FEBRUARY 8.
A few years ago this valley of San Gabriel was a long open stretch of wavy slopes and low rolling hills; in winter robed in velvety green and spangled with myriads of flowers all strange to Eastern eyes; in summer brown with sun-dried grass, or silvery gray where the light rippled over the wild oats. Here and there stood groves of huge live-oaks, beneath whose broad, time-bowed heads thousands of cattle stamped away the noons of summer. Around the old mission, whose bells have rung o'er the valley for a century, a few houses were grouped; but beyond this there was scarcely a sign of man's work except the far-off speck of a herdsman looming in the mirage, or the white walls of the old Spanish ranch-house glimmering afar through the hazy sunshine in which the silent land lay always sleeping.
T.S. VAN DYKE,inSouthern California.
FEBRUARY 9.
The surroundings of Monterey could not well be more beautiful if they had been gotten up to order. Hills, gently rising, the chain broken here and there by a more abrupt peak, environ the city, crowned with dark pines and the famous cypress of Monterey (Cypressus macrocarpa.) Before us the bay lies calm and blue, and away across, can be seen the town of Santa Cruz, an indistinct white gleam on the mountain side.
JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD McCRACKIN,inAnother Juanita.
LOS ALTOS.
The lark sends up a carol blithe,Bloom-billows scent the breeze,Green-robed the rolling foot-hills riseAnd poppies paint the leas.
The lark sends up a carol blithe,Bloom-billows scent the breeze,Green-robed the rolling foot-hills riseAnd poppies paint the leas.
The lark sends up a carol blithe,
Bloom-billows scent the breeze,
Green-robed the rolling foot-hills rise
And poppies paint the leas.
HANNA OTIS BRUN.
FEBRUARY 10.
SANTA BARBARA.
A golden bay 'neath soft blue skies,Where on a hillside creamy riseThe mission towers, whose patron saintIs Barbara—with legend quaint.
A golden bay 'neath soft blue skies,Where on a hillside creamy riseThe mission towers, whose patron saintIs Barbara—with legend quaint.
A golden bay 'neath soft blue skies,
Where on a hillside creamy rise
The mission towers, whose patron saint
Is Barbara—with legend quaint.
HELEN ELLIOTT BANDINI,inHistory of California.
Dare to be free. Free to do the thing you crave to do and that craves the doing. Free to live in that higher realm where none is fit to criticise save one's self. Free to scorn ridicule, to face contempt, to brave remorse. Free to give life to the one human soul that can demand and grant such a boon—one's own self.
MIRIAM MICHELSON,inAnthony Overman.
FEBRUARY 11.
In Carmel pines the summer windSings like a distant sea.O harps of green, your murmurs findAn echoing chord in me!On Carmel shore the breakers moanLike pines that breast the gale.O whence, ye winds and billows, flownTo cry your wordless tale?
In Carmel pines the summer windSings like a distant sea.O harps of green, your murmurs findAn echoing chord in me!On Carmel shore the breakers moanLike pines that breast the gale.O whence, ye winds and billows, flownTo cry your wordless tale?
In Carmel pines the summer wind
Sings like a distant sea.
O harps of green, your murmurs find
An echoing chord in me!
On Carmel shore the breakers moan
Like pines that breast the gale.
O whence, ye winds and billows, flown
To cry your wordless tale?
GEORGE STERLING,inA Wine of Wizardry and Other Poems.
OAKLAND—BERKELEY—ALAMEDA.
O close-clasped towns across the bay,Whose lights like gleaming jewels stray,A ruby, golden, splendid way,When day from earth has flown.I watch you lighting night by night,O twisted strands of jewels bright,The altar-fires of home, alight—I who am all alone.
O close-clasped towns across the bay,Whose lights like gleaming jewels stray,A ruby, golden, splendid way,When day from earth has flown.I watch you lighting night by night,O twisted strands of jewels bright,The altar-fires of home, alight—I who am all alone.
O close-clasped towns across the bay,
Whose lights like gleaming jewels stray,
A ruby, golden, splendid way,
When day from earth has flown.
I watch you lighting night by night,
O twisted strands of jewels bright,
The altar-fires of home, alight—
I who am all alone.
GRACE HIBBARD,inForget-me-nots from California.
FEBRUARY 12.
On the Berkeley Hills for miles awayI went a-roaming one winter's day,And what do you think I saw, my dear?A place where the sky came down to the hill,And a big white cloud on the fresh green grass,And bright red berries my basket to fill,And mustard that grew in a golden mass—All on a winter's day, my dear!
On the Berkeley Hills for miles awayI went a-roaming one winter's day,And what do you think I saw, my dear?A place where the sky came down to the hill,And a big white cloud on the fresh green grass,And bright red berries my basket to fill,And mustard that grew in a golden mass—All on a winter's day, my dear!
On the Berkeley Hills for miles away
I went a-roaming one winter's day,
And what do you think I saw, my dear?
A place where the sky came down to the hill,
And a big white cloud on the fresh green grass,
And bright red berries my basket to fill,
And mustard that grew in a golden mass—
All on a winter's day, my dear!
CHARLES KEELER,inElfin Songs of Sunland.
FEBRUARY 13.
THE SUNSET GUN AT ANGEL ISLAND
A touch of night on the hill-tops gray;A dusky hush on the quivering Bay;A calm moon mounting the silent East—White slave the day-god has released;Small, scattered cloudsThat seemed to waitLike sheets of fireO'er the Golden Gate.And under Bonita, growing dim.With a seeming pause on the ocean's rim,Like a weary lab'rer, smiles the sunTo the booming crash of the sunset gun.
A touch of night on the hill-tops gray;A dusky hush on the quivering Bay;A calm moon mounting the silent East—White slave the day-god has released;Small, scattered cloudsThat seemed to waitLike sheets of fireO'er the Golden Gate.And under Bonita, growing dim.With a seeming pause on the ocean's rim,Like a weary lab'rer, smiles the sunTo the booming crash of the sunset gun.
A touch of night on the hill-tops gray;
A dusky hush on the quivering Bay;
A calm moon mounting the silent East—
White slave the day-god has released;
Small, scattered clouds
That seemed to wait
Like sheets of fire
O'er the Golden Gate.
And under Bonita, growing dim.
With a seeming pause on the ocean's rim,
Like a weary lab'rer, smiles the sun
To the booming crash of the sunset gun.
LOWELL OTUS REESE.
FEBRUARY 14.
MY VALENTINE.
My valentine needs not this dayOf Cupid's undisputed swayTo have my loving heart discloseThe love for her that brightly glows;For it is hers alway, alway.Whate'er the fickle world may say,There's nought within its fair arrayThat for a moment could deposeMy valentine.Where'er the paths of life may stray,'Mid valleys dark or gardens gay,With holly wild or blushing rose,Through summer's gleam or winter's snows,Thou art, dear love, for aye and aye.My valentine.
My valentine needs not this dayOf Cupid's undisputed swayTo have my loving heart discloseThe love for her that brightly glows;For it is hers alway, alway.Whate'er the fickle world may say,There's nought within its fair arrayThat for a moment could deposeMy valentine.Where'er the paths of life may stray,'Mid valleys dark or gardens gay,With holly wild or blushing rose,Through summer's gleam or winter's snows,Thou art, dear love, for aye and aye.My valentine.
My valentine needs not this day
Of Cupid's undisputed sway
To have my loving heart disclose
The love for her that brightly glows;
For it is hers alway, alway.
Whate'er the fickle world may say,
There's nought within its fair array
That for a moment could depose
My valentine.
Where'er the paths of life may stray,
'Mid valleys dark or gardens gay,
With holly wild or blushing rose,
Through summer's gleam or winter's snows,
Thou art, dear love, for aye and aye.
My valentine.
CLIFFORD HOWARD.
FEBRUARY 15.
JOAQUIN MILLER'S HOME ON THE HIGHTS.
∗ ∗ ∗
∗ ∗ ∗
Rugged! Rugged as Parnassus!Rude, as all roads I have trod—Yet are steeps and stone-strewn passesSmooth o'erhead, and nearest God.Here black thunders of my canyonShake its walls in Titan wars!Here white sea-born clouds companionWith such peaks as know the stars.∗ ∗ ∗Steep below me lies the valley,Deep below me lies the town,Where great sea-ships ride and rally,And the world walks up and down.O, the sea of lights far streamingWhen the thousand flags are furled—When the gleaming bay lies dreamingAs it duplicates the world.
Rugged! Rugged as Parnassus!Rude, as all roads I have trod—Yet are steeps and stone-strewn passesSmooth o'erhead, and nearest God.Here black thunders of my canyonShake its walls in Titan wars!Here white sea-born clouds companionWith such peaks as know the stars.
Rugged! Rugged as Parnassus!
Rude, as all roads I have trod—
Yet are steeps and stone-strewn passes
Smooth o'erhead, and nearest God.
Here black thunders of my canyon
Shake its walls in Titan wars!
Here white sea-born clouds companion
With such peaks as know the stars.
∗ ∗ ∗
Steep below me lies the valley,Deep below me lies the town,Where great sea-ships ride and rally,And the world walks up and down.O, the sea of lights far streamingWhen the thousand flags are furled—When the gleaming bay lies dreamingAs it duplicates the world.
Steep below me lies the valley,
Deep below me lies the town,
Where great sea-ships ride and rally,
And the world walks up and down.
O, the sea of lights far streaming
When the thousand flags are furled—
When the gleaming bay lies dreaming
As it duplicates the world.
∗ ∗ ∗
∗ ∗ ∗
JOAQUIN MILLER.
FEBRUARY 16.
I have watched the ships sailing and steaming in through the Golden Gate, and they seemed like doves of peace bringing messages of good-will from all the world. In the still night, when the scream of the engine's whistle would reach my ears, I would reflect upon the fact that though dwelling in a city whose boundaries were almost at the verge of our nation's great territory, yet we were linked to it by bands of steel, and Plymouth Rock did not seem so far from Shag Rock, nor Bedloe's Island from Alcatraz.
LORENZO SOSSO,inWisdom of the Wise.
FEBRUARY 17.
We believe that when future generations shall come to write our history they will find that in this city of San Francisco we have been true to our ideals; that we have struggled along as men who struggle, not always unfalteringly, but at least always with a good heart; that we have tried to do our duty by our town and by our country and by the people who look to us for light, and that history will be able to say of San Francisco that she has been true to her trust as the "Warder of two continents"; that she has been the jewel set in the place where the ends of the ring had met; that she is the mistress of the great sea which spreads before us, and of the people who hunger for light, for truth, and for civilization; that she stands for truth, a flaming signal set upon the sentinel hills, calling all the nations to the blessings of the freedom which we enjoy.
FATHER P.C. YORKE,inThe Warder of Two Continents.
FEBRUARY 18.
FROM THE MOUNTAIN TOPS, LOOKING TOWARDS SAN FRANCISCO BAY.
From the mountain tops we see the valleys stretching out for leagues below. The eye travels over the tilled fields and the blossoming orchards, through the tall trees and along the verdant meadows that are watered by the mountain streams. Beyond the valley rolls the ocean, whereon we see the armored vessels, and the pleasure yachts, and the merchant ships, laden with the grain of our golden shores, sailing under every flag that floats the sea.
LAURENCE BRANNICK.
FEBRUARY 19.
THE POET'S SONG.
I gather flowers on moss-paved woodland waysI roam with poets dead in tranced amaze;Soon must my wild-wood sheaf be cast away,But in my heart the poet's song shall stay.
I gather flowers on moss-paved woodland waysI roam with poets dead in tranced amaze;Soon must my wild-wood sheaf be cast away,But in my heart the poet's song shall stay.
I gather flowers on moss-paved woodland ways
I roam with poets dead in tranced amaze;
Soon must my wild-wood sheaf be cast away,
But in my heart the poet's song shall stay.
CHARLES KEELER,inA Season's Sowing.
FEBRUARY 20.
Morning of fleet-arrive was splandid. By early hour of day all S.F. persons has clustered therselves on tip of hills and suppression of excitement was enjoyed. Considerable watching occurred. Barking of dogs was strangled by collars, infant babies which desired to weep was spanked for prevention of. Silences. Depressed banners was held in American hands to get ready wave it.
Many persons in Sabbath clothings was there, including 1,000 Japanese spies which were very nice behaviour. I was nationally proud of them.
Of suddenly, Oh!!!
Through the Goldy Gate, what see? Maglificent sight of marine insurance! Floating war-boats of dozens approaching directly straight by line and shooting salutes at people. On come them Imperial Navy of Hon. Roosevelt and Hon. Hobson; what heart could quit beating at it? Such white paint—like bath tub enamel, only more respectful in appearance. ∗ ∗ ∗
From collected ½ million of persons on hills of S.F. one mad yell of star-spangly joy. Fire-crack salute, siren whistle, honk-horn, megaphone, extra edition, tenor solo—all connected together to give impressions of loyal panderonium.
WALLACE IRWIN,inLetters of a Japanese Schoolboy.
FEBRUARY 21.
CALIFORNIA TO THE FLEET.
Behold, upon thy yellow sands,I wait with laurels in my hands.The Golden Gate swings wide and thereI stand with poppies in my hair.Come in, O ships! These happy seasCaressed the golden argosiesOf forty-nine. They felt the keelOf dark Ayala's pinnace stealAcross the mellow gulf and passUnchallenged, under Alcatraz.Not War we love, but Peace, and theseAre but the White Dove's argosies—The symbols of a mighty willNo tyrant hand may use for ill.
Behold, upon thy yellow sands,I wait with laurels in my hands.The Golden Gate swings wide and thereI stand with poppies in my hair.Come in, O ships! These happy seasCaressed the golden argosiesOf forty-nine. They felt the keelOf dark Ayala's pinnace stealAcross the mellow gulf and passUnchallenged, under Alcatraz.Not War we love, but Peace, and theseAre but the White Dove's argosies—The symbols of a mighty willNo tyrant hand may use for ill.
Behold, upon thy yellow sands,
I wait with laurels in my hands.
The Golden Gate swings wide and there
I stand with poppies in my hair.
Come in, O ships! These happy seas
Caressed the golden argosies
Of forty-nine. They felt the keel
Of dark Ayala's pinnace steal
Across the mellow gulf and pass
Unchallenged, under Alcatraz.
Not War we love, but Peace, and these
Are but the White Dove's argosies—
The symbols of a mighty will
No tyrant hand may use for ill.
DANIEL S. RICHARDSON,inTrail Dust.
FEBRUARY 22.
The splendors of a Sierra sunset cannot be accurately delineated by pencil or brush. The combined pigments of a Hill and a Moran and a Bierstadt cannot adequately reproduce so gorgeous a canvas. The lingering sun floods all the west with flame; it touches with scarlet tint the serrated outlines of the distant summits and hangs with golden fringe each silvery cloud. Then the colors soften and turn into amber and lilac and maroon. These soon assimilate and dissolve and leave an ashes of rose haze on all far-away objects, when receding twilight spreads its veil and shuts from view all but the mountain outlines, the giant taxodiums and the fantastic fissures of the canyons beneath.
BEN C. TRUMAN,inOccidental Sketches.
FEBRUARY 23.
GOLDEN GATE PARK IN MIDWINTER.
The dewdrops hang on the bending grass,A dragon-fly cuts a sunbeam through.The moaning cypress trees lift somber armsUp to skies of cloudless blue.A humming-bird sips from a golden cup,In the hedge a hidden bird sings,And a butterfly among the flowersTells me that the soul has wings.
The dewdrops hang on the bending grass,A dragon-fly cuts a sunbeam through.The moaning cypress trees lift somber armsUp to skies of cloudless blue.A humming-bird sips from a golden cup,In the hedge a hidden bird sings,And a butterfly among the flowersTells me that the soul has wings.
The dewdrops hang on the bending grass,
A dragon-fly cuts a sunbeam through.
The moaning cypress trees lift somber arms
Up to skies of cloudless blue.
A humming-bird sips from a golden cup,
In the hedge a hidden bird sings,
And a butterfly among the flowers
Tells me that the soul has wings.
GRACE HIBBARD,inWild Roses of California.
FEBRUARY 24.
Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.
JOHN MUIR.
It was indeed a glorious morning. The bay, a molten blaze of many blended hues, bore upon its serene surface the flags of all nations, above which brooded the white doves of peace. Crafts of every conceivable description swung in the flame-lit fathoms that laved the feet of the stately hills, then stepping out, one by one, from their gossamer night robes to receive the first kiss of dawn.
Grim Alcatraz, girdled with bristling armaments, scintillating in the sun, suggested the presence of some monster leviathan, emerging from the deep, still undivested of gems, from his submarine home.
EUGENIA KELLOGG,inThe Awakening of Poccalito.
FEBRUARY 25.
THE SIERRA NEVADAS
They watch and guard the sleeping dellsWhere ice born torrents flow—A myriad granite sentinels,Helmed and cuirassed with snow.∗ ∗ ∗Yon glacial torrent's deep, hoarse luteIts upward music flings—The great, eternal crags stand mute,And listen while it singsO mighty range! Thy wounds and scars,Thy weird, bewildering forms,Attest thine everlasting wars—Thy heritage of stormsAnd still what peace! SerenityOn crag and deep abyss,O, may such calmness fall on meWhen Azrael stoops to kiss.
They watch and guard the sleeping dellsWhere ice born torrents flow—A myriad granite sentinels,Helmed and cuirassed with snow.
They watch and guard the sleeping dells
Where ice born torrents flow—
A myriad granite sentinels,
Helmed and cuirassed with snow.
∗ ∗ ∗
Yon glacial torrent's deep, hoarse luteIts upward music flings—The great, eternal crags stand mute,And listen while it singsO mighty range! Thy wounds and scars,Thy weird, bewildering forms,Attest thine everlasting wars—Thy heritage of stormsAnd still what peace! SerenityOn crag and deep abyss,O, may such calmness fall on meWhen Azrael stoops to kiss.
Yon glacial torrent's deep, hoarse lute
Its upward music flings—
The great, eternal crags stand mute,
And listen while it sings
O mighty range! Thy wounds and scars,
Thy weird, bewildering forms,
Attest thine everlasting wars—
Thy heritage of storms
And still what peace! Serenity
On crag and deep abyss,
O, may such calmness fall on me
When Azrael stoops to kiss.
GEORGE N. LOWE.
FEBRUARY 26.
Tamalpais is a wooded mountain with ample slopes, and from it on the north stretch away ridges of forest land, the out posts of the great Northern woods ofSequoia sempervirens, This mountain and the mountainous country to the south bring the forest closer to San Francisco than to any other American city. Within the last few years men have killed deer on the slopes of Tamalpais and looked down to see the cable cars crawling up the hills of San Francisco to the south. In the suburbs coyotes still stole in and robbed hen roosts by night.
WILL IRWIN,inThe City That Was.
FEBRUARY 27.
DAWN ON MOUNT TAMALPAIS.
A cloudless heaven is bending o'er us,The dawn is lighting the linn and lea;Island and headland and bay before us,And, dim in the distance, the heaving sea.The Farallon light is faintly flashing,The birds are wheeling in fitful flocks,The coast-line brightens, the waves are dashingAnd tossing their spray on the Lobos rocks.The Heralds of Morn in the east are glowingAnd boldly lifting the veil of night;Whitney and Shasta are bravely showingTheir crowns of snow in the morning light.The town is stirring with faint commotion,In all its highways it throbs and thrills;We greet you! Queen of the Western Ocean,As you wake to life on your hundred hills.The forts salute, and the flags are streamingFrom ships at anchor in cove and strait;O'er the mountain tops, in splendor beaming,The sun looks down on the Golden Gate.
A cloudless heaven is bending o'er us,The dawn is lighting the linn and lea;Island and headland and bay before us,And, dim in the distance, the heaving sea.The Farallon light is faintly flashing,The birds are wheeling in fitful flocks,The coast-line brightens, the waves are dashingAnd tossing their spray on the Lobos rocks.The Heralds of Morn in the east are glowingAnd boldly lifting the veil of night;Whitney and Shasta are bravely showingTheir crowns of snow in the morning light.The town is stirring with faint commotion,In all its highways it throbs and thrills;We greet you! Queen of the Western Ocean,As you wake to life on your hundred hills.The forts salute, and the flags are streamingFrom ships at anchor in cove and strait;O'er the mountain tops, in splendor beaming,The sun looks down on the Golden Gate.
A cloudless heaven is bending o'er us,
The dawn is lighting the linn and lea;
Island and headland and bay before us,
And, dim in the distance, the heaving sea.
The Farallon light is faintly flashing,
The birds are wheeling in fitful flocks,
The coast-line brightens, the waves are dashing
And tossing their spray on the Lobos rocks.
The Heralds of Morn in the east are glowing
And boldly lifting the veil of night;
Whitney and Shasta are bravely showing
Their crowns of snow in the morning light.
The town is stirring with faint commotion,
In all its highways it throbs and thrills;
We greet you! Queen of the Western Ocean,
As you wake to life on your hundred hills.
The forts salute, and the flags are streaming
From ships at anchor in cove and strait;
O'er the mountain tops, in splendor beaming,
The sun looks down on the Golden Gate.
LUCIUS HARWOOD FOOTE.
FEBRUARY 28.
ENOUGH.
When my calm majestic mountains are piled white and highAgainst the perfect rose-tints of a living sunrise sky,I can resign the dearest wish without a single sigh,And let the whole world's restlessness pass all unheeded by.
When my calm majestic mountains are piled white and highAgainst the perfect rose-tints of a living sunrise sky,I can resign the dearest wish without a single sigh,And let the whole world's restlessness pass all unheeded by.
When my calm majestic mountains are piled white and high
Against the perfect rose-tints of a living sunrise sky,
I can resign the dearest wish without a single sigh,
And let the whole world's restlessness pass all unheeded by.
MARY RUSSELL MILLS.
FEBRUARY 29.
MARSHALL SAUNDERS ON SAN FRANCISCO.
How we all love a city that we have once contemplated making our home! Such a city to me is San Francisco, and but for unavoidable duties elsewhere, I would be there today. I loved that bright, beautiful city, and even the mention of its name sends my blood bounding more quickly through my veins. That might have beenmycity, and I therefore rejoice in its prosperity. I am distressed when calamity overtakes it—I never lose faith in its ultimate success. The heart of the city is sound. It has always been sound, even in the early days when a ring of corrupt adventurers would have salted the city of the blessed herb with an unsavory reputation, but for the care of staunch and courageous protectors at the heart of it.
San Francisco is not the back door of the continent. San Francisco is the front door. Every ship sailing out of its magnificent bay to the Orient, proclaims this fact. San Francisco will one day lead the continent. A city that cares for its poor and helpless, its children and dumb animals, that encourages art and learning, and never wearies in its prosecution of evil-doers—that city will eventually emerge triumphant from every cloud of evil report. Long live the dear city by the Golden Gate!
MARSHALL SAUNDERS,July, 1909.
"Senor Barrow, I congratulate you," Morale said, in his native tongue. "A woman who cannot be won away by passion or by chance, is a woman of gold."
GERTRUDE B. MILLARD,inOn the Ciudad Road, The Newsletter, Jan., 1899.
AT THE PRESIDIO OF SAN FRANCISCO.
The rose and honey-suckle here entwineIn lovely comradeship their am'rous arms;Here grasses spread their undecaying charms.And every wall is eloquent with vine;Far-reaching avenues make beckoning sign,And as we stroll along their tree-lined way,The songster trills his rapture-breathing layFrom where he finds inviolable shrine.And yet, within this beauty-haunted placeWar keeps his dreadful engines at command.With scarce a smile upon his frowning face,And ever ready, unrelaxing hand ...We start to see, when dreaming in these bowers,A tiger sleeping on a bed of flowers.
The rose and honey-suckle here entwineIn lovely comradeship their am'rous arms;Here grasses spread their undecaying charms.And every wall is eloquent with vine;Far-reaching avenues make beckoning sign,And as we stroll along their tree-lined way,The songster trills his rapture-breathing layFrom where he finds inviolable shrine.And yet, within this beauty-haunted placeWar keeps his dreadful engines at command.With scarce a smile upon his frowning face,And ever ready, unrelaxing hand ...We start to see, when dreaming in these bowers,A tiger sleeping on a bed of flowers.
The rose and honey-suckle here entwine
In lovely comradeship their am'rous arms;
Here grasses spread their undecaying charms.
And every wall is eloquent with vine;
Far-reaching avenues make beckoning sign,
And as we stroll along their tree-lined way,
The songster trills his rapture-breathing lay
From where he finds inviolable shrine.
And yet, within this beauty-haunted place
War keeps his dreadful engines at command.
With scarce a smile upon his frowning face,
And ever ready, unrelaxing hand ...
We start to see, when dreaming in these bowers,
A tiger sleeping on a bed of flowers.
EDWARD ROBESON TAYLOR,inMoods and Other Verse.
MARCH 1.
THE CITY'S VOICE.
A mighty undertone of mingled sound;The cadent tumult rising from a throngOf urban workers, blending in a songOf greater life that makes the pulses bound.The whirr of turning wheels, the hammers' ringThe noise of traffic and the tread of men,The viol's sigh, the scratching of a pen—All to a vibrant Whole their echoes fling.Hark to the City's voice; it tells a taleOf triumphs and defeats, of joy and woe,The lover's tryst, the challenge of a foe,A dying gasp, a new-born infant's wail.The pulse-beats of a million hearts combined,Reverberating in a rhythmic thrill—A vital message that is never still—A sweeping, cosmic chorus, unconfined.
A mighty undertone of mingled sound;The cadent tumult rising from a throngOf urban workers, blending in a songOf greater life that makes the pulses bound.The whirr of turning wheels, the hammers' ringThe noise of traffic and the tread of men,The viol's sigh, the scratching of a pen—All to a vibrant Whole their echoes fling.Hark to the City's voice; it tells a taleOf triumphs and defeats, of joy and woe,The lover's tryst, the challenge of a foe,A dying gasp, a new-born infant's wail.The pulse-beats of a million hearts combined,Reverberating in a rhythmic thrill—A vital message that is never still—A sweeping, cosmic chorus, unconfined.
A mighty undertone of mingled sound;
The cadent tumult rising from a throng
Of urban workers, blending in a song
Of greater life that makes the pulses bound.
The whirr of turning wheels, the hammers' ring
The noise of traffic and the tread of men,
The viol's sigh, the scratching of a pen—
All to a vibrant Whole their echoes fling.
Hark to the City's voice; it tells a tale
Of triumphs and defeats, of joy and woe,
The lover's tryst, the challenge of a foe,
A dying gasp, a new-born infant's wail.
The pulse-beats of a million hearts combined,
Reverberating in a rhythmic thrill—
A vital message that is never still—
A sweeping, cosmic chorus, unconfined.
LOUIS J. STELLMANN,inSan Francisco Town Talk, December6, 1902.
MARCH 2.
From his windows on Russian Hill one saw always something strange and suggestive creeping through the mists of the bay. It would be a South Sea Island brig, bringing in copra, to take out cottons and idols; a Chinese junk after sharks' livers; an old whaler, which seemed to drip oil, home from a year of cruising in the Arctic. Even the tramp windjammers were deep-chested craft, capable of rounding the Horn or of circumnavigating the globe; and they came in streaked and picturesque from their long voyaging.
WILL IRWIN,inThe City That Was.
MARCH 3.
WILD HONEY.
The swarms that escape from their careless owners have a weary, perplexing time of it in seeking suitable homes. Most of them make their way to the foot-hills of the mountains, or to the trees that line the banks of the rivers, where some hollow log or trunk may be found. A friend of mine, while out hunting on the San Joaquin, came upon an old coon trap, hidden among some tall grass, near the edge of the river, upon which he sat down to rest. Shortly afterward his attention was attracted to a crowd of angry bees that were flying excitedly about his head, when he discovered that he was sitting upon their hive, which was found to contain more than 200 pounds of honey.
JOHN MUIR,inThe Mountains of California.
MARCH 4.
PHOSPHORESCENT SEA WAVES, BALBOA BEACH, CAL.
Responsive to my oar and hand,Touching to glory sea and sand.A glint, a sparkle, a flash, a flame,An ecstasy above all name.What art thou, strange, mysterious flame?Art thou some flash of central fire,So pure and strong thou wilt not expireTho' plunged in ocean's seething main?Mayest thou not be that sacred flame,Creative, moulding, purging fire.Aspiring, abandoning all desireShaping perfection from Life's pain?
Responsive to my oar and hand,Touching to glory sea and sand.A glint, a sparkle, a flash, a flame,An ecstasy above all name.What art thou, strange, mysterious flame?Art thou some flash of central fire,So pure and strong thou wilt not expireTho' plunged in ocean's seething main?Mayest thou not be that sacred flame,Creative, moulding, purging fire.Aspiring, abandoning all desireShaping perfection from Life's pain?
Responsive to my oar and hand,
Touching to glory sea and sand.
A glint, a sparkle, a flash, a flame,
An ecstasy above all name.
What art thou, strange, mysterious flame?
Art thou some flash of central fire,
So pure and strong thou wilt not expire
Tho' plunged in ocean's seething main?
Mayest thou not be that sacred flame,
Creative, moulding, purging fire.
Aspiring, abandoning all desire
Shaping perfection from Life's pain?
MARY RUSSELL MILLS,inFellowship Magazine.
MARCH 5.
THE JOY OF THE HILLS.
I ride on the mountain tops, I ride;I have found my life and am satisfied.∗ ∗ ∗I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forgetLife's hoard of regret—All the terror and painOf the chafing chain.Grind on, O cities, grind;I leave you a blur behind.I am lifted elate—the skies expand;Here the world's heaped gold is a pile of sand.Let them weary and work in their narrow walls;I ride with the voices of waterfalls!I swing on as one in a dream; I swingDown the airy hollows, I shout, I sing!The world is gone like an empty word;My body's a bough in the wind, my heart a bird.
I ride on the mountain tops, I ride;I have found my life and am satisfied.
I ride on the mountain tops, I ride;
I have found my life and am satisfied.
∗ ∗ ∗
I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forgetLife's hoard of regret—All the terror and painOf the chafing chain.Grind on, O cities, grind;I leave you a blur behind.
I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget
Life's hoard of regret—
All the terror and pain
Of the chafing chain.
Grind on, O cities, grind;
I leave you a blur behind.
I am lifted elate—the skies expand;Here the world's heaped gold is a pile of sand.Let them weary and work in their narrow walls;I ride with the voices of waterfalls!
I am lifted elate—the skies expand;
Here the world's heaped gold is a pile of sand.
Let them weary and work in their narrow walls;
I ride with the voices of waterfalls!
I swing on as one in a dream; I swingDown the airy hollows, I shout, I sing!The world is gone like an empty word;My body's a bough in the wind, my heart a bird.
I swing on as one in a dream; I swing
Down the airy hollows, I shout, I sing!
The world is gone like an empty word;
My body's a bough in the wind, my heart a bird.
EDWIN MARKHAM,inThe Man with a Hoe, and Other Poems.
MARCH 6.
We move about these streets of San Francisco in cars propelled by electric energy created away yonder on the Tuolumne River in the foothills of the Sierras; we sit at home and read by a light furnished from the same distant source. How splendid it all is—the swiftly flowing cascades of the Sierra Nevadas are being harnessed like beautiful white horses, tireless and ageless, to draw the chariots of industry around this Bay.
CHARLES REYNOLDS BROWN.
MARCH 7.
BACK, BACK TO NATURE.
Weary! I am weary of the madness of the town,Deathly weary of all women, and all wine.Back, back to Nature! I will go and lay me down,Bleeding lay me down before her shrine.For the mother-breast the hungry babe must call,Loudly to the shore cries the surf upon the sea;Hear, Nature wide and deep! after man's mad festivalHow bitterly my soul cries out for thee!
Weary! I am weary of the madness of the town,Deathly weary of all women, and all wine.Back, back to Nature! I will go and lay me down,Bleeding lay me down before her shrine.For the mother-breast the hungry babe must call,Loudly to the shore cries the surf upon the sea;Hear, Nature wide and deep! after man's mad festivalHow bitterly my soul cries out for thee!
Weary! I am weary of the madness of the town,
Deathly weary of all women, and all wine.
Back, back to Nature! I will go and lay me down,
Bleeding lay me down before her shrine.
For the mother-breast the hungry babe must call,
Loudly to the shore cries the surf upon the sea;
Hear, Nature wide and deep! after man's mad festival
How bitterly my soul cries out for thee!
HERMAN SCHEFFAUER,inOf Both Worlds.
MARCH 8.
Across the valley was another mountain, dark and grand, with flecks of black growingchemisaiin clefts and crevices, and sunny slopes and green fields lying at its base. And oh, the charm of these mountains. In the valley there might be fog and the chill of the north, but on the mountains lay the warmth and the dreaminess of the south.
JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD McCRACKIN,inOverland Tales.
The furious wind that came driving down the canyon lying far below him was the breath of the approaching multitude of storm-demons. The giant trees on the slopes of the canyon seemed to brace themselves against the impending assault. ∗ ∗ ∗
At the bottom of the canyon, the Sacramento River here a turbulent mountain stream, and now a roaring torrent from the earlier rains of the season, fumed and foamed as it raced with the wind down the canyon hurrying on its way to the placid reaches in the plains of California.
W.C. MORROW,inA Man: His Mark.
MARCH 9.
THE ROCK DIVING OF MOUNTAIN SHEEP.
On another occasion, a flock … retreated to another portion of this same cliff (over 150 feet high), and, on being followed, they were seen jumping down in perfect order, one behind another, by two men who happened to be chopping where they had a fair view of them and could watch their progress from top to bottom of the precipice. Both ewes and rams made the frightful descent without evincing any extraordinary concern, hugging the rock closely, and controlling the velocity of their half-falling, half-leaping movements by striking at short intervals and holding back with their cushioned, rubber feet upon small ledges and roughened inclines until near the bottom, when they "sailed off" into the free air and alighted on their feet, but with their bodies so nearly in a vertical position that they appeared to be diving.
JOHN MUIR,inThe Mountains of California.
MARCH 10.
The ridge, ascending from seaward in a gradual coquetry of foot-hills, broad low ranges, cross-systems, canyons, little flats, and gentle ravines, inland dropped off almost sheer to the river below. And from under your very feet rose range after range, tier after tier, rank after rank, in increasing crescendo of wonderful tinted mountains to the main crest of the Coast Range, the blue distance, the mightiness of California's western systems. ∗ ∗ ∗ And in the far distance, finally, your soul grown big in a moment, came to rest on the great precipices and pines of the greatest mountains of all, close under the sky.
STEWART EDWARD WHITE,inThe Mountains.
MARCH 11.
TO YOU, MY FRIEND.
To you, my friend, where'er you be,Though known or all unknown to me;To you, who love the things of God,The dew-begemmed and velvet sod,The birds that trill beside their nest."Oh, love, sweet love, of life is best;"To you, for whom each sunset glows.This message goes.To you, my friend. Mayhap 'tis writWe ne'er shall meet. What matters it?Where'er we roam, God's light shall gleamFor us on hill and wold and stream.And we shall hold the blossoms dear,And baby lips shall give us cheer,And, loving these, leal friends are we,Where'er you be.To you, my friend, who know right wellThat 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 mineWhich, though unworthy, I extend.And hold me friend.
To you, my friend, where'er you be,Though known or all unknown to me;To you, who love the things of God,The dew-begemmed and velvet sod,The birds that trill beside their nest."Oh, love, sweet love, of life is best;"To you, for whom each sunset glows.This message goes.
To you, my friend, where'er you be,
Though known or all unknown to me;
To you, who love the things of God,
The dew-begemmed and velvet sod,
The birds that trill beside their nest.
"Oh, love, sweet love, of life is best;"
To you, for whom each sunset glows.
This message goes.
To you, my friend. Mayhap 'tis writWe ne'er shall meet. What matters it?Where'er we roam, God's light shall gleamFor us on hill and wold and stream.And we shall hold the blossoms dear,And baby lips shall give us cheer,And, loving these, leal friends are we,Where'er you be.
To you, my friend. Mayhap 'tis writ
We ne'er shall meet. What matters it?
Where'er we roam, God's light shall gleam
For us on hill and wold and stream.
And we shall hold the blossoms dear,
And baby lips shall give us cheer,
And, loving these, leal friends are we,
Where'er you be.
To you, my friend, who know right wellThat 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 mineWhich, though unworthy, I extend.And hold me friend.
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.
Strength is meant for something more than merely to be strong;And Life is not a lifetime spent in strain to keep alive.
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,inThe 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 earthShe sought her king;The snows of Winter fell before—She walked o'er flowers of vanished SpringInto the Summer's fragrant heat;She bent her quest, with rapid feet,Then saddened; still she journeyed downThe Autumn hillsides, bare and brown,Through shadowy eves and golden morns;And lo! she found him—crowned with thorns.
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 earthShe sought her king;The snows of Winter fell before—She walked o'er flowers of vanished SpringInto the Summer's fragrant heat;She bent her quest, with rapid feet,Then saddened; still she journeyed downThe Autumn hillsides, bare and brown,Through shadowy eves and golden morns;And lo! she found him—crowned with thorns.
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,inThe 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,inAll 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,inMiner'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 grewWhen ancient Nineveh was new;And down the vale long shadows castWhen Moses out of Egypt passed,And o'er the heads of Pharaoh's slavesAnd soldiers rolled the Red Sea waves.""How must the timid rabbit shake,The fox within his burrow quake,The deer start up with quivering hideTo 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 dropsTo jar the distant mountain-tops."
Said one, who upward turned his eye,To scan the trunks from earth to sky:"These trees, no doubt, well rooted grewWhen ancient Nineveh was new;And down the vale long shadows castWhen Moses out of Egypt passed,And o'er the heads of Pharaoh's slavesAnd soldiers rolled the Red Sea waves.""How must the timid rabbit shake,The fox within his burrow quake,The deer start up with quivering hideTo 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 dropsTo jar the distant mountain-tops."
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,inThe 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 widenAll my circumscribed horizon, till the finite fades away;And the fountains of my being in their innermost recessesAre unsealed, and as the seas sweep, sweep the waters of my soulTill they reach the shores of Heaven and with ebb-tide bear a pearlBack 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 risingOf the day-star which shall shine out from divinity in man.
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 widenAll my circumscribed horizon, till the finite fades away;And the fountains of my being in their innermost recessesAre unsealed, and as the seas sweep, sweep the waters of my soulTill they reach the shores of Heaven and with ebb-tide bear a pearlBack in to the heart's safe-keeping, where no thieves break through nor steal.
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.
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 risingOf the day-star which shall shine out from divinity in man.
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 whiteThick on each mossy bank and watered steep,Where slender deer tread softly in the night—Down in the redwood canyons dark and deep.
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 whiteThick on each mossy bank and watered steep,Where slender deer tread softly in the night—Down in the redwood canyons dark and deep.
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,inAmong 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,inThe Mountains.