulness, because the poor birds have pecked at a few early cherries, worthless, almost, in the market, as compared to the later, better kinds, which they do not interfere with.

JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD McCRACKIN.

SEPTEMBER 15.

THE VOICE OF THE CALIFORNIA DOVE.

Come, listen O love, to the voice of the dove,
Come, hearken and hear him say,
"There are many Tomorrows, my love, my love,
There is only one Today."

And all day long you can hear him say,
This day in purple is rolled,
And the baby stars of the milky way
They are cradled in cradles of gold.

Now what is thy secret, serene gray dove,
Of singing so sweetly alway?
"There are many Tomorrows, my love, my love,
There is only one Today."

JOAQUIN MILLER.

SEPTEMBER 16.

With the tip of his strong cane he breaks off a piece of the serried bark, and a spider scurries down the side of the log and into the grass. He chips off another piece, and a bevy of sow-bugs make haste to tumble over and play dead, curling their legs under their sides, but recovering their senses and scurrying off after the spider. The cane continues to chip off the bark, and down tumble all sorts of wood-people, some of them hiding like a flash in the first moist earth they come to; others never stopping until they are well under the log, where experience has taught them they will be safe out of harm's way. And they declare to themselves, and to each other, that they will never budge from under that log until it is midnight, and that wicked meadow-lark is fast asleep.

ELIZABETH AND JOSEPH GRINNELL, in _Birds of Song and Story._

SEPTEMBER 17.

SIESTA.

A shady nook where nought is overheard
But wind among the eucalyptus leaves,
The cheery chirp of interflitting bird,
Or wooden squeak of tree-frog as it grieves.
The resting eye broods o'er the running grass,
Or nodding gestures of the bowed wild oats;
Watches the oleander lancers pass,
And the bright flashing of the oriole notes.
Hushed are the senses with the drone of bees
And the far glimmer of the mid-day heat;
Dreams stealing o'er one like the incoming seas,
Soft as the rustling zephyrs in the wheat;
While on the breeze is borne the call of Love
To Love, dear Love, of Majel, the wild dove.

CHARLES ELMER JENNEY, in _Western Field, Dec._, 1905.

SEPTEMBER 18.

One summer there came a road-runner up from the lower valley, peeking and prying, and he never had any patience with the water baths of the sparrows. His own ablutions were performed in the clean, hopeful dust of the chaparral; and whenever he happened on their morning splatterings, he would depress his glossy crest, slant his shining tail to the level of his body, until he looked most like some bright venomous snake, daunting them with shrill abuse and feint of battle. Then suddenly he would go tilting and balancing down the gully in fine disdain, only to return in a day or two to make sure the foolish bodies were still at it.

MARY AUSTIN, in _The Land of Little Rain._

SEPTEMBER 19.

MEADOW LARKS.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy that I am!
(Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!)
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm.
O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the Spring!

Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain?
Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet!
Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain.
The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is!
Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and call.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss--
For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!

INA D. COOLBRITH, in _Songs from the Golden Gate._

SEPTEMBER 20.

How could we spare the lark, that most companionable bird of the plains? Wherever one may wander ... his lovely, plaintive, almost human song may be heard nearly everywhere, at frequent intervals the livelong day. He is one of the blessings of this land, one which every lover of beautiful song welcomes as heartily as the ordinary mortal the warm, bright days of this climate.

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

SEPTEMBER 21.

THE MEADOW LARK AND I.

The song of life is living
The love-heart of the year;
And the pagan meadow-lark and I
Can nothing find to fear.
We build our simple homes
For opulence of rest
Among the hills and the meadow grass,
And sing our grateful best.

RUBY ARCHER.

SEPTEMBER 22.

THE RUBY-CROWNED KNIGHT.

The dominant characteristic of the Ruby-Crown is subtlety. He conceals his nest, and even his nest-building region, so successfully that few there are who know where he breeds, or who ever find his nest, hidden in the shaggy end of a high, swinging branch of spruce or pine, deep in the California mountain recesses. His prettiest trick of concealement is the way he alternately hides and reveals the bright red feathers in his crown. You may watch him a long time, seeing only a wee bit of an olive-green bird, toned with dull yellow underneath, marked on wings and about the eyes with white; but suddenly, a more festive mood comes upon him. The bird is transformed. A jaunty dash of brilliant red upcrests itself upon his head, lighting up his quiet dress.... For several moments this flame of color quivers, then it burns into a mere thread of red and is gone.

VIRGINIA GARLAND, in _Feathered Californians._

SEPTEMBER 23.

SONG OF THE LINNETS.

"Cheer!" "Cheer!" sing the linnets
Through rapturous minutes,
When daylight first breaks
And the golden Dawn streaks
Through the rose of the morning--so bright!
"Gone! gone is the Night! It is light!"

"We have buried our heads
Under eaves of the sheds,
Where our tender broods sleep;
And the long watch we keep
Through the darkness and silence--till dawn.
It is morn! It is morn! It is morn!"

JOHN WARD STIMSON, in _Wandering Chords._

SEPTEMBER 24.

THE HUMMING BIRD.

Buz-z! whir-r!--a flash and away!
A midget bejeweled mid flowers at play!
A snip of a birdling, the blossom-bells' king,
A waif of the sun-beams on quivering wing!
O prince of the fairies, O pygmy of fire,
Will nothing those brave little wings of yours tire?
You follow the flowers from southern lands sunny,
You pry amid petals all summer for honey!
Now rest on a twig, tiny flowerland sprite,
Your dear little lady sits near in delight;
In a wee felted basket she lovingly huddles--
Two dots of white eggs to her warm breast she cuddles!
Whiz-z! whiff! off to your flowers!
Buzz mid the perfume of jasmine bowers!
Chatter and chirrup, my king of the fays,
And laugh at the song that I sing in your praise!

CHARLES KEELER, in _Elfin Songs of Sunland._

SEPTEMBER 25.

THE HUMMING BIRD.

A sudden whirr of eager sound--
And now a something throbs around
The flowers that watch the fountain. Look!
It touched the rose, the green leaves shook,
I think, and yet so lightly tost
That not a spark of dew was lost.
Tell me, O rose, what thing it is
That now appears, now vanishes?
Surely it took its fire-green hue
From day-breaks that it glittered through;
Quick, for this sparkle of the dawn
Glints through the garden and is gone.

EDWIN MARKHAM, in _Lincoln and Other Poems._

SEPTEMBER 26.

She led the way to the climbing rose at the front of the house, and carefully lifting a branch, motioned to the boys to look under it. There, hidden in the leafy covert, no higher than the young girl's chin, was the daintiest nest ever seen, made of soft cotton from the pussy willows by the brook, interwoven with the finest grasses and green mosses, and embroidered with one shining golden thread. And there was wee mother humming-bird, watching them a moment with bright, inquiring eyes, then darting off and poising in the air just above their heads, uncovering two tiny eggs about the size of buckshot, lying in a downy hollow like a thimble.

FLORA HAINES LOUGHEAD, in _The Abandoned Claim._

SEPTEMBER 27.

THE RUSSET-BACKED THRUSH.

He dwells where pine and hemlock grow,
A merry minstrel seldom seen;
The voice of Joy is his I know--
Shy poet of the Evergreen!

In dawn's first holy hush I hear
His one ecstatic, thrilling strain,
So sweet and strong, so crystal clear
'Twould tingle e'en the soul of Pain.

At close of day when Twilight dreams
He shakes the air beneath his tree
With such exquisite song it seems
That Passion breathes through Melody.

HERBERT BASHFORD, in _At the Shrine of Song._

SEPTEMBER 28.

In Marin County birds hold a unique place, for, as the county is sparsely populated, possessing many wild, secluded valleys, and unnumbered rolling hills covered with virgin forests, it is but natural that the birds should congregate in great numbers, reveling in the solitude which man invariably destroys.

HELEN BINGHAM, in _In Tamal Land._

THE ABALONE.

I saw a rainbow, for an instant, gleam,
On the west edge of a receeding swell;
The next soft surge,
Which whispering sought the shore,
Swept to my feet an abalone shell;
It was the rainbow I had seen before.

JOHN E. RICHARDS, in _Idylls of Monterey._

SEPTEMBER 29.

THE SEAGULL.

A ceaseless rover, waif of many climes,
He scorns the tempest, greets the lifting sun
With wings that fling the light and sinks at times
To ride in triumph where the tall waves run.

The rocks tide-worn, the high cliff brown and bare
And crags of bleak, strange shores he rests upon;
He floats above, a moment hangs in air
Clean-etched against the broad, gold breast of dawn.

Bold hunter of the deep! Of thy swift flights
What of them all brings keenest joy to thee--
To drive sharp pinions through storm-beaten nights,
Or shriek amid black hollows of the sea?

HERBERT BASHFORD, in _At the Shrine of Song._

SEPTEMBER 30.

TO A SEA GULL AT SEA.

Thou winged Wonder!
Tell me I pray thy matchless craft,
Poised in air, then slipping wave-ward,
Mounting again like an arrow-shaft,
Circling, swaying, wheeling, dipping,
All with never a flap of wing,
Keeping pace with my flying ship here,
Give me a key to my wondering!
Gales but serve thee for swifter flying,
Foam crested waves with thy wings thou dost sweep,
Wonderful dun-colored, down-covered body,
Living thy life on the face of the deep!

ANNIE W. BRIGMAN.

OCTOBER 1.

THE PASSING OF SUMMER.

She smiled to the hearts that enshrined her,
Then the gold of her banner unfurled
And trailing her glories behind her
Passed over the rim of the world.

HARLEY R. WILEY, in _New England Magazine, October_, 1906.

The California condor, the largest of all flying birds, is found only on this coast and only in the southern half of that, although an occasional specimen has been seen in the high Sierra Neveda. Of all the sailing or soaring birds he is the most graceful and wonderful, drifting to and fro, up and down, right or left, in straight lines or curves, for hours at a time, darting like an arrow or hanging still in air with equal ease on that motionless wing whose power puzzles all philosophy.

T.S. VANDYKE.

OCTOBER 2.

Wild fowl, quacking hordes of them, nest in the tulares. Any day's venture will raise from open shallows the great blue heron on his hollow wings. Chill evenings the mallard drakes cry continually from the glassy pools, the bittern's hollow boom rolls along the water paths. Strange and far-flown fowl drop down against the saffron, autumn sky. All day wings beat above it with lazy speed; long flights of cranes glimmer in the twilight. By night one wakes to hear the clanging geese go over. One wishes for, but gets no nearer speech from those the ready fens have swallowed up. What they do there, how fare, what find, is the secret of the tulares.

MARY AUSTIN, in _The Land of Little Rain._

OCTOBER 3.

MOCKING BIRD.

Warble, whistle and ripple! wake! whip up! ha! ha!
Burgle, bubble and frolic--a roundelay far!
Pearls on pearls break and roll like bright drops from a bowl!
And they thrill, as they spill in a rill, o'er my soul:
Then thou laughest so light
From thy rapturous height!
Earth and Heaven are combined, in thy full dulcet tone;
North and south pour the nectar thy throat blends in one!
Flute and flageolet, bugle, light zither, guitar!
Diamond, topaz and ruby! Sun, moon, silver star!
Ripe cherries in wine!
Orange blossoms divine!
Genius of Songsters! so matchless in witchery!
Nature hath fashioned thee out of her mystery!

JOHN WARD STIMSON, in _Wandering Chords._

OCTOBER 4.

THE MOCKING BIRD.

Can anything be more ecstatic than the mockingbird's manner as he pours out his soul in song, flirting that expressive tail--that seems hung on wires, jerking those emphatic wings, which say so much, turning his dainty head this way and that, and now and then flinging himself upon the air--light as a feather--in pure delight, and floating down to place again without dropping a note. It is a poem in action to see him, so lithe, so graceful in every movement.

OLIVE THORNE MILLER.

OCTOBER 5.

THE MOCKING BIRD.

Each flower a single fragrance gives,
But not the perfume of the rest;
Within each fruit one flavor lives,
Not all the flavors of our quest;
In every bird one song we note
That seems the sweeter without words;
Yet from the mock-bird's mellow throat
Come all the songs of other birds.

FRED EMERSON BROOKS, in _Pickett's Charge and Other Poems._

OCTOBER 6.

When a mocking-bird looks squarely at you, not turning his head one side, and then the other, like most birds, but showing his front face and using both eyes at once, like an owl--when he looks squarely at you in this way, he shows a wise, wise face. You almost believe he could speak if he would, and you cannot resist the feeling that he is more intelligent than he has any right to be, having behind those clear, sharp eyes, only "blind instinct," as the wise men say.

OLIVE THORNE MILLER.

A sunset in San Juan is truly worth crossing either a continent or an ocean to witness, when the ranges toward La Paz are purple where the sage-brush is, and rose-color where the rains have washed the steep places to the clay, and over all of mesa and mountain the soft glory of golden haze.

MARAH ELLIS RYAN, in _For the Soul of Rafael._

OCTOBER 7.

THE MOCKING BIRD.

He has an agreeable way of improving upon the original of any song he imitates, so that he is supposed to give free music-lessons to all the other birds. His own notes, belonging solely to himself, are beautiful and varied, and he sandwiches them in between the rest in a way to suit the best. No matter who is the victim of his mimicry, he loves the corner of a chimney better than any other perch, and carols out into the sky and down into the black abyss as if chimneys were made on purpose for mocking-birds.

ELIZABETH AND JOSEPH GRINNELL, in _Birds of Song and Story._

OCTOBER 8.

I love the mocking-bird; not because he is a wonderful musician, for--as I have heard him--that he is not; nor because he has a sweet disposition, for that he certainly has not, but because of his mysterious habit of singing at night, which seems to differentiate him from his kind, and approach him to the human; because of his rapturous manner of song, his joy of living; because he shows so much character, and so much intelligence.

OLIVE THORNE MILLER.

The lift of every man's heart is upward; to help another human soul in its upward evolution is life's greatest and most joyful privilege; to lend ourselves each to the other as an inspiration to grander living is life's highest ministry and reward.

DANA W. BARTLETT, in _The Better City._

OCTOBER 9.

THE WATER OUZEL.

The vertical curves and angles of the most precipitous torrents he traces with the same rigid fidelity, swooping down the inclines of cascades, dropping sheer over dizzy falls amid the spray, and ascending with the same fearlessness and ease, seldom seeking to lessen the steepness of the acclivity by beginning to ascend before reaching the base of the fall. No matter though it may be several hundred feet in height he holds straight on, as if about to dash headlong into the throng of booming rockets, and darts abruptly up ward, and, after alighting at the top of the precipice to rest a moment, proceeds to feed and sing.

JOHN MUIR, in _The Mountains of California._

OCTOBER 10.

Who can hear the wild song of the ouzel and not feel an answering thrill? Perched upon a rock in the midst of the rapids, he is the incarnation of all that is untamed, a wild spirit of the mountain stream, as free as a raindrop or a sunbeam. How solitary he is, a lone little bird, flitting from rock to rock through the desolate gorge, like some spirit in a Stygian world. Yet he sings continually as he takes his solitary way along the stream, and bursts of melody, so eerie and sylvan as to fire the imagination, come to the ear, sounding above the roar of the torrent. Like Orpheus, he seeks in the nether world of that wild gorge for his Eurydice, now dashing through the rapids, now peering into some pool, as if to discern her fond image in its depths, and calling ever to lure her thence from that dark retreat up into the world of light and love.

C.H. KIRKHAM, in _In the Open._

OCTOBER 11.

TO LOS ANGELES.

May this great city of Los Angeles, destined to be a mighty metropolis, flanked by the mountains and the sea, grow in the spirit of charity and toleration between man and man, and in the fear and love of God. May our city ever remain a fair virgin, sought for by the valiant sons from all lands, adorned with the wealth of the golden orange and caressed by the clinging vine.

(_Fiach Fionn_) LAURENCE BRANNICK.

OCTOBER 12.

Like most of the early cities of the coast, Los Angeles owes its origin to the proselyting enthusiasm of the Spanish priesthood. The Mission of San Gabriel had been in existence ten years, and it had gathered several thousand Indians under its guardianship when it was proposed to establish a pueblo in that vicinity in order that a temporal development might proceed together with the spiritual. Had there been no mission at San Gabriel to hold the savages in check by the force of a religious awe, and to lead them to industrial pursuits, there probably would have been no founding of a city on the lands above the Los Angeles river--at least not until some date half a century later.

C.D. WILLARD, in _History of the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce._

MY CREED.

I believe the best I can think, being fully persuaded that if this be not true, it is because the truth transcends my present power of thought.

BENJAMIN FAY MILLS.

OCTOBER 13.

THE BEAUTIES OF LOS ANGELES.

So beautiful for situation, between its guardian mountain ranges and the smiling sea, so wonderful in its resources and its possibilities is this charming valley of ours, that one cannot reasonably doubt that its manifest destiny is to be a world sanitarium. * * * To him who seeks it wisely here, no demand of necessity, comfort or luxury is impossible.

MADAME CAROLINE SEVERANCE, in _The Mother of Clubs._

OCTOBER 14.

The entire situation with regard to manufacturing in Southern California has undergone a radical change in the last few years, by reason of the discovery of oil in great quantities in and around Los Angeles, and in other sections of Southern and Central California. This puts an entirely new face on the fuel question, and removes, in a great measure, what has always been the most serious problem in manufacturing development.

C.D. WILLARD, in _History of the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce._

A fog had drifted in during the night and was still tangled in the tops of the sycamores. The soft, humid air was sweet with the earthy scents of the canyon, and the curled fallen leaves of the live-oaks along the flume path were golden-brown with moisture. Beads of mist fringed the silken fluffs of the clematis, dripping with gentle, rhythmical insistence from the trees overhead.

MARGARET COLLIER GRAHAM, in _Stories of the Foothills._

OCTOBER 15.

All believed they were located over an inexhaustible, subterranean lake of oil, and Oilville, city of tents and shacks, within a month had acquired the recklessness, the devil-may-care air of a mining camp, or the Pennsylvania oil fields. * * * Then there was a pause in the work, for the experts decided that the new oil which spouted forth in such vast quantities was too heavy and malodorous to serve as an illuminant. Presently, however, it was discovered that this defect was a virtue, for here was a non-explosive petroleum that could be utilized in great quantities as a fuel, and work was hastened with renewed vigor, for now California possessed the monopoly of the one great need, not only of herself, but of all the world.

MRS. FREMONT OLDER, in _The Giants._

OCTOBER 16.

SAN PEDRO.

MORNING.
A smooth, smooth sea of gray, gray glass;
An open sea, where big ships pass
Into the sun;
A boat-dotted harbor; gulls, wheeling and screaming,
And surf-song and fisher-cry end our night's dreaming.
Day has begun.

EVENING.
A broken sea of rosy jade;
A rose-pink sky; black ships that fade
Into the night;
Across the bay, the city seems
But elfin music, drowsy dreams
And silver light!

OLIVE PERCIVAL.

OCTOBER 17.

SUNSET IN SAN DIEGO.

The city sits amid her palms;
The perfume of her twilight breath
Is something as the sacred balms
That bound sweet Jesus after death,
Such soft, warm twilight sense as lie
Against the gates of Paradise.
Such prayerful palms, wide palms upreached!
This sea mist is as incense smoke,
Yon ancient walls a sermon preached,
White lily with a heart of oak.
And O, this twilight! O the grace
Of twilight on my lifted face.

JOAQUIN MILLER, in _Collected Poems._

OCTOBER 18.

AT EVENTIDE.

Behind Point Loma's beacon height
In shimmering waves of grey and gold
The winter sunset dies; and Night
Drops her dusk mantle, fold on fold,
At Eventide.

And now, above yon shadowy line
That faintly limns the distant bar,
Through darkening paths, with steps that shine,
She comes at last, our favorite star,
At Eventide.

O friend, our lives are far apart
As Western sea from Eastern shore!
But in their orisons, dear heart,
Our souls are with you, evermore,
At Eventide.

MARY E. MANNIX.

OCTOBER 19.

THE DOUGLAS SQUIRREL.