AUGUST 2.
Adown the land great rivers glideWith lyric odes upon their lips,The sheltered bay with singing tideForever woos the storm-tossed ships—And yet, for me more magic teemsBy California's willowed streams.∗ ∗ ∗For some the crowded market place.The bustle of the jammed bazaars.The fleeting chance in fortune's raceThat ends somewhere amid the stars—Give me a chance to gather dreamsBy California's willowed streams.
Adown the land great rivers glideWith lyric odes upon their lips,The sheltered bay with singing tideForever woos the storm-tossed ships—And yet, for me more magic teemsBy California's willowed streams.
Adown the land great rivers glide
With lyric odes upon their lips,
The sheltered bay with singing tide
Forever woos the storm-tossed ships—
And yet, for me more magic teems
By California's willowed streams.
∗ ∗ ∗
For some the crowded market place.The bustle of the jammed bazaars.The fleeting chance in fortune's raceThat ends somewhere amid the stars—Give me a chance to gather dreamsBy California's willowed streams.
For some the crowded market place.
The bustle of the jammed bazaars.
The fleeting chance in fortune's race
That ends somewhere amid the stars—
Give me a chance to gather dreams
By California's willowed streams.
CLARENCE URMY,inSunset Magazine.
AUGUST 3.
But what the land lacks in trees it nearly makes up in shrubs. Three varieties of sumac, reaching often as high as fifteen or eighteen feet, and spreading as many wide, stand thick upon a thousand hill-sides and fill with green the driest and stoniest ravines. Two kinds of live oak bushes, two varieties of lilac, one with white, the other with lavender flowers, themadrona, the coffee-berry, the manzanita, the wild mahogany, the choke-berry, all of brightest green, withadenostomaandbaccharis, two dark-green bushes, looking like red and white cedar, form what is called the chaparral. Three varieties of dwarf-willow often grow along the water-courses, and with the elder, wild grape, rose and sweet-briar, all well huddled together, the chinks filled with nettles and the whole tied together with long, trailing blackberry vines, often form an interesting subject of contemplation for one who wants to get on the other side.
T.S. VAN DYKE,inSouthern California.
AUGUST 4.
You who would find a new delight in the wild and waste places of the earth, a new meaning to life, and an enlarged sympathy with your fellow creatures, should seek them out, not in the books, but in their homes. One bird learned and known as an individual creature, with a life all its own, is worth volumes of reading. Listen to their call-notes; observe their plumage and their motions; seek out their homes, and note their devotion to their young. Then will the lower animals become invested with a new dignity, and the homes builded not with hands will become as sacred as the dwelling-place of your neighbor.
CHARLES KEELER,inBird Notes Afield.
AUGUST 5.
THE NAVEL ORANGE 250 YEARS AGO.
Most Americans know an orange by sight, and we of California count it a blood relation. We do grow the best orange in the world, and ship thousands of loads of it in a year; and we have a modest notion that we invented it, and that we "know oranges." But the handsomest, the fullest and the most erudite treatise on oranges ever printed does not derive from California, nor yet from the Only Smart Nation.... On the contrary, it was printed in Rome in the year 1646.... More accurate drawings of these fruits have never been printed; and the illustrations cover not only the varieties and even the "freaks" of the Golden Apple, but the methods of planting, budding, wall-training and housing it. Perhaps the point likeliest to jar our complacent ignorance is the fact that this venerable work describes and pictures seedless oranges, and even the peculiar "sport," now an established variety, which we know as the "Navel". Two hundred and fifty seven years ago it was called the "Female, or Foetus-bearing orange"; but no one today can draw a better picture, nor a more unmistakable, of a navel orange.
CHARLES F. LUMMIS,inOut West.
AUGUST 6.
THE SIERRA NEVADAS.
Serene and satisfied! Supreme! As loneAs God, they loom like God's archangels churl'd;They look as cold as kings upon a throne;∗ ∗ ∗A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow.
Serene and satisfied! Supreme! As loneAs God, they loom like God's archangels churl'd;They look as cold as kings upon a throne;
Serene and satisfied! Supreme! As lone
As God, they loom like God's archangels churl'd;
They look as cold as kings upon a throne;
∗ ∗ ∗
A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow.
A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow.
JOAQUIN MILLER.
AUGUST 7.
TO THE VIOLET.
Welcome little violet,I gladly welcome thee;Peeping with thy dewy eyesSo shyly out at me.Modest little violetHide not thy face away.I love thee and thy sweet perfume,Thy purple-hued array.Sweetest little violet,I'll pluck thee gently dear,I'll nurture thee so tenderly—Then have of me no fear.Sweetest little violet,Delight of every heart;No flow'ret rare is like thee fair,None praised as thou art.
Welcome little violet,I gladly welcome thee;Peeping with thy dewy eyesSo shyly out at me.
Welcome little violet,
I gladly welcome thee;
Peeping with thy dewy eyes
So shyly out at me.
Modest little violetHide not thy face away.I love thee and thy sweet perfume,Thy purple-hued array.
Modest little violet
Hide not thy face away.
I love thee and thy sweet perfume,
Thy purple-hued array.
Sweetest little violet,I'll pluck thee gently dear,I'll nurture thee so tenderly—Then have of me no fear.
Sweetest little violet,
I'll pluck thee gently dear,
I'll nurture thee so tenderly—
Then have of me no fear.
Sweetest little violet,Delight of every heart;No flow'ret rare is like thee fair,None praised as thou art.
Sweetest little violet,
Delight of every heart;
No flow'ret rare is like thee fair,
None praised as thou art.
BERTHA HIRSCH BARUCH.
AUGUST 8.
August is a word of dire import in the bird-lover's calendar. It means virtually the end of the bird season. The wooing and nesting and rearing the family are all over, and now looms before the feathered population that annual trouble—the change of dress, the only time in his life—happy soul!—that he has to concern himself about clothes.
In the business of getting a new suit he has more trouble than a fine lady, for he has to shake off the old garments, while getting the new, bit by bit, here a feather and there a feather, today a new wing-quill; tomorrow a new plume on his dainty breast.
OLIVE THORNE MILLER.
AUGUST 9.
CHILDREN IN A CALIFORNIA GARDEN.
Legendry and literature may be taught to your children in the garden. Tell them the pretty story of how Cupid's mother gave the rose its thorns; the tale of the sensitive plant; and point out to them the equipment of the cacti for their strange, hard life on the desert; the lovely human faces filled with the sweetness of remembrance that we find in the pansy bed. Show them the delight of the swift-flying hummingbird in the red and yellow blossoms of the garden, and the sagacity of the oriole in building his nest near the lantana bush—so attractive to the insects upon which the scamp feeds.
BELLE SUMNER ANGIER,inThe Garden Book of California.
AUGUST 10.
ON JOAQUIN MILLER.
Sierra's poet! high and pure thy museEnthroned doth sit amongst the stars and snows;And from thy harp olympian music flows,Of glacier heights and gleaming mountain dews.Of western sea and burning sunset hues.And we who look up—who on the plain repose,And catch faint glimpses of the mount that throwsAthwart thy poet-sight diviner views.And not alone from starry shrine is strungThy lyre, but timed to gentler lay,That sings of children, motherhood and home,And lifts our hearts and lives to sweeter day.Oh, bard of Nature's heart! thy name will restImmortal in thy land—our Golden West!
Sierra's poet! high and pure thy museEnthroned doth sit amongst the stars and snows;And from thy harp olympian music flows,Of glacier heights and gleaming mountain dews.Of western sea and burning sunset hues.And we who look up—who on the plain repose,And catch faint glimpses of the mount that throwsAthwart thy poet-sight diviner views.And not alone from starry shrine is strungThy lyre, but timed to gentler lay,That sings of children, motherhood and home,And lifts our hearts and lives to sweeter day.Oh, bard of Nature's heart! thy name will restImmortal in thy land—our Golden West!
Sierra's poet! high and pure thy muse
Enthroned doth sit amongst the stars and snows;
And from thy harp olympian music flows,
Of glacier heights and gleaming mountain dews.
Of western sea and burning sunset hues.
And we who look up—who on the plain repose,
And catch faint glimpses of the mount that throws
Athwart thy poet-sight diviner views.
And not alone from starry shrine is strung
Thy lyre, but timed to gentler lay,
That sings of children, motherhood and home,
And lifts our hearts and lives to sweeter day.
Oh, bard of Nature's heart! thy name will rest
Immortal in thy land—our Golden West!
DORA CURETON,inSunset Magazine.
AUGUST 11.
THE PESSIMIST.
The pessimist leads us into a land of desolation. He makes for the sight blossoms of ugliness; for the smell repellant odors; for the taste bitterness and gall; for the hearing harsh discord, and death for the touch that is the only relief from a desert whose scrawny life lives but to distress us.
ABBOTT KINNEY,inTasks By Twilight.
The leaves of the wild gourd, lying in great star shaped patches on the ground, drooped on their stems, and the spikes of dusty white sage by the road hung limp at the ends, and filled the air with their wilted fragrance. The sea-breeze did not come up, and in its stead gusts of hot wind from the north swept through the valley as if from the door of a furnace.
MARGARET COLLIER GRAHAM,inStories of the Foothills.
AUGUST 12.
ENTICEMENT.
Then haste, sweet April Dear.Thou alone canst find her.Her hair so soft, so silken soft thy breezes blowAnd thou shall laugh with her, give her thy first sweet kiss.On her white blossom's snow ...Why, why, dost thou not fly, on clouds of love.'Tis thou alone canst find her.Thou fain would'st ask doth she love thee.Thou knowest wellShe loves thee,April Dear.
Then haste, sweet April Dear.Thou alone canst find her.Her hair so soft, so silken soft thy breezes blowAnd thou shall laugh with her, give her thy first sweet kiss.On her white blossom's snow ...Why, why, dost thou not fly, on clouds of love.'Tis thou alone canst find her.Thou fain would'st ask doth she love thee.Thou knowest wellShe loves thee,April Dear.
Then haste, sweet April Dear.
Thou alone canst find her.
Her hair so soft, so silken soft thy breezes blow
And thou shall laugh with her, give her thy first sweet kiss.
On her white blossom's snow ...
Why, why, dost thou not fly, on clouds of love.
'Tis thou alone canst find her.
Thou fain would'st ask doth she love thee.
Thou knowest well
She loves thee,
April Dear.
ADRIADNE HOLMES EDWARDS.
AUGUST 13.
Our pitcher-plant is one of the most wonderful and interesting of all the forms that grow, linking, as it were, the vegetable world with the animal, by its unnatural carnivorous habits.
No ogre in his castle has ever gone to work more deliberately or fiendishly to entrap his victims while offering them hospitality, than does this plant-ogre. Attracted by the bizarre yellowish hoods of the tall, nodding flowers, the foolish insect alights upon the former and commences his exploration of the fascinating region.
But at last, when he has partaken to satiety and would fain depart, he turns to retrace his steps. In the dazzlement of the transparent windows of the dome above, he loses sight of the darkened door in the floor by which he entered and flies forcibly upward, bumping his head in his eagerness to escape. He is stunned by the blow and plunges downward into the tube below. Here he struggles to rise, but countless downward-pointing, bristly hairs urge him to his fate.
MARY ELIZABETH PARSONS,inThe Wild Flowers of California.
AUGUST 14.
Sausalito is noted for its abundance of flowers. These not only grow in thick profusion in the quaint hillside gardens, but are planted beside the roadways, covering many an erstwhile bare and unsightly bank with trailing vines, gay nasturtiums and bright geraniums. There is something in the spirit of this hillside gardening, this planting of sweet blossoms for the public at large, that is very appealing.
HELEN BINGHAM,inIn Tamal Land.
AUGUST 15.
A GROUP OF CACTI.(IN CALIFORNIA.)
Flower of the desert, type mysterious, strange,Like bird or monster on some sculptured tombIn Egypt's curious fashion wrought, what changeOr odd similitude of fate, what rangeOf cycling centuries from out the gloomOf dusty ages has evolved thy bloom?In the bleak desert of an alien zone,Child of the past, why dwellest thou alone?Grotesque, incongruous, amid the flowers;Unlovely and unloved, standing aside,Like to some rugged spirit sheathed in pride;Unsmiling to the sun, untouched by showers—The dew falls—every bud has drunk its fill:Bloom of the desert, thou art arid still!
Flower of the desert, type mysterious, strange,Like bird or monster on some sculptured tombIn Egypt's curious fashion wrought, what changeOr odd similitude of fate, what rangeOf cycling centuries from out the gloomOf dusty ages has evolved thy bloom?In the bleak desert of an alien zone,Child of the past, why dwellest thou alone?Grotesque, incongruous, amid the flowers;Unlovely and unloved, standing aside,Like to some rugged spirit sheathed in pride;Unsmiling to the sun, untouched by showers—The dew falls—every bud has drunk its fill:Bloom of the desert, thou art arid still!
Flower of the desert, type mysterious, strange,
Like bird or monster on some sculptured tomb
In Egypt's curious fashion wrought, what change
Or odd similitude of fate, what range
Of cycling centuries from out the gloom
Of dusty ages has evolved thy bloom?
In the bleak desert of an alien zone,
Child of the past, why dwellest thou alone?
Grotesque, incongruous, amid the flowers;
Unlovely and unloved, standing aside,
Like to some rugged spirit sheathed in pride;
Unsmiling to the sun, untouched by showers—
The dew falls—every bud has drunk its fill:
Bloom of the desert, thou art arid still!
MARY E. MANNIN.
AUGUST 16.
In late spring and early summer upon the fading grasslands and on the dry sunny slopes of the hills, the Mariposa tulips set their long-stemmed chalices of delicate color. Bulbous plants of the lily family, they are frequently called Mariposa lilies, but as a matter of fact their relationship is very near to the true tulips of the Old World, and like the latter, they have been extensively introduced into cultivation both in this country and abroad.
The petals are often conspicuously marked with lines and dots and eye-like spots in a manner that suggests the gay wings of a butterfly, whence the term, "Mariposa", which is the Spanish word for that insect.
ELIZABETH H. SAUNDERS,inCalifornia Wild Flowers.
AUGUST 17.
COPA DE ORO.(CALIFORNIA POPPY.)
Thy satin vesture richer is than loomsOf Orient weave for raiment of her kings,Not dyes of olden Tyre, not precious thingsRegathered from the long forgotten tombsOf buried empires, not the iris plumesThat wave upon the tropics' myriad wings,Not all proud Sheba's queenly offerings,Could match the golden marvel of thy blooms,For thou art nurtured from the treasure-veinsOf this fair land; thy golden rootlets supHer sands of gold—of gold thy petals spun,Her golden glory, thou! of hills and plains,Lifting, exultant, every kingly cupBrimmed with the golden vintage of the sun.
Thy satin vesture richer is than loomsOf Orient weave for raiment of her kings,Not dyes of olden Tyre, not precious thingsRegathered from the long forgotten tombsOf buried empires, not the iris plumesThat wave upon the tropics' myriad wings,Not all proud Sheba's queenly offerings,Could match the golden marvel of thy blooms,For thou art nurtured from the treasure-veinsOf this fair land; thy golden rootlets supHer sands of gold—of gold thy petals spun,Her golden glory, thou! of hills and plains,Lifting, exultant, every kingly cupBrimmed with the golden vintage of the sun.
Thy satin vesture richer is than looms
Of Orient weave for raiment of her kings,
Not dyes of olden Tyre, not precious things
Regathered from the long forgotten tombs
Of buried empires, not the iris plumes
That wave upon the tropics' myriad wings,
Not all proud Sheba's queenly offerings,
Could match the golden marvel of thy blooms,
For thou art nurtured from the treasure-veins
Of this fair land; thy golden rootlets sup
Her sands of gold—of gold thy petals spun,
Her golden glory, thou! of hills and plains,
Lifting, exultant, every kingly cup
Brimmed with the golden vintage of the sun.
INA D. COOLBRITH,inSongs from the Golden Gate.
AUGUST 18.
The Golden Eagle is California's noblest bird of prey. He is more than a match for any animal of his own size. Not a beast of the field or a fowl of the air can dispossess him; he stands intrepid before every earthly power except the hand of man. He is shy and wary at all times, clean and handsome, swift in flight and strong in body. An experience gained in the fiercest of schools makes the Eagle as formidable as any creature of the wild. He is a valuable inhabitant of any cattle range or farming community. His food consists almost entirely of the ground squirrels that are so abundant through the California hills and cause such damage to the grain fields.
WILLIAM L. FINLEY,inFeathered Foragers.
AUGUST 19.
THE POPPY'S CHIMES.
With all this youth to cheer his eyesNo man is ever old,With all this wealth to fill his purseNo one need lack for gold.O rare Ben Jonson, you should seeThe draught that I may sup:How sweet the drink, her kiss within.The poppy's golden cup.My lowly queen, I bow to theeAnd worship with my soul:I hope to drink her love from outThe poppy's golden bowl.Look up, my sweet, and catch my words,A secret I would tell:I think I hear her "Yes" ring fromThe poppy's golden bell.
With all this youth to cheer his eyesNo man is ever old,With all this wealth to fill his purseNo one need lack for gold.
With all this youth to cheer his eyes
No man is ever old,
With all this wealth to fill his purse
No one need lack for gold.
O rare Ben Jonson, you should seeThe draught that I may sup:How sweet the drink, her kiss within.The poppy's golden cup.
O rare Ben Jonson, you should see
The draught that I may sup:
How sweet the drink, her kiss within.
The poppy's golden cup.
My lowly queen, I bow to theeAnd worship with my soul:I hope to drink her love from outThe poppy's golden bowl.
My lowly queen, I bow to thee
And worship with my soul:
I hope to drink her love from out
The poppy's golden bowl.
Look up, my sweet, and catch my words,A secret I would tell:I think I hear her "Yes" ring fromThe poppy's golden bell.
Look up, my sweet, and catch my words,
A secret I would tell:
I think I hear her "Yes" ring from
The poppy's golden bell.
CHARLES McKNIGHT SAIN,inSunset, August, 1908.
AUGUST 20.
Flowering vines overhung, climbed and clung about the balcony pillars and balustrades. Roses drooped in heavy-headed cascades from second-story railings; the wide purple flowers of the clematis climbed aloft. On one wall a heliotrope broke in lavender foam and the creamy froth of the Banksia rose dabbled railings and pillars and dripped over on to the ground. It was a big, cool, friendly looking house with a front door that in summer was always open, giving the approaching visitor a hospitable glimpse of an airy, unencumbered hall.
GERALDINE BONNER,inThe Pioneer.
AUGUST 21.
A DREAM OF POPPIES.
Brown hills long parched, long lifting to the blueOf summer's brilliant sky but russet hueOf sere grass shivering in the trade-wind's sweep.Soon, with light footfalls, from their tranced sleepThe first rains bid the poppies rise anew,And trills the lark exultant summons, too.How swift at Fancy's beck those gay crowds leapTo glowing life! The eager green leaves creepFor welcome first; then hooded buds, pale gold,Each tender shower and sun-kiss help unfoldTill smiling hosts crowd all the fields, and stillA yellow sea of poppies breasts each hillAnd breaks in joyous floods as children holdGlad hands the lavish cups as gladly fill!
Brown hills long parched, long lifting to the blueOf summer's brilliant sky but russet hueOf sere grass shivering in the trade-wind's sweep.Soon, with light footfalls, from their tranced sleepThe first rains bid the poppies rise anew,And trills the lark exultant summons, too.How swift at Fancy's beck those gay crowds leapTo glowing life! The eager green leaves creepFor welcome first; then hooded buds, pale gold,Each tender shower and sun-kiss help unfoldTill smiling hosts crowd all the fields, and stillA yellow sea of poppies breasts each hillAnd breaks in joyous floods as children holdGlad hands the lavish cups as gladly fill!
Brown hills long parched, long lifting to the blue
Of summer's brilliant sky but russet hue
Of sere grass shivering in the trade-wind's sweep.
Soon, with light footfalls, from their tranced sleep
The first rains bid the poppies rise anew,
And trills the lark exultant summons, too.
How swift at Fancy's beck those gay crowds leap
To glowing life! The eager green leaves creep
For welcome first; then hooded buds, pale gold,
Each tender shower and sun-kiss help unfold
Till smiling hosts crowd all the fields, and still
A yellow sea of poppies breasts each hill
And breaks in joyous floods as children hold
Glad hands the lavish cups as gladly fill!
ELLA M. SEXTON,inThe Golden Poppy.
AUGUST 22.
CALIFORNIA.
Her poppies fling a cloth of goldO'er California's hills—Fit emblem of the wealth untoldThat hill and dale and plain unfold.Her fame the whole world fills.
Her poppies fling a cloth of goldO'er California's hills—Fit emblem of the wealth untoldThat hill and dale and plain unfold.Her fame the whole world fills.
Her poppies fling a cloth of gold
O'er California's hills—
Fit emblem of the wealth untold
That hill and dale and plain unfold.
Her fame the whole world fills.
ELIZA D. KEITH.
How can one convey meaning to another in a languagewhich that other does not understand? I can only tell you the charm of the desert, when you, too, have learned to love it. And then there will be no need for me to speak.
IDAH MEACHAM STROBRIDGE,inMiner's Mirage Land.
AUGUST 23.
THE PÆAN OF THE POPPIES.
The mountains sway with flameWhere the frail glories tremble—Fair fallen stars of fire!The valleys green acclaimThe legions that assembleIn royal robe and tire,With timbrel, shawm and choir.∗ ∗ ∗Afar in darker landsI feel their kisses burningAs sweet, uncertain lips.As faint, unhindered handsAre felt by exiles yearningOn shores when tears eclipseThe wan and westering ships.
The mountains sway with flameWhere the frail glories tremble—Fair fallen stars of fire!The valleys green acclaimThe legions that assembleIn royal robe and tire,With timbrel, shawm and choir.
The mountains sway with flame
Where the frail glories tremble—
Fair fallen stars of fire!
The valleys green acclaim
The legions that assemble
In royal robe and tire,
With timbrel, shawm and choir.
∗ ∗ ∗
Afar in darker landsI feel their kisses burningAs sweet, uncertain lips.As faint, unhindered handsAre felt by exiles yearningOn shores when tears eclipseThe wan and westering ships.
Afar in darker lands
I feel their kisses burning
As sweet, uncertain lips.
As faint, unhindered hands
Are felt by exiles yearning
On shores when tears eclipse
The wan and westering ships.
HERMAN SCHEFFAUER,inLooms of Life.
AUGUST 24.
PEACE.
No hand have I on rudder laid;All my oars lie idly by;All my sheets are steadfast made.For Love now guides me silently.His are the waves and flowing tide;He is my bark and chart and hand;He is companion at my side;His the coming and departed land.Somewhere, I know, I port shall win;Somewhen I know, dear friends, I'll see;Love, "The I Am" is lord within!Daily he brings mine own to me.
No hand have I on rudder laid;All my oars lie idly by;All my sheets are steadfast made.For Love now guides me silently.
No hand have I on rudder laid;
All my oars lie idly by;
All my sheets are steadfast made.
For Love now guides me silently.
His are the waves and flowing tide;He is my bark and chart and hand;He is companion at my side;His the coming and departed land.
His are the waves and flowing tide;
He is my bark and chart and hand;
He is companion at my side;
His the coming and departed land.
Somewhere, I know, I port shall win;Somewhen I know, dear friends, I'll see;Love, "The I Am" is lord within!Daily he brings mine own to me.
Somewhere, I know, I port shall win;
Somewhen I know, dear friends, I'll see;
Love, "The I Am" is lord within!
Daily he brings mine own to me.
HENRY HARRISON BROWN,inNow, March, 1900.
AUGUST 25.
IN THE SEASON OF POPPIES.
From the shoulders of Dawn the night shadow slipped,As the shy, saintly Moon evaded her trystWith the roystering Sun, who eagerly sippedFrom the valley's green cup the golden-white mist.Day flashed like a smile from Dawn's rosy mouth,With a passion of birds and fragrant appeals,And the warm winds up from the sleepy SouthSluiced the red, scented gold of our poppy fields.
From the shoulders of Dawn the night shadow slipped,As the shy, saintly Moon evaded her trystWith the roystering Sun, who eagerly sippedFrom the valley's green cup the golden-white mist.Day flashed like a smile from Dawn's rosy mouth,With a passion of birds and fragrant appeals,And the warm winds up from the sleepy SouthSluiced the red, scented gold of our poppy fields.
From the shoulders of Dawn the night shadow slipped,
As the shy, saintly Moon evaded her tryst
With the roystering Sun, who eagerly sipped
From the valley's green cup the golden-white mist.
Day flashed like a smile from Dawn's rosy mouth,
With a passion of birds and fragrant appeals,
And the warm winds up from the sleepy South
Sluiced the red, scented gold of our poppy fields.
HARLEY R. WILEY,inOverland Monthly, Sept., 1908.
AUGUST 26.
WHEN THE POPPY GOES TO SLEEP.
Now the sandman comes a-calling,And those eyes can scarcely peep:It is little children's bedtimeWhen the poppy goes to sleep.In the west the sun is sinking,And the chickens go to roost:And the poppy folds its petalsThat the beaming sun had loosed.∗ ∗ ∗And the poppy like the Arab,Silent in the close of day,Fearful of the coming darkness,Folds its tent and steals away.Hear the sandman's final warningOn the land and on the deep,Saying, "Good night, good night, good night,"When the poppy goes to sleep.
Now the sandman comes a-calling,And those eyes can scarcely peep:It is little children's bedtimeWhen the poppy goes to sleep.In the west the sun is sinking,And the chickens go to roost:And the poppy folds its petalsThat the beaming sun had loosed.
Now the sandman comes a-calling,
And those eyes can scarcely peep:
It is little children's bedtime
When the poppy goes to sleep.
In the west the sun is sinking,
And the chickens go to roost:
And the poppy folds its petals
That the beaming sun had loosed.
∗ ∗ ∗
And the poppy like the Arab,Silent in the close of day,Fearful of the coming darkness,Folds its tent and steals away.Hear the sandman's final warningOn the land and on the deep,Saying, "Good night, good night, good night,"When the poppy goes to sleep.
And the poppy like the Arab,
Silent in the close of day,
Fearful of the coming darkness,
Folds its tent and steals away.
Hear the sandman's final warning
On the land and on the deep,
Saying, "Good night, good night, good night,"
When the poppy goes to sleep.
CHARLES McKNIGHT SAIN,inThe Call of the Muse.
AUGUST 27.
THE SIERRA SNOW-PLANT.
Thou growest in eternal snowsAs flower never grew;The sun upon thy beauty throwsNo kiss—the dawn no dew.Thou knowest not the love-warm marlOf Earth, but dead and whiteThe wastes wherein thy roots ensnarlEre thou art freed in light.Where blighted dawns, with twilight blent,Die pale, thou liftest strong,A tongue of crimson, eloquentWith one unceasing song.O Life in vasts of death! O FlameThat thrills the stark expanse;Let Love and Longing be thy name!Love and Renunciance.
Thou growest in eternal snowsAs flower never grew;The sun upon thy beauty throwsNo kiss—the dawn no dew.
Thou growest in eternal snows
As flower never grew;
The sun upon thy beauty throws
No kiss—the dawn no dew.
Thou knowest not the love-warm marlOf Earth, but dead and whiteThe wastes wherein thy roots ensnarlEre thou art freed in light.
Thou knowest not the love-warm marl
Of Earth, but dead and white
The wastes wherein thy roots ensnarl
Ere thou art freed in light.
Where blighted dawns, with twilight blent,Die pale, thou liftest strong,A tongue of crimson, eloquentWith one unceasing song.
Where blighted dawns, with twilight blent,
Die pale, thou liftest strong,
A tongue of crimson, eloquent
With one unceasing song.
O Life in vasts of death! O FlameThat thrills the stark expanse;Let Love and Longing be thy name!Love and Renunciance.
O Life in vasts of death! O Flame
That thrills the stark expanse;
Let Love and Longing be thy name!
Love and Renunciance.
HERMAN SCHEFFAUER,inLooms of Life.
AUGUST 28.
IN A CALIFORNIA GARDEN.
Thro' the green cloister, folding us within.The leaves are audible—our ear to win;They whisper of the realm of old Romance.Of sunny Spain, and of chivalric France;And poor Ramona's love and her despair,Thrill, like Aeolian harp, the twilight air—So the dear garden claims its mystic due.Linking the legends of the Old and New.
Thro' the green cloister, folding us within.The leaves are audible—our ear to win;They whisper of the realm of old Romance.Of sunny Spain, and of chivalric France;And poor Ramona's love and her despair,Thrill, like Aeolian harp, the twilight air—So the dear garden claims its mystic due.Linking the legends of the Old and New.
Thro' the green cloister, folding us within.
The leaves are audible—our ear to win;
They whisper of the realm of old Romance.
Of sunny Spain, and of chivalric France;
And poor Ramona's love and her despair,
Thrill, like Aeolian harp, the twilight air—
So the dear garden claims its mystic due.
Linking the legends of the Old and New.
FRANCES MARGARET MILNE,inThe Grizzly Bear Magazine, June, 1909.
AUGUST 29.
The evening primrose covers the lower slopes with long sheets of brightest yellow, and from the hills above, the rock-rose adds its golden bloom to that of the sorrel and the wild alfalfa, until the hills almost outshine the bright light from the slopes and plains. And through all this nods a tulip of delicate lavender; vetches, lupins and all the members of the wild-pea family are pushing and winding their way everywhere in every shade of crimson, purple and white. New bell-flowers of white and blue and indigo rise above the first, which served merely as ushers to the display, and whole acres ablaze with the orange of the poppy are fast turning with the indigo of the larkspur. The mimulus alone is almost enough to color the hills.
T.S. VAN DYKE,inSouthern California.
AUGUST 30.
THE MARIPOSA LILY.
Insect or blossom? Fragile, fairy thing,Poised upon slender tip, and quiveringTo flight! a flower of the fields of air;A jeweled moth; a butterfly, with rareAnd tender tints upon his downy wings,A moment resting in our happy sight;A flower held captive by a thread so slightIts petal-wings of broidered gossamerAre light as the wind, with every wind astir,Wafting sweet odor, faint and exquisite.O dainty nursling of the field and sky.What fairer thing looks up to heaven's blueAnd drinks the noontide sun, the dawning's dew?Thou winged bloom! thou blossom-butterfly!
Insect or blossom? Fragile, fairy thing,Poised upon slender tip, and quiveringTo flight! a flower of the fields of air;A jeweled moth; a butterfly, with rareAnd tender tints upon his downy wings,A moment resting in our happy sight;A flower held captive by a thread so slightIts petal-wings of broidered gossamerAre light as the wind, with every wind astir,Wafting sweet odor, faint and exquisite.O dainty nursling of the field and sky.What fairer thing looks up to heaven's blueAnd drinks the noontide sun, the dawning's dew?Thou winged bloom! thou blossom-butterfly!
Insect or blossom? Fragile, fairy thing,
Poised upon slender tip, and quivering
To flight! a flower of the fields of air;
A jeweled moth; a butterfly, with rare
And tender tints upon his downy wings,
A moment resting in our happy sight;
A flower held captive by a thread so slight
Its petal-wings of broidered gossamer
Are light as the wind, with every wind astir,
Wafting sweet odor, faint and exquisite.
O dainty nursling of the field and sky.
What fairer thing looks up to heaven's blue
And drinks the noontide sun, the dawning's dew?
Thou winged bloom! thou blossom-butterfly!
INA D. COOLBRITH,inSongs from the Golden Gate.
AUGUST 31.
CALIFORNIA PHILOSOPHY.
You kin talk about yer eastern states, their stiddy growth 'nd size,'Nd brag about yer cities, with their business enterprise;You kin blow about tall buildin's runnin' clean up to the clouds,'Nd gas about yer graded streets 'nd chirp about yer crowds;But how about yer "twisters" 'nd the cyclones you have there,That's runnin' 'round uncorralled 'nd a-gittin' on a tear,'Nd a-mixin' towns 'nd counties up at sich a tarnal rateA man can't be dead sartin that he's in his native state.You needn't talk to me about yer "enterprise" 'nd "go,"Fer how about them river floods us folks hear tell of so,Where a feller goes to bed at night with nary thought o' fear,'Nd discovers in the mornin' that he's changed his hemisphere;'Nd where grasshoppers eat the crops 'nd all about the place,But leave that gilt-edged mortgage there ter stare you in the face.If that is where you want ter live it's where you'd orter be,But I reckon ol' Cal'forny's good 'nough fer me.I sort o' low the climate thar is somewhat diff'runt too,Accordin' to the weather prophet's watchful p'int o' view.In course, if ten foot snowbanks don't bother you at all,Er slosh 'nd mud 'nd drizzlin' rain, combined with a snowfall,It's just the most delightful spot this side o' heaven's dome—But I kind o' sorter reckon that I couldn't call it home.When you talk about that climate, it's all tomfoolery,Fer sunny ol' Cal'forny's good enough fer me.Oh, you live away back east, you don't know what you missBy stayin' in that measly clime, without the joy an' blissOf knowin' what the weather is from one day to the next;It's "mebby this," "I hope it's that," er some such like pretext.Come out to Californy' whar the sky is allers bright,'Nd where the sun shines all the while, with skeerce a cloud in sight;You'd never pine fer eastern climes—ther's no denyin' that—Fer when you want a heaven on earth, Los Angeles stands pat.
You kin talk about yer eastern states, their stiddy growth 'nd size,'Nd brag about yer cities, with their business enterprise;You kin blow about tall buildin's runnin' clean up to the clouds,'Nd gas about yer graded streets 'nd chirp about yer crowds;But how about yer "twisters" 'nd the cyclones you have there,That's runnin' 'round uncorralled 'nd a-gittin' on a tear,'Nd a-mixin' towns 'nd counties up at sich a tarnal rateA man can't be dead sartin that he's in his native state.
You kin talk about yer eastern states, their stiddy growth 'nd size,
'Nd brag about yer cities, with their business enterprise;
You kin blow about tall buildin's runnin' clean up to the clouds,
'Nd gas about yer graded streets 'nd chirp about yer crowds;
But how about yer "twisters" 'nd the cyclones you have there,
That's runnin' 'round uncorralled 'nd a-gittin' on a tear,
'Nd a-mixin' towns 'nd counties up at sich a tarnal rate
A man can't be dead sartin that he's in his native state.
You needn't talk to me about yer "enterprise" 'nd "go,"Fer how about them river floods us folks hear tell of so,Where a feller goes to bed at night with nary thought o' fear,'Nd discovers in the mornin' that he's changed his hemisphere;'Nd where grasshoppers eat the crops 'nd all about the place,But leave that gilt-edged mortgage there ter stare you in the face.If that is where you want ter live it's where you'd orter be,But I reckon ol' Cal'forny's good 'nough fer me.
You needn't talk to me about yer "enterprise" 'nd "go,"
Fer how about them river floods us folks hear tell of so,
Where a feller goes to bed at night with nary thought o' fear,
'Nd discovers in the mornin' that he's changed his hemisphere;
'Nd where grasshoppers eat the crops 'nd all about the place,
But leave that gilt-edged mortgage there ter stare you in the face.
If that is where you want ter live it's where you'd orter be,
But I reckon ol' Cal'forny's good 'nough fer me.
I sort o' low the climate thar is somewhat diff'runt too,Accordin' to the weather prophet's watchful p'int o' view.In course, if ten foot snowbanks don't bother you at all,Er slosh 'nd mud 'nd drizzlin' rain, combined with a snowfall,It's just the most delightful spot this side o' heaven's dome—But I kind o' sorter reckon that I couldn't call it home.When you talk about that climate, it's all tomfoolery,Fer sunny ol' Cal'forny's good enough fer me.
I sort o' low the climate thar is somewhat diff'runt too,
Accordin' to the weather prophet's watchful p'int o' view.
In course, if ten foot snowbanks don't bother you at all,
Er slosh 'nd mud 'nd drizzlin' rain, combined with a snowfall,
It's just the most delightful spot this side o' heaven's dome—
But I kind o' sorter reckon that I couldn't call it home.
When you talk about that climate, it's all tomfoolery,
Fer sunny ol' Cal'forny's good enough fer me.
Oh, you live away back east, you don't know what you missBy stayin' in that measly clime, without the joy an' blissOf knowin' what the weather is from one day to the next;It's "mebby this," "I hope it's that," er some such like pretext.Come out to Californy' whar the sky is allers bright,'Nd where the sun shines all the while, with skeerce a cloud in sight;You'd never pine fer eastern climes—ther's no denyin' that—Fer when you want a heaven on earth, Los Angeles stands pat.
Oh, you live away back east, you don't know what you miss
By stayin' in that measly clime, without the joy an' bliss
Of knowin' what the weather is from one day to the next;
It's "mebby this," "I hope it's that," er some such like pretext.
Come out to Californy' whar the sky is allers bright,
'Nd where the sun shines all the while, with skeerce a cloud in sight;
You'd never pine fer eastern climes—ther's no denyin' that—
Fer when you want a heaven on earth, Los Angeles stands pat.
E.A. BRININSTOOL.
CALIFORNIA.
In all methinks I see the counterpartOf Italy, without her dower of art.We have the lordly Alps, the fir-fringed hills,The green and golden valleys veined with rills,A dead Vesuvius with its smouldering fire,A tawny Tiber sweeping to the sea.Our seasons have the same superb attire,The same redundant wealth of flower and tree,Upon our peaks the same imperial dyes,And day by day, serenely over all,The same successive months of smiling skies.Conceive a cross, a tower, a convent wall,A broken column and a fallen fane,A chain of crumbling arches down the plain,A group of brown-faced children by a stream,A scarlet-skirted maiden standing near,A monk, a beggar, and a muleteer,And lo! it is no longer now a dream.These are the Alps, and there the Apennines;The fertile plains of Lombardy between;Beyond Val d'Arno with its flocks and vines,These granite crags are gray monastic shrinesPerched on the cliffs like old dismantled forts;And far to seaward can be dimly seenThe marble splendor of Venetian courts;While one can all but hear the mournful rhythmic beatOf white-lipped waves along the sea-paved street.O childless mother of dead empires, we,The latest born of all the western lands,In fancied kinship stretch our infant handsAcross the intervening seas to thee.Thine the immortal twilight, ours the dawn,Yet we shall have our names to canonize,Our past to haunt us with its solemn eyes,Our ruins, when this restless age is gone.
In all methinks I see the counterpartOf Italy, without her dower of art.We have the lordly Alps, the fir-fringed hills,The green and golden valleys veined with rills,A dead Vesuvius with its smouldering fire,A tawny Tiber sweeping to the sea.Our seasons have the same superb attire,The same redundant wealth of flower and tree,Upon our peaks the same imperial dyes,And day by day, serenely over all,The same successive months of smiling skies.Conceive a cross, a tower, a convent wall,A broken column and a fallen fane,A chain of crumbling arches down the plain,A group of brown-faced children by a stream,A scarlet-skirted maiden standing near,A monk, a beggar, and a muleteer,And lo! it is no longer now a dream.These are the Alps, and there the Apennines;The fertile plains of Lombardy between;Beyond Val d'Arno with its flocks and vines,These granite crags are gray monastic shrinesPerched on the cliffs like old dismantled forts;And far to seaward can be dimly seenThe marble splendor of Venetian courts;While one can all but hear the mournful rhythmic beatOf white-lipped waves along the sea-paved street.O childless mother of dead empires, we,The latest born of all the western lands,In fancied kinship stretch our infant handsAcross the intervening seas to thee.Thine the immortal twilight, ours the dawn,Yet we shall have our names to canonize,Our past to haunt us with its solemn eyes,Our ruins, when this restless age is gone.
In all methinks I see the counterpart
Of Italy, without her dower of art.
We have the lordly Alps, the fir-fringed hills,
The green and golden valleys veined with rills,
A dead Vesuvius with its smouldering fire,
A tawny Tiber sweeping to the sea.
Our seasons have the same superb attire,
The same redundant wealth of flower and tree,
Upon our peaks the same imperial dyes,
And day by day, serenely over all,
The same successive months of smiling skies.
Conceive a cross, a tower, a convent wall,
A broken column and a fallen fane,
A chain of crumbling arches down the plain,
A group of brown-faced children by a stream,
A scarlet-skirted maiden standing near,
A monk, a beggar, and a muleteer,
And lo! it is no longer now a dream.
These are the Alps, and there the Apennines;
The fertile plains of Lombardy between;
Beyond Val d'Arno with its flocks and vines,
These granite crags are gray monastic shrines
Perched on the cliffs like old dismantled forts;
And far to seaward can be dimly seen
The marble splendor of Venetian courts;
While one can all but hear the mournful rhythmic beat
Of white-lipped waves along the sea-paved street.
O childless mother of dead empires, we,
The latest born of all the western lands,
In fancied kinship stretch our infant hands
Across the intervening seas to thee.
Thine the immortal twilight, ours the dawn,
Yet we shall have our names to canonize,
Our past to haunt us with its solemn eyes,
Our ruins, when this restless age is gone.
LUCIUS HARWOOD FOOTE.
SEPTEMBER 1.
THE SCARF OF IRIS.
Something magical is near me—hidden, breathing everywhere,Shaken out in mystic odors, caught unseen in the mid-air.Life is waking, palpitating; souls of flowers are drawing nigh;Flitting birds with fluted warble weave between the earth and sky;And a soft excitement welling from the inmost heart of thingsSuch a sense of exaltation, such a call to rapture brings,That my heart—all tremulous with a virgin wonderment—Waits and yearns and sings in carols of the rain and sunshine blent,Knowing more will be revealed with the dawning every day—For the fairy scarf of Iris falls across the common way.
Something magical is near me—hidden, breathing everywhere,Shaken out in mystic odors, caught unseen in the mid-air.Life is waking, palpitating; souls of flowers are drawing nigh;Flitting birds with fluted warble weave between the earth and sky;And a soft excitement welling from the inmost heart of thingsSuch a sense of exaltation, such a call to rapture brings,That my heart—all tremulous with a virgin wonderment—Waits and yearns and sings in carols of the rain and sunshine blent,Knowing more will be revealed with the dawning every day—For the fairy scarf of Iris falls across the common way.
Something magical is near me—hidden, breathing everywhere,
Shaken out in mystic odors, caught unseen in the mid-air.
Life is waking, palpitating; souls of flowers are drawing nigh;
Flitting birds with fluted warble weave between the earth and sky;
And a soft excitement welling from the inmost heart of things
Such a sense of exaltation, such a call to rapture brings,
That my heart—all tremulous with a virgin wonderment—
Waits and yearns and sings in carols of the rain and sunshine blent,
Knowing more will be revealed with the dawning every day—
For the fairy scarf of Iris falls across the common way.
RUBY ARCHER.
SEPTEMBER 2.
To the left as you rode you saw, far on the horizon, rising to the height of your eye, the mountains of the Channel Islands. Then the deep sapphire of the Pacific, fringed with the soft, unchanging white of the surf and the yellow of the shore. Then the town like a little map, and the lush greens of the wide meadows, the fruit-groves, the lesser ranges—all vivid, fertile, brilliant, and pulsating with vitality.
STEWART EDWARD WHITE,inThe Mountains.
SEPTEMBER 3.
Never was garden more unintentionally started, and never did one prove greater source of pleasure. ∗ ∗ ∗ One day, about Christmas time, my little nephew brought me two small twigs of honeysuckle—not slips or shoots, and I stuck them in the ground by the front porch. ∗ ∗ ∗ When it was just eighteen months old honeysuckle vines were twining tenderly about the corner pillars of the porch, drawing their network across to the other support, and covered with bunches of white, creamy tubes, the air heavy with their perfume. ∗ ∗ ∗ The climbing rose had reached the lattice work, and its yellowish flowers formed a most effective contrast to the sky-blue of the sollya blossoms, trained up on the other side of the porch. The beds were edged variously with dark blue violets and pink daisies, above which bloomed salvias, euphorbias, lantanas, tube-roses, forget-me-nots, carnations, white lilies, Japan lilies, iris, primroses, ranunculus, lilies-of-the-valley, pansies, anemones, dahlias, and roses—white, red, pink, yellow, crimson, cream—in the wildest profusion.
JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD McCRACKIN,inAnother Juanita.
SEPTEMBER 4.
AFTERWARD.
A dying moon fell down the sky,As one looked out to seeThe place where once her soul enduredIts lengthened Calvary.Of all the mem'ries gathered there—Their faces wan with tears—One only smiled—a baby's smile—To rectify the years.
A dying moon fell down the sky,As one looked out to seeThe place where once her soul enduredIts lengthened Calvary.Of all the mem'ries gathered there—Their faces wan with tears—One only smiled—a baby's smile—To rectify the years.
A dying moon fell down the sky,
As one looked out to see
The place where once her soul endured
Its lengthened Calvary.
Of all the mem'ries gathered there—
Their faces wan with tears—
One only smiled—a baby's smile—
To rectify the years.
DOROTHEA L. MOORE.
SEPTEMBER 5.
The harvesting of hops is the conjunction of the rude essentials of farm life with the highest effect in art. What artist but would note enthusiastically the inimitable pose of that young girl tip-toeing to bring down the tuft of creamy blossoms overhead; or the modest nudity of the wee bronze savage capering about a stolid squaw in a red sprigged muslin? Indeed, there is indescribable piquancy in this unconscious grouping of the pickers and their freedom from restraint. For each artistic bit—a laughing face in an aureole of amber clusters, a statuesque chin and throat, Indians in grotesquely picturesque raiment, and the yellow visages of the Chinese—the vines make an idyllic framing with a sinking summer sun in the background lending a shimmering transparency to leaf and flower.
NINETTA EAMES,inHop-Picking Time, The Cosmopolitan, November, 1893.
SEPTEMBER 6.
Golf has spread with great rapidity throughout California, and though many people may have taken it up from an idea that it is the correct thing, the game will always be popular, especially in the Southern part of the State, where more people of leisure live than in the Northern part, and where the large infusion of British and Eastern residents tends to foster a love of out-door sports. Golf may be played in any part of Central or Southern California on any day in the year when a gale is not blowing or heavy rain falling. Occasionally the strong winds render golfing somewhat arduous, but the enthusiast can play on about three hundred and fifty days in the year.
ARTHUR INKERSLEY,inOverland Monthly.
SEPTEMBER 7.
My roses bud and bloom and fail me never,From Lent and Whitsun to the Christmas time;Climbing in eagerness and great endeavor—Our Southland bushes ever love to climb.
My roses bud and bloom and fail me never,From Lent and Whitsun to the Christmas time;Climbing in eagerness and great endeavor—Our Southland bushes ever love to climb.
My roses bud and bloom and fail me never,
From Lent and Whitsun to the Christmas time;
Climbing in eagerness and great endeavor—
Our Southland bushes ever love to climb.
JAMES MAIN DIXON,inMy Garden.
How bright the world looked, to be sure; flowers covered the earth, not scattered in niggardly manner as in the older, colder Eastern states, but covering the earth for miles, showing nothing but a sea of blue, an ocean of crimson, or a wilderness of yellow. Then came patches where all shades and colors were mixed; delicate tints of pink and mauve, of pure white and deep red, and over all floated a fragrance that was never equaled by garden-flowers or their distilled perfume.
JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD McCRACKIN,inOverland Tales.
SEPTEMBER 8.
The love that gives all, craves all, asks nothing, is so bitter that no one lifts the cup voluntarily, and yet if the sweetness of it could be distilled, prosperous love would regard it enviously and kings seek it on foot.
AMANDA MATHEWS,inHieroglyphics of Love.
The world will never be saved from its sin and shame until a larger number of men are ready to lash themselves like Ulysses of old to those enduring principles of righteousness which stand erect like masts and sail on, no matter what sirens of personal indulgence sing along the course.
CHARLES REYNOLDS BROWN.
SEPTEMBER 9.
TO CALIFORNIA:
Queen of the Sunset!Within the crown upon thy forehead glowThe crystal jewels of eternal snow.Down at thy feet the broad Pacific towers,And Summer ever binds thy breast with flowers.
Queen of the Sunset!Within the crown upon thy forehead glowThe crystal jewels of eternal snow.Down at thy feet the broad Pacific towers,And Summer ever binds thy breast with flowers.
Queen of the Sunset!
Within the crown upon thy forehead glow
The crystal jewels of eternal snow.
Down at thy feet the broad Pacific towers,
And Summer ever binds thy breast with flowers.
MADGE MORRIS WAGNER,inDebris.
The religious life of California is characterized by the spirit of freedom and tolerance. The aim has been to "Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's," by legislating only in regard to those secular interests in which all stand alike before the law and to leave to the free and untrammeled decision of the individual conscience those deeper, personal attitudes and relationships "which are God's."
CHARLES REYNOLDS BROWN.
SEPTEMBER 10.
Gay little oriole, fond little lover,Watching thy mate o'er her tiny ones hover,Tell me, I pray, from your cottonwood tree,When will my true love come riding to me?Will he come with his lariat hung at his side?On a wild prancing bronco, my love, will he ride?So high on your tree top you surely can see,O, how will my true love come riding to me?Sing of my lover and tell me my fate,Will he guard me as fondly as thou dost thy mate?Dear oriole, sing, while I listen to thee—When will my true love come riding to me?
Gay little oriole, fond little lover,Watching thy mate o'er her tiny ones hover,Tell me, I pray, from your cottonwood tree,When will my true love come riding to me?
Gay little oriole, fond little lover,
Watching thy mate o'er her tiny ones hover,
Tell me, I pray, from your cottonwood tree,
When will my true love come riding to me?
Will he come with his lariat hung at his side?On a wild prancing bronco, my love, will he ride?So high on your tree top you surely can see,O, how will my true love come riding to me?
Will he come with his lariat hung at his side?
On a wild prancing bronco, my love, will he ride?
So high on your tree top you surely can see,
O, how will my true love come riding to me?
Sing of my lover and tell me my fate,Will he guard me as fondly as thou dost thy mate?Dear oriole, sing, while I listen to thee—When will my true love come riding to me?
Sing of my lover and tell me my fate,
Will he guard me as fondly as thou dost thy mate?
Dear oriole, sing, while I listen to thee—
When will my true love come riding to me?
CHARLES KEELER,inOverland Monthly.
SEPTEMBER 11.
LOOKING BACKWARD!
My heart aches, and a poignant yearning painsMy pulse, as though from revel I had wakedTo find sore disenchantment.Oh for the simple ways of childhood,And its joys!Why have I grown so cold and cynical?My life seems out of tune;Its notes harsh and discordant;The crowded thoroughfare doth fret meAnd make lonely.Darkling I muse and yearnFor those glad days of yore,When my part chorded too,And I, a merry, trustful boy,Found consonance in every friend without annoy.Since then, how changed!Strained are the strings of friendship; fled the joys;Seeming the show.An alien I, unlike, alone!And yet my mother! The welcome word o'erflows the eye,And makes the very memory weep.No, love is not extinct—that sweetest name—The covering ashes keep alive the flame.
My heart aches, and a poignant yearning painsMy pulse, as though from revel I had wakedTo find sore disenchantment.Oh for the simple ways of childhood,And its joys!Why have I grown so cold and cynical?My life seems out of tune;Its notes harsh and discordant;The crowded thoroughfare doth fret meAnd make lonely.Darkling I muse and yearnFor those glad days of yore,When my part chorded too,And I, a merry, trustful boy,Found consonance in every friend without annoy.Since then, how changed!Strained are the strings of friendship; fled the joys;Seeming the show.An alien I, unlike, alone!And yet my mother! The welcome word o'erflows the eye,And makes the very memory weep.No, love is not extinct—that sweetest name—The covering ashes keep alive the flame.
My heart aches, and a poignant yearning pains
My pulse, as though from revel I had waked
To find sore disenchantment.
Oh for the simple ways of childhood,
And its joys!
Why have I grown so cold and cynical?
My life seems out of tune;
Its notes harsh and discordant;
The crowded thoroughfare doth fret me
And make lonely.
Darkling I muse and yearn
For those glad days of yore,
When my part chorded too,
And I, a merry, trustful boy,
Found consonance in every friend without annoy.
Since then, how changed!
Strained are the strings of friendship; fled the joys;
Seeming the show.
An alien I, unlike, alone!
And yet my mother! The welcome word o'erflows the eye,
And makes the very memory weep.
No, love is not extinct—that sweetest name—
The covering ashes keep alive the flame.
MALCOLM McLEOD,inCulture Simplicity.
SEPTEMBER 12.
The overgoing sun shines upon no region, of equal extent, which offers so many and such varied inducements to men in search of homes and health, as does the region which is entitled to the appellation of "Semi-Tropical California".
BEN C. TRUMAN,inSemi-Tropical California.