JUNE 19.
Beneath the surface—ah, there lie a numerous host, sad relics of bygone times. In our cities in poverty, wretchedness, and, alas! too often in dissipation, or, happier fate, in canyon or on hillside where woodman's axe is heard, one may find men wearily, sadly, often faithfully performing their daily labor who were born heirs to leagues of land where ranged mighty herds of cattle and horses—men who as boys, perhaps, played their games of quoits with golden slugs from the Indian baskets sitting about the courtyard of their fathers' houses.
HELEN ELLIOTT BANDINI,inSome of Our Spanish Families.
JUNE 20.
Jameson's cord led out to the Spanish quarter. Some old senoras, their heads covered with shawls, their clothes redolent with the smell of garlic, from time to time shambled across his pathway. They were heavy old women, in worn flapping slippers and uncorseted figures. ∗ ∗ ∗ With them, this saying, "It is time to be old," to throw down the game like some startled player, and cast one's self on the mercies of the Virgin, had come twenty years or so before it should.
FRANCES CHARLES,inThe Siege of Youth.
A JUNE WEDDING.
The sweetheart of Summer weds today—Pride of the Wild Rose clan:A Butterfly fayFor a bridesmaid gay,And a Bumblebee for best man.
The sweetheart of Summer weds today—Pride of the Wild Rose clan:A Butterfly fayFor a bridesmaid gay,And a Bumblebee for best man.
The sweetheart of Summer weds today—
Pride of the Wild Rose clan:
A Butterfly fay
For a bridesmaid gay,
And a Bumblebee for best man.
CHARLES ELMER JENNEY,inOut West, June, 1902.
JUNE 21.
They went to a one-room adobe on the plaza. A rich, greasy odor came out from it with puffs of the onion-laden smoke of frying things which blurred the light of the one candle set in the neck of a bottle. ∗ ∗ ∗ In the centre of the floor a circle of blackened stones held a fire of wood coals, on the top of which rested a big clay griddle. Cakes of ground corn were frying there, and on the stove wereenchiladasandtamalesandchili-con-carnebeing kept warm. The air was thick with the pungent, strong smells.
GWENDOLEN OVERTON,inThe Golden Chain.
JUNE 22.
The homely house furnishings seemed to leap out of the darkness; the stove, the littered table, and the couch, the iron crucifix, and the carved cradle in the corner—all his long life Juan will see them so—and 'Cencion turned; the dusky veil was blown and rent like the sea mist, revealing—Holy Mother of Heaven! her father, Cenaga, the outlaw! Juan Lopez fell on his knees below the window, the smoking rifle clattered from his broken grasp, and the missile sped, aimless and harmless, high into the adobe wall.
GERTRUDE B. MILLARD,inAn Outlaw's Daughter, S.F. Argonaut, Nov., 1896.
IN HUMBOLDT.
Dim in the noonday fullness,Dark in the day's sweet morn—So sacred and deep are the canyonsWhere the beautiful rivers are born.
Dim in the noonday fullness,Dark in the day's sweet morn—So sacred and deep are the canyonsWhere the beautiful rivers are born.
Dim in the noonday fullness,
Dark in the day's sweet morn—
So sacred and deep are the canyons
Where the beautiful rivers are born.
LILLIAN H. SHUEY,inAmong the Redwoods.
JUNE 23.
The glow of the days of Comstock glory was still in the air. San Francisco was still the city of gold and silver. The bonanza kings had not left it, but were trying to accommodate themselves to the palaces they were rearing with their loose millions. Society yet retained its cosmopolitan tone, careless, brilliant, and unconventional. There were figures in it that had made it famous—men who began life with a pick and shovel and ended it in an orgy of luxury; women, whose habits of early poverty fell off them like a garment, and who, carried away by their power, displayed the barbaric caprices of Roman empresses.
The sudden possession of vast wealth had intoxicated this people, lifting them from the level of the commonplace into a saturnalia of extravagance. Poverty, the only restraint many of them had ever felt, was gone. Money had made them lawless, whimsical, bizarre. It had developed all-conquering personalities, potent individualities. They were still playing with it, wondering at it, throwing it about.
GERALDINE BONNER,inTomorrow's Tangle.
JUNE 24.
\
Menlo Park, originally a large Spanish grant, had long since been cut up into country places for what may be termed the "Old Families of San Francisco!" The eight or ten families that owned this haughty precinct were as exclusive, as conservative, as any group of ancient families in Europe. Many of them had been established here for twenty years, none for less than fifteen. This fact set the seal of gentle blood upon them for all time in the annals of California.
GERTRUDE ATHERTON,inThe Californians.
JUNE 25.
John Bidwell, prince of California pioneers, was my chief in a memorable camping trip in the northern Sierras. What a magnificent camper was Bidwell! What a world of experience, what a wealth of reminiscence! What a knowledge; what unbounded hospitality! Not while life lasts can I forget the gentle yet commanding greatness of this man, whose friendships and benefactions were as broad as his spreading acres of Rancho Chico.
ROCKWELL D. HUNT,inCamping Out in California, Overland Monthly, September, 1907.
JUNE 26.
The average stage-driver merits one's liveliest gratitude. He is the essence of good nature and thoughtfulness. His stories, tinctured by his own quaint personality, ward off the drowsy wings of sleep and materially shorten the long hours of the night. ∗ ∗ ∗ To the households scattered along his route he is the never-failing bearer of letters, and newspapers, and all sorts of commodities, from a sack of flour to a spool of cotton. His interest in their individual needs is universal, and the memory he displays is simply phenomenal. He has traveled up and down among them for many years, and calls each one by his or her given name, and in return is treated by them as one of the family. He is sympathetic and friendly without impertinence, and in spite of your aching head and disjointed bones, you feel an undercurrent of regret that civilization will soon do away with these fresh and original characters.
NINETTA EAMES,inOverland Monthly, January, 1888.
JUNE 27.
When the June sunshine gladdened the Sacramento Valley, three little bare-footed girls walked here and there among the homes and tents of Sutter's Fort. They were scantily clothed, and one carried a thin blanket. At night they said their prayers, lay down in whatever tent they happened to be, and, folding the blanket about them, fell asleep in each other's arms. When they were hungry they asked food of whomsoever they met. If anyone inquired who they were, they answered as their mother had taught them: "We are the children of Mr. and Mrs. George Donner." But they added something which they had learned since. It was: "And our parents are dead."
C.F. McGLASHAN,inHistory of the Donner Party.
JUNE 28.
This cart was gaily decorated with a canopy which was in fact an exquisitely embroidered silken bedspread. The background was of grass-green silk, embroidered over the entire field with brightest red and yellow, pink and white roses, with intertwining leaves and stems, making the oldcarretaappear to be a real rose-bower blooming along the King's Highway. From the edges hung a rich, deep, silken knotted fringe. Beneath the heavy fringe again hung lace curtains.
MRS. A.S.C. FORBES,inMission Tales in the Days of the Dons.
A half-naked beggar will find a dirty ribbon out of an ash-barrel to ornament himself, if he happens to be a she. ∗ ∗ ∗ We women are such striking guys without our first little aids to the ugly.
MIRIAM MICHELSON,inAnthony Overman.
JUNE 29.
During this unsettled period (1849), the "judge of first instance," or alcalde, sat each day in the little school-room on the plaza of San Francisco, trying cases, and rendering that speedy justice that was then more desirable than exact justice, since men's time, in those early days of 1849, was worth from sixteen dollars to one hundred dollars per day. The judge listened to brief arguments, announced his decision, took his fees, and called up another case; hardly once in a hundred trials was there any thought of an appeal to the Governor at Monterey.
CHARLES HOWARD SHINN,inMining-Camps.
JUNE 30.
Like the senators Cineas found at Rome, they were an assembly of kings, above law, who dealt out justice fresh and evenly balanced as from the hand of the eternal. In all the uprisings in California there has never been manifested any particular penchant on the part of the people for catching and hanging criminals. They do not like it. Naturally the law detests vigilance because vigilance is a standing reproach to law. Let the law look to it and do its duty.
HUBERT HOWE BANCROFT,inPopular Tribunals.
AMONG THE MARIPOSA BIG TREES.
Older than man or beast or bird,Ancient when God first spake and Adam heard—We gaze with souls profoundly stirredAnd plead for one revealing word.But the great trees all are silent.
Older than man or beast or bird,Ancient when God first spake and Adam heard—We gaze with souls profoundly stirredAnd plead for one revealing word.But the great trees all are silent.
Older than man or beast or bird,
Ancient when God first spake and Adam heard—
We gaze with souls profoundly stirred
And plead for one revealing word.
But the great trees all are silent.
BENJAMIN FAY MILLS.
JULY 1.
VINTAGE IN THE GOLDEN LAND.
O fruit of changeless, ever-changing beauty!Heavy with summer and the gift of love—Caressingly I gather and lay you down;Ensilvered as with dew, the innocent bloomOf quiet days, yet thrilling with the warmthOf life—tumultuous blood o' the earth!The vital sap, the honey-laden juiceDripping with ripeness, yields to murmuring beeA pleasant burden; and the meadow-larkWith slow, voluptuous beak the nectar drinksFrom the pierced purple.∗ ∗ ∗How good it is, to sense the vineyard life!To touch the fresh-veined leaves, the straggling stems,The heavy boughs that bend along the ground;And like a gay Bacchante, pluck the fruitAnd taste the imperial flavors, beauty-wildAnd singing child-songs with the bee and bird,Deep in the vineyard's heart, 'neath the open sky—Wide, wide, and blue, filled with sun-flooded spaceAnd the silent song of the ripening of days!—Eternal symbol of the bearing earth—Harvest and vintage.
O fruit of changeless, ever-changing beauty!Heavy with summer and the gift of love—Caressingly I gather and lay you down;Ensilvered as with dew, the innocent bloomOf quiet days, yet thrilling with the warmthOf life—tumultuous blood o' the earth!The vital sap, the honey-laden juiceDripping with ripeness, yields to murmuring beeA pleasant burden; and the meadow-larkWith slow, voluptuous beak the nectar drinksFrom the pierced purple.
O fruit of changeless, ever-changing beauty!
Heavy with summer and the gift of love—
Caressingly I gather and lay you down;
Ensilvered as with dew, the innocent bloom
Of quiet days, yet thrilling with the warmth
Of life—tumultuous blood o' the earth!
The vital sap, the honey-laden juice
Dripping with ripeness, yields to murmuring bee
A pleasant burden; and the meadow-lark
With slow, voluptuous beak the nectar drinks
From the pierced purple.
∗ ∗ ∗
How good it is, to sense the vineyard life!To touch the fresh-veined leaves, the straggling stems,The heavy boughs that bend along the ground;And like a gay Bacchante, pluck the fruitAnd taste the imperial flavors, beauty-wildAnd singing child-songs with the bee and bird,Deep in the vineyard's heart, 'neath the open sky—Wide, wide, and blue, filled with sun-flooded spaceAnd the silent song of the ripening of days!—Eternal symbol of the bearing earth—Harvest and vintage.
How good it is, to sense the vineyard life!
To touch the fresh-veined leaves, the straggling stems,
The heavy boughs that bend along the ground;
And like a gay Bacchante, pluck the fruit
And taste the imperial flavors, beauty-wild
And singing child-songs with the bee and bird,
Deep in the vineyard's heart, 'neath the open sky—
Wide, wide, and blue, filled with sun-flooded space
And the silent song of the ripening of days!—
Eternal symbol of the bearing earth—
Harvest and vintage.
RUBY ARCHER.
JULY 2.
Whatever you believe when you are alone at night with the little imp of conscience seated on the bedpost and whispering to you what to do, whatever you believe to be best for yourself and best for your city at that time, you do that thing and you won't be far wrong.
ANDREW FURUSETH.
JULY 3.
Above an elevation of four thousand feet timber is quite abundant. Along the river-bottoms and low grounds the sycamore is found as clean-limbed, tall and stately as elsewhere. The cottonwood, too, is common, though generally dwarfed, scraggy and full of dead limbs. A willow still more scraggy, and having many limbs destroyed with mistletoe, is often found in the same places. The elder rises above the dignity of a shrub, or under-shrub, but can hardly be found a respectable tree. Two varieties of oak are common, and the alder forms here a fine tree along the higher water-courses.
T.S. VAN DYKE,inSouthern California.
JULY 4.
A WESTERN FOURTH.
Here, where Peralta's cattle used to stray;Here, where the Spaniards in their early dayRode, jingling, booted, spurred, nor ever guessedOur race would own the land by them possessed;Here, where Castilian bull-fights left their stainOf blood upon the soil of this New Spain;Here, where old live-oaks, spared till we condemn.Still wait within this city named for them—We celebrate, with bombshell and with rhymeOur noisiest Day of Days of yearly time!O bare Antonio's hills that rim our sky—Antonio's hills, that used to know JulyAs but a time of sleep beneath the sun—Such days of languorous dreaming are all done!
Here, where Peralta's cattle used to stray;Here, where the Spaniards in their early dayRode, jingling, booted, spurred, nor ever guessedOur race would own the land by them possessed;Here, where Castilian bull-fights left their stainOf blood upon the soil of this New Spain;Here, where old live-oaks, spared till we condemn.Still wait within this city named for them—We celebrate, with bombshell and with rhymeOur noisiest Day of Days of yearly time!O bare Antonio's hills that rim our sky—Antonio's hills, that used to know JulyAs but a time of sleep beneath the sun—Such days of languorous dreaming are all done!
Here, where Peralta's cattle used to stray;
Here, where the Spaniards in their early day
Rode, jingling, booted, spurred, nor ever guessed
Our race would own the land by them possessed;
Here, where Castilian bull-fights left their stain
Of blood upon the soil of this New Spain;
Here, where old live-oaks, spared till we condemn.
Still wait within this city named for them—
We celebrate, with bombshell and with rhyme
Our noisiest Day of Days of yearly time!
O bare Antonio's hills that rim our sky—
Antonio's hills, that used to know July
As but a time of sleep beneath the sun—
Such days of languorous dreaming are all done!
MARY BAMFORD,inFourth of July Celebration, Oakland, 1902.
JULY 5.
THE LIVE-OAKS.
In massy green, upon the crestOf many a slanting hill,By gentle wind and sun caressed,The live-oaks carry stillA ponderous head, a sinewy breast,A look of tameless will.They plant their roots full firmly deep,As for the avalanche;And warily and strongly creepTheir slow trunks to the branch;A subtle, devious way they keep,Thrice cautious to be stanch.A mighty hospitalityAt last the builders yield,For man and horse and bird and beeA hospice and a shield,Whose monolithic mysteryA curious power concealed.
In massy green, upon the crestOf many a slanting hill,By gentle wind and sun caressed,The live-oaks carry stillA ponderous head, a sinewy breast,A look of tameless will.They plant their roots full firmly deep,As for the avalanche;And warily and strongly creepTheir slow trunks to the branch;A subtle, devious way they keep,Thrice cautious to be stanch.A mighty hospitalityAt last the builders yield,For man and horse and bird and beeA hospice and a shield,Whose monolithic mysteryA curious power concealed.
In massy green, upon the crest
Of many a slanting hill,
By gentle wind and sun caressed,
The live-oaks carry still
A ponderous head, a sinewy breast,
A look of tameless will.
They plant their roots full firmly deep,
As for the avalanche;
And warily and strongly creep
Their slow trunks to the branch;
A subtle, devious way they keep,
Thrice cautious to be stanch.
A mighty hospitality
At last the builders yield,
For man and horse and bird and bee
A hospice and a shield,
Whose monolithic mystery
A curious power concealed.
RUBY ARCHER,inLos Angeles Times.
JULY 6.
FATE AND I.
"Thine the fault, not mine," I cried.Brooding bitterly,And Fate looked grim and once againClosed in and grappled me."Mine, not thine, the fault," I said,Discerning verity,And Fate arose and clasped my handAnd made a man of me.
"Thine the fault, not mine," I cried.Brooding bitterly,And Fate looked grim and once againClosed in and grappled me."Mine, not thine, the fault," I said,Discerning verity,And Fate arose and clasped my handAnd made a man of me.
"Thine the fault, not mine," I cried.
Brooding bitterly,
And Fate looked grim and once again
Closed in and grappled me.
"Mine, not thine, the fault," I said,
Discerning verity,
And Fate arose and clasped my hand
And made a man of me.
HAROLD S. SYMMES,inThe American Magazine, April, 1909.
JULY 7.
THE BROTHERHOOD OF TREES.
Dear brotherhood of trees! With you we findRobust and hearty friendship, free from allThe laws of petty gods men travail for.No wrangle here o'er things of small avail—No knavery, nor charity betrayed—But comrade beings—'Stalwart, steadfast, good.You help the world in the noblest way of all—By living nobly—showing in your livesThe utmost beauty, the full power and loveThat through your wisdom and your long desireThrill in your vibrant veins from heart of earth.Open your arms, O Trees, for us who comeWith woodland longings in our pilgrim souls!
Dear brotherhood of trees! With you we findRobust and hearty friendship, free from allThe laws of petty gods men travail for.No wrangle here o'er things of small avail—No knavery, nor charity betrayed—But comrade beings—'Stalwart, steadfast, good.You help the world in the noblest way of all—By living nobly—showing in your livesThe utmost beauty, the full power and loveThat through your wisdom and your long desireThrill in your vibrant veins from heart of earth.Open your arms, O Trees, for us who comeWith woodland longings in our pilgrim souls!
Dear brotherhood of trees! With you we find
Robust and hearty friendship, free from all
The laws of petty gods men travail for.
No wrangle here o'er things of small avail—
No knavery, nor charity betrayed—
But comrade beings—'Stalwart, steadfast, good.
You help the world in the noblest way of all—
By living nobly—showing in your lives
The utmost beauty, the full power and love
That through your wisdom and your long desire
Thrill in your vibrant veins from heart of earth.
Open your arms, O Trees, for us who come
With woodland longings in our pilgrim souls!
RUBY ARCHER.
JULY 8.
The scene was a ravine that had been cloven into the flank of a mighty mountain as if by the stroke of a giant's axe. For about half a mile this gash ran sharp and narrow; but at the upper end, the resting place of the travelers, it widened into a spacious amphitheatre, dotted with palm trees that rose with clean cylindrical boles sixty to eighty feet before spreading their crowns of drooping leafage against the azure of a cloudless sky—a wonderful touch of Egypt and the East to surroundings typical of the American Far West.
EDMUND MITCHELL,inIn Desert Keeping.
The noblest life—the life of labor;The noblest love—the love of neighbor.
The noblest life—the life of labor;The noblest love—the love of neighbor.
The noblest life—the life of labor;
The noblest love—the love of neighbor.
LORENZO SOSSO,inWisdom for the Wise.
JULY 9.
THE LIVE OAKS AT MENLO PARK.
The road wound for some half mile through a stretch of uncultivated land, dotted with the forms of huge live-oaks. The grass beneath them was burnt gray and was brittle and slippery. The massive trees, some round and compact and so densely leaved that they were impervious to rain as an umbrella, others throwing out long, gnarled arms as if spellbound in some giant throe of pain, cast vast slanting shadows upon the parched ground. Some seemed, like trees in Dore's drawings, to be endowed with a grotesque, weird humanness of aspect, as though an imprisoned dryad or gnome were struggling to escape, causing the mighty trunk to bow and writhe, and sending tremors of life along each convulsed limb. A mellow hoariness marked them all, due to their own richly subdued coloring and the long garlands of silvery moss that hung from their boughs like an old, rich growth of hair.
GERALDINE BONNER,inTomorrow's Tangle.
JULY 10.
MADRONA.
No other of our trees, to those who know it in its regions of finest development, makes so strong an appeal to man's imagination—to his love of color, of joyful bearing, of sense of magic, of surprise and change. He walks the woods in June or July and rustles the mass of gold-brown leaves fresh fallen under foot, or rides for unending weeks across the Mendocino ranges—and always with a sense of fresh interest and stimulation at the varying presence of this tree.
W.L. JEPSON,inTrees of California.
JULY 11.
THE WOODS OF THE WEST.
Oh, woods of the west, leafy woods that I love.Where through the long days I have heardThe prayer of the wind in the branches above,And the tremulous song of the bird.Where the clust'ring blooms of the dog-wood hang o'er—White stars in the dusk of the pine,And down the dim aisles of the old forest pourThe sunbeams that melt into wine!∗ ∗ ∗Oh, woods of the west, I am sighing todayFor the sea-songs your voices repeat,For the evergreen glades, for the glades far awayFrom the stifling air of the street,And I long, ah, I long to be with you againAnd to dream in that region of rest.Forever apart from this warring of men—Oh, wonderful woods of the west!
Oh, woods of the west, leafy woods that I love.Where through the long days I have heardThe prayer of the wind in the branches above,And the tremulous song of the bird.Where the clust'ring blooms of the dog-wood hang o'er—White stars in the dusk of the pine,And down the dim aisles of the old forest pourThe sunbeams that melt into wine!
Oh, woods of the west, leafy woods that I love.
Where through the long days I have heard
The prayer of the wind in the branches above,
And the tremulous song of the bird.
Where the clust'ring blooms of the dog-wood hang o'er—
White stars in the dusk of the pine,
And down the dim aisles of the old forest pour
The sunbeams that melt into wine!
∗ ∗ ∗
Oh, woods of the west, I am sighing todayFor the sea-songs your voices repeat,For the evergreen glades, for the glades far awayFrom the stifling air of the street,And I long, ah, I long to be with you againAnd to dream in that region of rest.Forever apart from this warring of men—Oh, wonderful woods of the west!
Oh, woods of the west, I am sighing today
For the sea-songs your voices repeat,
For the evergreen glades, for the glades far away
From the stifling air of the street,
And I long, ah, I long to be with you again
And to dream in that region of rest.
Forever apart from this warring of men—
Oh, wonderful woods of the west!
HERBERT BASHFORD,inAt the Shrine of Song.
JULY 12.
The Mohave yucca is a remarkable plant, which resembles in its nature both the cactus and the palm. It is found nowhere save in the Mohave Desert. It attains a height of thirty or forty feet, and the trunk, often two or three feet in diameter, supports half a dozen irregular branches, each tipped with a cluster of spine-like leaves. The flowers, which are of a dingy white color, come out in March and last until May, giving off a disagreeable odor. The fruit, however, which is two or three inches long, is pulpy and agreeable, resembling a date in flavor.
ARTHUR J. BURDICK,inThe Mystic Mid-Region.
JULY 13 AND 14.
Throughout the coast region, except in the extreme north, this Live Oak is the most common and characteristic tree of the Coast Range valleys which it beautifies with low broad heads whose rounded outlines are repeated in the soft curves of the foothills. Disposed in open groves along the bases of low hills, fringing the rich lands along creeks or scattered by hundreds or thousands over the fertile valley floors, the eyes of the early Spanish explorers dwelt on the thick foliage of the swelling crowns and read the fertility of the land in these evergreen oaks which they called Encina. The chain of Franciscan Missions corresponded closely to the general range of the Live Oak although uniformly well within the margin of its geographical limits both eastward and northward. The vast assemblage of oaks in the Santa Clara Valley met the eyes of Portola, discoverer of San Francisco Bay, in 1769, and a few years later, Crespi, in the narrative of the expedition of 1772, called the valley the "Plain of Oaks of the Port of San Francisco." Then came Vancouver, Englishman and discoverer. Although he was the first to express a just estimate of the Bay of San Francisco, which he declared to be as fine as any port in the world, nevertheless it is his felicitous and appreciative description of the groves of oaks, the fertile soil (of which they were a sign), and the equable climate that one reads between his lines of 1792 the prophecy of California's later empire.
W.L. JEPSON,inSilva of California.
JULY 15.
Huge live-oaks, silvered with a boar of lichen, stretched their boughs in fantastic frenzies. Gray fringes of moss hung from them, and tangled screens of clematis and wild grape caught the sunlight in their flickering meshes or lay over mounds of foliage like a torn green veil. ∗ ∗ ∗
For nearly two miles the carriage drive wound upward through this sylvan solitude. As it approached the house a background of emerald lawns shone through the interlacing branches, and brilliant bits of flower beds were set like pieces of mosaic between gray trunks.
GERALDINE BONNER,inThe Pioneer.
JULY 16.
The Yellow Pine is the most abundant and widely distributed tree of the forests of California and is particularly characteristic of the Sierra Nevada, where it attains its finest development. The largest trees most commonly grow along the ridges and it is the ridges which the trails ordinarily follow. Here the traveler may journey day after day, over needle-carpeted or grassy ground, mostly free of underbrush, amidst great clean shafts 40 to 150 feet high, of really massive proportions but giving a sense of lightness by reason of their color, symmetry, and great height. No two trunks in detail of bark are modeled exactly alike, for each has its own particular finish; so it is that the eye never wearies of the fascination of the Yellow Pine but travels contentedly from trunk to trunk and wanders satisfyingly up and down their splendid columns—the finest of any pine.
W.L. JEPSON,inSilva of California.
JULY 17.
MENDOCINO.
A vast cathedral by the western sea,Whose spires God set in majesty on high,Peak after peak of forests to the sky,Blended in one vast roof of greenery.The nave, a river broadening to the sea:The aisles, deep canyons of eternal build;The transepts, valleys with God's splendor filled;The shrines, white waterfalls in leaf-laced drapery;The choir stands westward by the sounding shore;The cliffs like beetling pipes set high in air;Roll from the beach the thunders crashing there;The high wind-voices chord the breakers' roar;And wondrous harmonies of praise and prayerSwell to the forest altars evermore.
A vast cathedral by the western sea,Whose spires God set in majesty on high,Peak after peak of forests to the sky,Blended in one vast roof of greenery.The nave, a river broadening to the sea:The aisles, deep canyons of eternal build;The transepts, valleys with God's splendor filled;The shrines, white waterfalls in leaf-laced drapery;The choir stands westward by the sounding shore;The cliffs like beetling pipes set high in air;Roll from the beach the thunders crashing there;The high wind-voices chord the breakers' roar;And wondrous harmonies of praise and prayerSwell to the forest altars evermore.
A vast cathedral by the western sea,
Whose spires God set in majesty on high,
Peak after peak of forests to the sky,
Blended in one vast roof of greenery.
The nave, a river broadening to the sea:
The aisles, deep canyons of eternal build;
The transepts, valleys with God's splendor filled;
The shrines, white waterfalls in leaf-laced drapery;
The choir stands westward by the sounding shore;
The cliffs like beetling pipes set high in air;
Roll from the beach the thunders crashing there;
The high wind-voices chord the breakers' roar;
And wondrous harmonies of praise and prayer
Swell to the forest altars evermore.
LILLIAN H. SHUEY,inAmong the Redwoods.
JULY 18.
They were passing an orange-grove, and they entered a road bordered with scarlet geraniums that wound for a mile through eucalyptus trees, past artificial lakes where mauve water-lilies floated in the sun, and boats languorously invited occupants. Finally they came upon a smooth sward like that of an English park, embellished with huge date-palms, luxuriant magnolias, and regal banana-trees. Then they passed a brook tumbling in artificial cascades between banks thick with mossy ferns, and bright with blossoms. The children led their companion beneath fig and bay trees through an Italian garden; all of this splendid luxury of verdure had sprung from the desert as the result of a fortune patiently spent in irrigation.
MRS. FREMONT OLDER,inThe Giants.
JULY 19.
Some men have an eye for trees and an inborn sympathy with these rooted giants, as if the same sap ran in their own veins. To them trees have a personality quite as animals have, and, to be sure, there are "characters" among trees. I knew a solitary yellow pine which towered in the landscape, the last of its race. Its vast columnal trunk seemed to loom and expand as one approached. Always there was distant music in the boughs above, a noble strain descending from the clouds. Its song was more majestic than that of any other tree, and fell upon the listening ear with the far-off cadence of the surf, but sweeter and more lyrical, as if it might proceed from some celestial harp. Though there was not a breeze stirring below, this vast tree hummed its mighty song. Apparently its branches had penetrated to another world than this, some sphere of increasing melody.
C.H. KIRKHAM,inIn the Open.
JULY 20.
You will think the gentlemen were fine dandies in those Mexican days, when I tell you that they often wore crimson velvet knee trousers trimmed with gold lace, embroidered white shirts, bright green cloth or velvet jackets with rows and rows of silver buttons and red sashes with long streaming ends. Their wide-brimmedsombreros(hats) were trimmed with silver or gold braid and tassels. ∗ ∗ ∗ Each gentleman wore a large Spanish cloak of rich velvet or embroidered cloth, and if it rained, he threw over his fine clothes aserape, or square woolen blanket, with a slit cut in the middle for the head.
ELLA M. SEXTON,inStories of California.
JULY 21.
ON THE PLANTING OF THE TREESAT THE PACIFIC THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY, OAKLAND.
And what shall be the children's tree,To grow while we are sleeping?The maple sweet; the manzanete;The gentle willow weeping;The larch; the yew; the oak so true,Kind mother strong and tender;Or, white and green, in gloss and sheen,Queen Magnolia's splendor?One wan, hot noon. His path was strewn,Whose love did all love quicken,With leaves of palm while song and psalmHeld all the world to listen.For His dear sake, the palm we'll take—Each frond shall be a prayerThat He will guide, whate'er betide,Until we meet Him there.
And what shall be the children's tree,To grow while we are sleeping?The maple sweet; the manzanete;The gentle willow weeping;The larch; the yew; the oak so true,Kind mother strong and tender;Or, white and green, in gloss and sheen,Queen Magnolia's splendor?One wan, hot noon. His path was strewn,Whose love did all love quicken,With leaves of palm while song and psalmHeld all the world to listen.For His dear sake, the palm we'll take—Each frond shall be a prayerThat He will guide, whate'er betide,Until we meet Him there.
And what shall be the children's tree,
To grow while we are sleeping?
The maple sweet; the manzanete;
The gentle willow weeping;
The larch; the yew; the oak so true,
Kind mother strong and tender;
Or, white and green, in gloss and sheen,
Queen Magnolia's splendor?
One wan, hot noon. His path was strewn,
Whose love did all love quicken,
With leaves of palm while song and psalm
Held all the world to listen.
For His dear sake, the palm we'll take—
Each frond shall be a prayer
That He will guide, whate'er betide,
Until we meet Him there.
CHARLES J. WOODBURY.
JULY 22.
The landscape, glazed with heat, seemed to faint under the unwinking glare of the sun. From the parched grass-land and the thickets of chaparral, pungent scents arose—the ardent odors that the woods of foot-hill California exhale in the hot, breathless quiescence of summer afternoons. ∗ ∗ ∗
The air came over it in glassy waves, carrying its dry, aromatic perfume to one's nostrils. On its burnt expanse a few huge live-oaks rose dark and dome-like, their shadows, black and irregular, staining the ground beneath them.
GERALDINE BONNER,inThe Pioneer.
JULY 23.
With great discomfort and considerable difficulty they threaded this miniature forest, starting all sorts of wild things as they went on. Cotton-tail rabbits fled before them. Gophers stuck their heads out of the ground, and viewed them with jewel-like eyes, then noiselessly retreated to their underground preserves. Large gray ground squirrels sat up on their haunches, with bushy tails curled gracefully around them and wee forepaws dropped downward as if in mimic courtesy, but scampered off at their approach. Flocks of birds arose from their feeding grounds, and lizards rustled through the dead leaves.
FLORA HAINES LOUGHEAD,inThe Abandoned Claim.
JULY 24.
THE SENTINEL TREE.(CYPRESS POINT, CALIFORNIA.)
A giant sentinel, alone it standsOn rocky headland where the breakers roar,Parted from piny woods and pebbled shore.Holding out branches as imploring hands.Poor lonely tree, where never bird doth makeIts nest, or sing at morn and eve to thee,Nor in whose shadow wild rose calleth beeTo come on gauzy wing for love's sweet sake.Nature cares for thee, gives thee sunshine gold,Handfuls of pearls cast from the crested waves,For thee pink-throated shells soft murmurs hold,And seaweed vested chorists chant in caves.Whence came thee, lone one of an alien band.To guard an outpost of this sunset land?
A giant sentinel, alone it standsOn rocky headland where the breakers roar,Parted from piny woods and pebbled shore.Holding out branches as imploring hands.Poor lonely tree, where never bird doth makeIts nest, or sing at morn and eve to thee,Nor in whose shadow wild rose calleth beeTo come on gauzy wing for love's sweet sake.Nature cares for thee, gives thee sunshine gold,Handfuls of pearls cast from the crested waves,For thee pink-throated shells soft murmurs hold,And seaweed vested chorists chant in caves.Whence came thee, lone one of an alien band.To guard an outpost of this sunset land?
A giant sentinel, alone it stands
On rocky headland where the breakers roar,
Parted from piny woods and pebbled shore.
Holding out branches as imploring hands.
Poor lonely tree, where never bird doth make
Its nest, or sing at morn and eve to thee,
Nor in whose shadow wild rose calleth bee
To come on gauzy wing for love's sweet sake.
Nature cares for thee, gives thee sunshine gold,
Handfuls of pearls cast from the crested waves,
For thee pink-throated shells soft murmurs hold,
And seaweed vested chorists chant in caves.
Whence came thee, lone one of an alien band.
To guard an outpost of this sunset land?
GRACE HIBBARD,inForget-me-nots from California.
JULY 25.
IN THE MEXICAN JUNGLE.
The jungle, however, rang with life. Brilliant birds flew, screaming at their approach—noisy parrots and macaws; thegaucamaya, one flush of red and gold; a king vulture, raven black save for his scarlet crest. From the safe height of a saber, monkeys showered vituperations upon them. Once aniguana, great chameleon lizard, rose under foot and dashed for the nearest water; again a python wound its slow length across the path. Vegetation was equally gorgeous, always strange. He saw plants that stung more bitterly than insects; insects barely distinguishable from plants. Here a tree bore flowers instead of leaves; there flowers grew as large as trees. ∗ ∗ ∗ Birds, beasts, flowers—all were strange, all were wonderful.
HERMAN WHITAKER,inThe Planter.
JULY 26.
Sitting in the white-paved pergola at Montecito. with overhead a leafy shelter of pink-flowered passifloras, looking out over the little lake, its surface dotted with water-lilies, its banks fringed with drooping shrubs and vines, the hum of the bee and the bird in the air—I looked down over a wonderful collection of nearly 200 rare palms and listened to the music that floated up from their waving branches like that of a thousand silken-stringed eolian harp; and there came into my mind visions of a people that shall be strong with the strength of great hills, calm with the calm of a fair sea, united as are at last the palm and the pine, mighty with the presence of God.
BELLE SUMNER ANGIER,inThe Garden Book of California.
JULY 27.
THE GIANT SEQUOIAS.
O lofty giants of the elder prime!How may the feeble lips, of mortal, rhymeA measure fitted to thy statures grand,As like a gathering of gods ye standAnd raise your solemn arms up to the skies,While through your leaves pour Ocean's symphonies!What Druid lore ye know! What ancient rites—Gray guardians of ten thousand days and nights,Watching the stars swim round their sapphire pole,The ocean surges break about earth's brimming bowl.The cyclone's driving swirl, the storm-tossed seas.Hymning for aye their myriad litanies!∗ ∗ ∗What dawn of Life saw ye, Grand Prophets old?What pristine years? What advents manifold?When first the glaciers in their icy throesWere grinding thy repasts; and feeding thee with snows?What earthquake shocks? What changes of the sun?While ye laughed down their wrack and builded on!
O lofty giants of the elder prime!How may the feeble lips, of mortal, rhymeA measure fitted to thy statures grand,As like a gathering of gods ye standAnd raise your solemn arms up to the skies,While through your leaves pour Ocean's symphonies!What Druid lore ye know! What ancient rites—Gray guardians of ten thousand days and nights,Watching the stars swim round their sapphire pole,The ocean surges break about earth's brimming bowl.The cyclone's driving swirl, the storm-tossed seas.Hymning for aye their myriad litanies!
O lofty giants of the elder prime!
How may the feeble lips, of mortal, rhyme
A measure fitted to thy statures grand,
As like a gathering of gods ye stand
And raise your solemn arms up to the skies,
While through your leaves pour Ocean's symphonies!
What Druid lore ye know! What ancient rites—
Gray guardians of ten thousand days and nights,
Watching the stars swim round their sapphire pole,
The ocean surges break about earth's brimming bowl.
The cyclone's driving swirl, the storm-tossed seas.
Hymning for aye their myriad litanies!
∗ ∗ ∗
What dawn of Life saw ye, Grand Prophets old?What pristine years? What advents manifold?When first the glaciers in their icy throesWere grinding thy repasts; and feeding thee with snows?What earthquake shocks? What changes of the sun?While ye laughed down their wrack and builded on!
What dawn of Life saw ye, Grand Prophets old?
What pristine years? What advents manifold?
When first the glaciers in their icy throes
Were grinding thy repasts; and feeding thee with snows?
What earthquake shocks? What changes of the sun?
While ye laughed down their wrack and builded on!
JOHN WARD STIMSON,inWandering Chords.
JULY 28.
High above on the western cliff a giant head of cactus reared infernal arms and luminous bloom. One immense clump threw a shadow across the cliff road where it leaves the river plain and winds along the canyon to the mesa above the sea—the road over which in the old days the Mission Indians bore hides to the ships and flung them from the cliffs to the waiting boats below.
MARAH ELLIS RYAN,inFor the Soul of Rafael.
JULY 29.
Distinct from all others, the sequoias are a race apart. The big-tree, and the redwood of the Coast Range, are the only surviving members of that ancient family, the giants of the fore-world. Their immense trunks might be the fluted columns of some noble order of architecture, surviving its builders like the marble temples of Greece—columns three hundred feet high and thirty feet through at the base. Such a vast nave, such majestic aisles, such sublime spires, only the forest cathedrals know. Symmetrical silver firs, giant cedars and spruce, grow side by side with sugar pines of vast and irregular outline, whose huge branches, like outstretched arms, hold aloft the splendid cones—such is the ancient wood.
C.H. KIRKHAM,inIn the Open.
JULY 30.
Said one, "This city, as you know,Though young in years, as cities go,Has quite a history to repeatIf records have been kept complete.Oft has it felt the earthquake shockThat made the strongest building rock.And more than once 'gone up' in smokeTill scarce a building sheltered folk.The citizens can point to spotsWhere people fashioned hangman's knotsWith nimble fingers, to supplySome hardened rogues a hempen tie,WhomVigilantesand their friendsSaw fit to drop from gable-ends."
Said one, "This city, as you know,Though young in years, as cities go,Has quite a history to repeatIf records have been kept complete.Oft has it felt the earthquake shockThat made the strongest building rock.And more than once 'gone up' in smokeTill scarce a building sheltered folk.The citizens can point to spotsWhere people fashioned hangman's knotsWith nimble fingers, to supplySome hardened rogues a hempen tie,WhomVigilantesand their friendsSaw fit to drop from gable-ends."
Said one, "This city, as you know,
Though young in years, as cities go,
Has quite a history to repeat
If records have been kept complete.
Oft has it felt the earthquake shock
That made the strongest building rock.
And more than once 'gone up' in smoke
Till scarce a building sheltered folk.
The citizens can point to spots
Where people fashioned hangman's knots
With nimble fingers, to supply
Some hardened rogues a hempen tie,
WhomVigilantesand their friends
Saw fit to drop from gable-ends."
PALMER COX,inThe Brownies Through California.
JULY 31.
ROSEMARY.
Indian summer has gone with its beautiful moon.And all the sweet roses I gathered in JuneAre faded. It may be the cloud-sylphs of EvenHave stolen the tints of those roses for Heaven.O bonnie bright blossom! in the years far away.So evanished thy bloom on an evening in May.The sunlight now sleeps in the lap of the west,And the star-beams are barring its chamber of rest.While Twilight is weaving her blue-tinted bowersTo mellow the landscape where slumber the flowers.I would fain learn the music that won thee away,When the earth was the beautiful temple of May;For our fancies were measured the bright summer longTo the carols we learned from the lark's morning song.They still haunt me—those echoes from Child land—but nowMy heart beats alone to their musical flow.ThenI never looked up to the portals on high,For our Heaven was here; and our azure-stained skyWas the violet mead; the cloud-billows of snowWere the pale nodding lilies; the roses that glowOn the crown of the hill, gave the soft blushing hue:The gold was the crocus; the silver, the dewWhich met as it fell, the glad sunlight of smiles.And wove the gay rainbow of Hope, o'er our aisles.But the charm of the spring-time has vanished with thee;To its mystical speech I've forgotten the key;Yet, if angels and flowersareclosely allied,I may trace thy lost bloom on the blushing hillside;And when rose-buds are opening their petals in June,I'll feel thou art near me and teaching the tune.Which chanted by seraphim, won thee awayOn that blossoming eve, from the gardens of May.
Indian summer has gone with its beautiful moon.And all the sweet roses I gathered in JuneAre faded. It may be the cloud-sylphs of EvenHave stolen the tints of those roses for Heaven.O bonnie bright blossom! in the years far away.So evanished thy bloom on an evening in May.The sunlight now sleeps in the lap of the west,And the star-beams are barring its chamber of rest.While Twilight is weaving her blue-tinted bowersTo mellow the landscape where slumber the flowers.I would fain learn the music that won thee away,When the earth was the beautiful temple of May;For our fancies were measured the bright summer longTo the carols we learned from the lark's morning song.They still haunt me—those echoes from Child land—but nowMy heart beats alone to their musical flow.ThenI never looked up to the portals on high,For our Heaven was here; and our azure-stained skyWas the violet mead; the cloud-billows of snowWere the pale nodding lilies; the roses that glowOn the crown of the hill, gave the soft blushing hue:The gold was the crocus; the silver, the dewWhich met as it fell, the glad sunlight of smiles.And wove the gay rainbow of Hope, o'er our aisles.But the charm of the spring-time has vanished with thee;To its mystical speech I've forgotten the key;Yet, if angels and flowersareclosely allied,I may trace thy lost bloom on the blushing hillside;And when rose-buds are opening their petals in June,I'll feel thou art near me and teaching the tune.Which chanted by seraphim, won thee awayOn that blossoming eve, from the gardens of May.
Indian summer has gone with its beautiful moon.
And all the sweet roses I gathered in June
Are faded. It may be the cloud-sylphs of Even
Have stolen the tints of those roses for Heaven.
O bonnie bright blossom! in the years far away.
So evanished thy bloom on an evening in May.
The sunlight now sleeps in the lap of the west,
And the star-beams are barring its chamber of rest.
While Twilight is weaving her blue-tinted bowers
To mellow the landscape where slumber the flowers.
I would fain learn the music that won thee away,
When the earth was the beautiful temple of May;
For our fancies were measured the bright summer long
To the carols we learned from the lark's morning song.
They still haunt me—those echoes from Child land—but now
My heart beats alone to their musical flow.
ThenI never looked up to the portals on high,
For our Heaven was here; and our azure-stained sky
Was the violet mead; the cloud-billows of snow
Were the pale nodding lilies; the roses that glow
On the crown of the hill, gave the soft blushing hue:
The gold was the crocus; the silver, the dew
Which met as it fell, the glad sunlight of smiles.
And wove the gay rainbow of Hope, o'er our aisles.
But the charm of the spring-time has vanished with thee;
To its mystical speech I've forgotten the key;
Yet, if angels and flowersareclosely allied,
I may trace thy lost bloom on the blushing hillside;
And when rose-buds are opening their petals in June,
I'll feel thou art near me and teaching the tune.
Which chanted by seraphim, won thee away
On that blossoming eve, from the gardens of May.
MARY V. TINGLEY LAWRENCE,inPoetry of the Pacific.
A VOICE ON THE WIND.
And out of the West came a voice on the wind:O seek for the truth and behold, ye shall find!O strive for the right and behold, ye shall doAll things that the Master commandeth of you.For love is the truth ye have sought for so long,And love is the right that ye strove for through wrong.Love! love spheres our lives with a halo of fire,But God, how 'tis dimmed by each selfish desire!
And out of the West came a voice on the wind:O seek for the truth and behold, ye shall find!O strive for the right and behold, ye shall doAll things that the Master commandeth of you.For love is the truth ye have sought for so long,And love is the right that ye strove for through wrong.Love! love spheres our lives with a halo of fire,But God, how 'tis dimmed by each selfish desire!
And out of the West came a voice on the wind:
O seek for the truth and behold, ye shall find!
O strive for the right and behold, ye shall do
All things that the Master commandeth of you.
For love is the truth ye have sought for so long,
And love is the right that ye strove for through wrong.
Love! love spheres our lives with a halo of fire,
But God, how 'tis dimmed by each selfish desire!
CHARLES KEELER,inIdyls of El Dorado(out of print).
AUGUST 1.
THE AGE OF THE SEQUOIAS.
Prof. Jordan estimates that the oldest of the sequoias is at least 7000 years old. The least age assigned to it is 5000 years. It was a giant when the Hebrew Patriarchs were keeping sheep. It was a sapling when the first seeds of human civilization were germinating on the banks of the Euphrates and the Nile. It had attained its full growth before the Apostles went forth to spread the Christian religion. It began to die before William of Normandy won the battle of Hastings. It has been dying for a thousand years. And unless some accident comes to it, it will hardly be entirely dead a thousand years from now. It has seen the birth, growth and decay of all the generations and tribes and nations of civilized men. It will see the birth and decay of many more generations. It is the oldest living thing on the face of the earth.
G.W. BURTON,inBurton's Book on California.