SEPTEMBER 13.
THE CRESTED JAY.
The jay is a jovial bird—heigh-ho!He chatters all dayIn a frolicsome wayWith the murmuring breezes that blow—heigh-ho!Hear him noisily callFrom a redwood tree tallTo his mate in the opposite tree—heigh-ho!Saying: "How do you do?"As his top-knot of blueIs raised as polite as can be—heigh-ho!O impudent jay,With your plumage so gay,And your manners so jaunty and free—heigh-ho!How little you guessedWhen you robbed the wren's nest,That any stray fellow would see—heigh-ho!
The jay is a jovial bird—heigh-ho!He chatters all dayIn a frolicsome wayWith the murmuring breezes that blow—heigh-ho!Hear him noisily callFrom a redwood tree tallTo his mate in the opposite tree—heigh-ho!Saying: "How do you do?"As his top-knot of blueIs raised as polite as can be—heigh-ho!O impudent jay,With your plumage so gay,And your manners so jaunty and free—heigh-ho!How little you guessedWhen you robbed the wren's nest,That any stray fellow would see—heigh-ho!
The jay is a jovial bird—heigh-ho!
He chatters all day
In a frolicsome way
With the murmuring breezes that blow—heigh-ho!
Hear him noisily call
From a redwood tree tall
To his mate in the opposite tree—heigh-ho!
Saying: "How do you do?"
As his top-knot of blue
Is raised as polite as can be—heigh-ho!
O impudent jay,
With your plumage so gay,
And your manners so jaunty and free—heigh-ho!
How little you guessed
When you robbed the wren's nest,
That any stray fellow would see—heigh-ho!
CHARLES KEELER,inElfin Songs of Sunland.
SEPTEMBER 14.
It is to prevent the wholesale slaughter of songbirds that I appeal to you. The farmer or the fruit-raiser has not yet learned enough to distinguish friend from foe, and goes gunning in season and out of season, so that the cherry orchard, when the cherries are ripe, looks like a battle-field in miniature, the life-blood of the little slain birds rivaling in color the brightness of their wings and breast. And all this destruction of song, of gladness, of helpfulness, because the poor birds have pecked at a few early cherries, worthless, almost, in the market, as compared to the later, better kinds, which they do not interfere with.
JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD McCRACKIN.
SEPTEMBER 15.
THE VOICE OF THE CALIFORNIA DOVE.
Come, listen O love, to the voice of the dove,Come, hearken and hear him say,"There are many Tomorrows, my love, my love,There is only one Today."And all day long you can hear him say,This day in purple is rolled,And the baby stars of the milky wayThey are cradled in cradles of gold.Now what is thy secret, serene gray dove,Of singing so sweetly alway?"There are many Tomorrows, my love, my love,There is only one Today."
Come, listen O love, to the voice of the dove,Come, hearken and hear him say,"There are many Tomorrows, my love, my love,There is only one Today."
Come, listen O love, to the voice of the dove,
Come, hearken and hear him say,
"There are many Tomorrows, my love, my love,
There is only one Today."
And all day long you can hear him say,This day in purple is rolled,And the baby stars of the milky wayThey are cradled in cradles of gold.
And all day long you can hear him say,
This day in purple is rolled,
And the baby stars of the milky way
They are cradled in cradles of gold.
Now what is thy secret, serene gray dove,Of singing so sweetly alway?"There are many Tomorrows, my love, my love,There is only one Today."
Now what is thy secret, serene gray dove,
Of singing so sweetly alway?
"There are many Tomorrows, my love, my love,
There is only one Today."
JOAQUIN MILLER.
SEPTEMBER 16.
With the tip of his strong cane he breaks off a piece of the serried bark, and a spider scurries down the side of the log and into the grass. He chips off another piece, and a bevy of sow-bugs make haste to tumble over and play dead, curling their legs under their sides, but recovering their senses and scurrying off after the spider. The cane continues to chip off the bark, and down tumble all sorts of wood-people, some of them hiding like a flash in the first moist earth they come to; others never stopping until they are well under the log, where experience has taught them they will be safe out of harm's way. And they declare to themselves, and to each other, that they will never budge from under that log until it is midnight, and that wicked meadow-lark is fast asleep.
ELIZABETH AND JOSEPH GRINNELL,inBirds of Song and Story.
SEPTEMBER 17.
SIESTA.
A shady nook where nought is overheardBut wind among the eucalyptus leaves,The cheery chirp of interflitting bird,Or wooden squeak of tree-frog as it grieves.The resting eye broods o'er the running grass,Or nodding gestures of the bowed wild oats;Watches the oleander lancers pass,And the bright flashing of the oriole notes.Hushed are the senses with the drone of beesAnd the far glimmer of the mid-day heat;Dreams stealing o'er one like the incoming seas,Soft as the rustling zephyrs in the wheat;While on the breeze is borne the call of LoveTo Love, dear Love, of Majel, the wild dove.
A shady nook where nought is overheardBut wind among the eucalyptus leaves,The cheery chirp of interflitting bird,Or wooden squeak of tree-frog as it grieves.The resting eye broods o'er the running grass,Or nodding gestures of the bowed wild oats;Watches the oleander lancers pass,And the bright flashing of the oriole notes.Hushed are the senses with the drone of beesAnd the far glimmer of the mid-day heat;Dreams stealing o'er one like the incoming seas,Soft as the rustling zephyrs in the wheat;While on the breeze is borne the call of LoveTo Love, dear Love, of Majel, the wild dove.
A shady nook where nought is overheard
But wind among the eucalyptus leaves,
The cheery chirp of interflitting bird,
Or wooden squeak of tree-frog as it grieves.
The resting eye broods o'er the running grass,
Or nodding gestures of the bowed wild oats;
Watches the oleander lancers pass,
And the bright flashing of the oriole notes.
Hushed are the senses with the drone of bees
And the far glimmer of the mid-day heat;
Dreams stealing o'er one like the incoming seas,
Soft as the rustling zephyrs in the wheat;
While on the breeze is borne the call of Love
To Love, dear Love, of Majel, the wild dove.
CHARLES ELMER JENNEY,inWestern Field, Dec., 1905.
SEPTEMBER 18.
One summer there came a road-runner up from the lower valley, peeking and prying, and he never had any patience with the water baths of the sparrows. His own ablutions were performed in the clean, hopeful dust of the chaparral; and whenever he happened on their morning splatterings, he would depress his glossy crest, slant his shining tail to the level of his body, until he looked most like some bright venomous snake, daunting them with shrill abuse and feint of battle. Then suddenly he would go tilting and balancing down the gully in fine disdain, only to return in a day or two to make sure the foolish bodies were still at it.
MARY AUSTIN,inThe Land of Little Rain.
SEPTEMBER 19.
MEADOW LARKS.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy that I am!(Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!)Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm.O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the Spring!Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain?Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet!Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain.The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is!Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and call.Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss—For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy that I am!(Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!)Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm.O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the Spring!
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy that I am!
(Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!)
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm.
O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the Spring!
Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain?Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet!Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain.The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain?
Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet!
Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain.
The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is!Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and call.Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss—For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is!
Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and call.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss—
For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!
INA D. COOLBRITH,inSongs from the Golden Gate.
SEPTEMBER 20.
How could we spare the lark, that most companionable bird of the plains? Wherever one may wander … his lovely, plaintive, almost human song may be heard nearly everywhere, at frequent intervals the livelong day. He is one of the blessings of this land, one which every lover of beautiful song welcomes as heartily as the ordinary mortal the warm, bright days of this climate.
CHARLES FRANKLIN CARTER,inSome By-Ways of California.
SEPTEMBER 21.
THE MEADOW LARK AND I.
The song of life is livingThe love-heart of the year;And the pagan meadow-lark and ICan nothing find to fear.We build our simple homesFor opulence of restAmong the hills and the meadow grass,And sing our grateful best.
The song of life is livingThe love-heart of the year;And the pagan meadow-lark and ICan nothing find to fear.We build our simple homesFor opulence of restAmong the hills and the meadow grass,And sing our grateful best.
The song of life is living
The love-heart of the year;
And the pagan meadow-lark and I
Can nothing find to fear.
We build our simple homes
For opulence of rest
Among the hills and the meadow grass,
And sing our grateful best.
RUBY ARCHER.
SEPTEMBER 22.
THE RUBY-CROWNED KNIGHT.
The dominant characteristic of the Ruby-Crown is subtlety. He conceals his nest, and even his nest-building region, so successfully that few there are who know where he breeds, or who ever find his nest, hidden in the shaggy end of a high, swinging branch of spruce or pine, deep in the California mountain recesses. His prettiest trick of concealement is the way he alternately hides and reveals the bright red feathers in his crown. You may watch him a long time, seeing only a wee bit of an olive-green bird, toned with dull yellow underneath, marked on wings and about the eyes with white; but suddenly, a more festive mood comes upon him. The bird is transformed. A jaunty dash of brilliant red upcrests itself upon his head, lighting up his quiet dress.... For several moments this flame of color quivers, then it burns into a mere thread of red and is gone.
VIRGINIA GARLAND,inFeathered Californians.
SEPTEMBER 23.
SONG OF THE LINNETS.
"Cheer!" "Cheer!" sing the linnetsThrough rapturous minutes,When daylight first breaksAnd the golden Dawn streaksThrough the rose of the morning—so bright!"Gone! gone is the Night! It is light!""We have buried our headsUnder eaves of the sheds,Where our tender broods sleep;And the long watch we keepThrough the darkness and silence—till dawn.It is morn! It is morn! It is morn!"
"Cheer!" "Cheer!" sing the linnetsThrough rapturous minutes,When daylight first breaksAnd the golden Dawn streaksThrough the rose of the morning—so bright!"Gone! gone is the Night! It is light!"
"Cheer!" "Cheer!" sing the linnets
Through rapturous minutes,
When daylight first breaks
And the golden Dawn streaks
Through the rose of the morning—so bright!
"Gone! gone is the Night! It is light!"
"We have buried our headsUnder eaves of the sheds,Where our tender broods sleep;And the long watch we keepThrough the darkness and silence—till dawn.It is morn! It is morn! It is morn!"
"We have buried our heads
Under eaves of the sheds,
Where our tender broods sleep;
And the long watch we keep
Through the darkness and silence—till dawn.
It is morn! It is morn! It is morn!"
JOHN WARD STIMSON,inWandering Chords.
SEPTEMBER 24.
THE HUMMING BIRD.
Buz-z! whir-r!—a flash and away!A midget bejeweled mid flowers at play!A snip of a birdling, the blossom-bells' king,A waif of the sun-beams on quivering wing!O prince of the fairies, O pygmy of fire,Will nothing those brave little wings of yours tire?You follow the flowers from southern lands sunny,You pry amid petals all summer for honey!Now rest on a twig, tiny flowerland sprite,Your dear little lady sits near in delight;In a wee felted basket she lovingly huddles—Two dots of white eggs to her warm breast she cuddles!Whiz-z! whiff! off to your flowers!Buzz mid the perfume of jasmine bowers!Chatter and chirrup, my king of the fays,And laugh at the song that I sing in your praise!
Buz-z! whir-r!—a flash and away!A midget bejeweled mid flowers at play!A snip of a birdling, the blossom-bells' king,A waif of the sun-beams on quivering wing!O prince of the fairies, O pygmy of fire,Will nothing those brave little wings of yours tire?You follow the flowers from southern lands sunny,You pry amid petals all summer for honey!Now rest on a twig, tiny flowerland sprite,Your dear little lady sits near in delight;In a wee felted basket she lovingly huddles—Two dots of white eggs to her warm breast she cuddles!Whiz-z! whiff! off to your flowers!Buzz mid the perfume of jasmine bowers!Chatter and chirrup, my king of the fays,And laugh at the song that I sing in your praise!
Buz-z! whir-r!—a flash and away!
A midget bejeweled mid flowers at play!
A snip of a birdling, the blossom-bells' king,
A waif of the sun-beams on quivering wing!
O prince of the fairies, O pygmy of fire,
Will nothing those brave little wings of yours tire?
You follow the flowers from southern lands sunny,
You pry amid petals all summer for honey!
Now rest on a twig, tiny flowerland sprite,
Your dear little lady sits near in delight;
In a wee felted basket she lovingly huddles—
Two dots of white eggs to her warm breast she cuddles!
Whiz-z! whiff! off to your flowers!
Buzz mid the perfume of jasmine bowers!
Chatter and chirrup, my king of the fays,
And laugh at the song that I sing in your praise!
CHARLES KEELER,inElfin Songs of Sunland.
SEPTEMBER 25.
THE HUMMING BIRD.
A sudden whirr of eager sound—And now a something throbs aroundThe flowers that watch the fountain. Look!It touched the rose, the green leaves shook,I think, and yet so lightly tostThat not a spark of dew was lost.Tell me, O rose, what thing it isThat now appears, now vanishes?Surely it took its fire-green hueFrom day-breaks that it glittered through;Quick, for this sparkle of the dawnGlints through the garden and is gone.
A sudden whirr of eager sound—And now a something throbs aroundThe flowers that watch the fountain. Look!It touched the rose, the green leaves shook,I think, and yet so lightly tostThat not a spark of dew was lost.Tell me, O rose, what thing it isThat now appears, now vanishes?Surely it took its fire-green hueFrom day-breaks that it glittered through;Quick, for this sparkle of the dawnGlints through the garden and is gone.
A sudden whirr of eager sound—
And now a something throbs around
The flowers that watch the fountain. Look!
It touched the rose, the green leaves shook,
I think, and yet so lightly tost
That not a spark of dew was lost.
Tell me, O rose, what thing it is
That now appears, now vanishes?
Surely it took its fire-green hue
From day-breaks that it glittered through;
Quick, for this sparkle of the dawn
Glints through the garden and is gone.
EDWIN MARKHAM,inLincoln and Other Poems.
SEPTEMBER 26.
She led the way to the climbing rose at the front of the house, and carefully lifting a branch, motioned to the boys to look under it. There, hidden in the leafy covert, no higher than the young girl's chin, was the daintiest nest ever seen, made of soft cotton from the pussy willows by the brook, interwoven with the finest grasses and green mosses, and embroidered with one shining golden thread. And there was wee mother humming-bird, watching them a moment with bright, inquiring eyes, then darting off and poising in the air just above their heads, uncovering two tiny eggs about the size of buckshot, lying in a downy hollow like a thimble.
FLORA HAINES LOUGHEAD,inThe Abandoned Claim.
SEPTEMBER 27.
THE RUSSET-BACKED THRUSH.
He dwells where pine and hemlock grow,A merry minstrel seldom seen;The voice of Joy is his I know—Shy poet of the Evergreen!In dawn's first holy hush I hearHis one ecstatic, thrilling strain,So sweet and strong, so crystal clear'Twould tingle e'en the soul of Pain.At close of day when Twilight dreamsHe shakes the air beneath his treeWith such exquisite song it seemsThat Passion breathes through Melody.
He dwells where pine and hemlock grow,A merry minstrel seldom seen;The voice of Joy is his I know—Shy poet of the Evergreen!
He dwells where pine and hemlock grow,
A merry minstrel seldom seen;
The voice of Joy is his I know—
Shy poet of the Evergreen!
In dawn's first holy hush I hearHis one ecstatic, thrilling strain,So sweet and strong, so crystal clear'Twould tingle e'en the soul of Pain.
In dawn's first holy hush I hear
His one ecstatic, thrilling strain,
So sweet and strong, so crystal clear
'Twould tingle e'en the soul of Pain.
At close of day when Twilight dreamsHe shakes the air beneath his treeWith such exquisite song it seemsThat Passion breathes through Melody.
At close of day when Twilight dreams
He shakes the air beneath his tree
With such exquisite song it seems
That Passion breathes through Melody.
HERBERT BASHFORD,inAt the Shrine of Song.
SEPTEMBER 28.
In Marin County birds hold a unique place, for, as the county is sparsely populated, possessing many wild, secluded valleys, and unnumbered rolling hills covered with virgin forests, it is but natural that the birds should congregate in great numbers, reveling in the solitude which man invariably destroys.
HELEN BINGHAM,inIn Tamal Land.
THE ABALONE.
I saw a rainbow, for an instant, gleam,On the west edge of a receeding swell;The next soft surge,Which whispering sought the shore,Swept to my feet an abalone shell;It was the rainbow I had seen before.
I saw a rainbow, for an instant, gleam,On the west edge of a receeding swell;The next soft surge,Which whispering sought the shore,Swept to my feet an abalone shell;It was the rainbow I had seen before.
I saw a rainbow, for an instant, gleam,
On the west edge of a receeding swell;
The next soft surge,
Which whispering sought the shore,
Swept to my feet an abalone shell;
It was the rainbow I had seen before.
JOHN E. RICHARDS,inIdylls of Monterey.
SEPTEMBER 29.
THE SEAGULL.
A ceaseless rover, waif of many climes,He scorns the tempest, greets the lifting sunWith wings that fling the light and sinks at timesTo ride in triumph where the tall waves run.The rocks tide-worn, the high cliff brown and bareAnd crags of bleak, strange shores he rests upon;He floats above, a moment hangs in airClean-etched against the broad, gold breast of dawn.Bold hunter of the deep! Of thy swift flightsWhat of them all brings keenest joy to thee—To drive sharp pinions through storm-beaten nights,Or shriek amid black hollows of the sea?
A ceaseless rover, waif of many climes,He scorns the tempest, greets the lifting sunWith wings that fling the light and sinks at timesTo ride in triumph where the tall waves run.
A ceaseless rover, waif of many climes,
He scorns the tempest, greets the lifting sun
With wings that fling the light and sinks at times
To ride in triumph where the tall waves run.
The rocks tide-worn, the high cliff brown and bareAnd crags of bleak, strange shores he rests upon;He floats above, a moment hangs in airClean-etched against the broad, gold breast of dawn.
The rocks tide-worn, the high cliff brown and bare
And crags of bleak, strange shores he rests upon;
He floats above, a moment hangs in air
Clean-etched against the broad, gold breast of dawn.
Bold hunter of the deep! Of thy swift flightsWhat of them all brings keenest joy to thee—To drive sharp pinions through storm-beaten nights,Or shriek amid black hollows of the sea?
Bold hunter of the deep! Of thy swift flights
What of them all brings keenest joy to thee—
To drive sharp pinions through storm-beaten nights,
Or shriek amid black hollows of the sea?
HERBERT BASHFORD,inAt the Shrine of Song.
SEPTEMBER 30.
TO A SEA GULL AT SEA.
Thou winged Wonder!Tell me I pray thy matchless craft,Poised in air, then slipping wave-ward,Mounting again like an arrow-shaft,Circling, swaying, wheeling, dipping,All with never a flap of wing,Keeping pace with my flying ship here,Give me a key to my wondering!Gales but serve thee for swifter flying,Foam crested waves with thy wings thou dost sweep,Wonderful dun-colored, down-covered body,Living thy life on the face of the deep!
Thou winged Wonder!Tell me I pray thy matchless craft,Poised in air, then slipping wave-ward,Mounting again like an arrow-shaft,Circling, swaying, wheeling, dipping,All with never a flap of wing,Keeping pace with my flying ship here,Give me a key to my wondering!Gales but serve thee for swifter flying,Foam crested waves with thy wings thou dost sweep,Wonderful dun-colored, down-covered body,Living thy life on the face of the deep!
Thou winged Wonder!
Tell me I pray thy matchless craft,
Poised in air, then slipping wave-ward,
Mounting again like an arrow-shaft,
Circling, swaying, wheeling, dipping,
All with never a flap of wing,
Keeping pace with my flying ship here,
Give me a key to my wondering!
Gales but serve thee for swifter flying,
Foam crested waves with thy wings thou dost sweep,
Wonderful dun-colored, down-covered body,
Living thy life on the face of the deep!
ANNIE W. BRIGMAN.
OCTOBER 1.
THE PASSING OF SUMMER.
She smiled to the hearts that enshrined her,Then the gold of her banner unfurledAnd trailing her glories behind herPassed over the rim of the world.
She smiled to the hearts that enshrined her,Then the gold of her banner unfurledAnd trailing her glories behind herPassed over the rim of the world.
She smiled to the hearts that enshrined her,
Then the gold of her banner unfurled
And trailing her glories behind her
Passed over the rim of the world.
HARLEY R. WILEY,inNew England Magazine, October, 1906.
The California condor, the largest of all flying birds, is found only on this coast and only in the southern half of that, although an occasional specimen has been seen in the high Sierra Neveda. Of all the sailing or soaring birds he is the most graceful and wonderful, drifting to and fro, up and down, right or left, in straight lines or curves, for hours at a time, darting like an arrow or hanging still in air with equal ease on that motionless wing whose power puzzles all philosophy.
T.S. VANDYKE.
OCTOBER 2.
Wild fowl, quacking hordes of them, nest in the tulares. Any day's venture will raise from open shallows the great blue heron on his hollow wings. Chill evenings the mallard drakes cry continually from the glassy pools, the bittern's hollow boom rolls along the water paths. Strange and far-flown fowl drop down against the saffron, autumn sky. All day wings beat above it with lazy speed; long flights of cranes glimmer in the twilight. By night one wakes to hear the clanging geese go over. One wishes for, but gets no nearer speech from those the ready fens have swallowed up. What they do there, how fare, what find, is the secret of the tulares.
MARY AUSTIN,inThe Land of Little Rain.
OCTOBER 3.
MOCKING BIRD.
Warble, whistle and ripple! wake! whip up! ha! ha!Burgle, bubble and frolic—a roundelay far!Pearls on pearls break and roll like bright drops from a bowl!And they thrill, as they spill in a rill, o'er my soul:Then thou laughest so lightFrom thy rapturous height!Earth and Heaven are combined, in thy full dulcet tone;North and south pour the nectar thy throat blends in one!Flute and flageolet, bugle, light zither, guitar!Diamond, topaz and ruby! Sun, moon, silver star!Ripe cherries in wine!Orange blossoms divine!Genius of Songsters! so matchless in witchery!Nature hath fashioned thee out of her mystery!
Warble, whistle and ripple! wake! whip up! ha! ha!Burgle, bubble and frolic—a roundelay far!Pearls on pearls break and roll like bright drops from a bowl!And they thrill, as they spill in a rill, o'er my soul:Then thou laughest so lightFrom thy rapturous height!Earth and Heaven are combined, in thy full dulcet tone;North and south pour the nectar thy throat blends in one!Flute and flageolet, bugle, light zither, guitar!Diamond, topaz and ruby! Sun, moon, silver star!Ripe cherries in wine!Orange blossoms divine!Genius of Songsters! so matchless in witchery!Nature hath fashioned thee out of her mystery!
Warble, whistle and ripple! wake! whip up! ha! ha!
Burgle, bubble and frolic—a roundelay far!
Pearls on pearls break and roll like bright drops from a bowl!
And they thrill, as they spill in a rill, o'er my soul:
Then thou laughest so light
From thy rapturous height!
Earth and Heaven are combined, in thy full dulcet tone;
North and south pour the nectar thy throat blends in one!
Flute and flageolet, bugle, light zither, guitar!
Diamond, topaz and ruby! Sun, moon, silver star!
Ripe cherries in wine!
Orange blossoms divine!
Genius of Songsters! so matchless in witchery!
Nature hath fashioned thee out of her mystery!
JOHN WARD STIMSON,inWandering Chords.
OCTOBER 4.
THE MOCKING BIRD.
Can anything be more ecstatic than the mockingbird's manner as he pours out his soul in song, flirting that expressive tail—that seems hung on wires, jerking those emphatic wings, which say so much, turning his dainty head this way and that, and now and then flinging himself upon the air—light as a feather—in pure delight, and floating down to place again without dropping a note. It is a poem in action to see him, so lithe, so graceful in every movement.
OLIVE THORNE MILLER.
OCTOBER 5.
THE MOCKING BIRD.
Each flower a single fragrance gives,But not the perfume of the rest;Within each fruit one flavor lives,Not all the flavors of our quest;In every bird one song we noteThat seems the sweeter without words;Yet from the mock-bird's mellow throatCome all the songs of other birds.
Each flower a single fragrance gives,But not the perfume of the rest;Within each fruit one flavor lives,Not all the flavors of our quest;In every bird one song we noteThat seems the sweeter without words;Yet from the mock-bird's mellow throatCome all the songs of other birds.
Each flower a single fragrance gives,
But not the perfume of the rest;
Within each fruit one flavor lives,
Not all the flavors of our quest;
In every bird one song we note
That seems the sweeter without words;
Yet from the mock-bird's mellow throat
Come all the songs of other birds.
FRED EMERSON BROOKS,inPickett's Charge and Other Poems.
OCTOBER 6.
When a mocking-bird looks squarely at you, not turning his head one side, and then the other, like most birds, but showing his front face and using both eyes at once, like an owl—when he looks squarely at you in this way, he shows a wise, wise face. You almost believe he could speak if he would, and you cannot resist the feeling that he is more intelligent than he has any right to be, having behind those clear, sharp eyes, only "blind instinct", as the wise men say.
OLIVE THORNE MILLER.
A sunset in San Juan is truly worth crossing either a continent or an ocean to witness, when the ranges toward La Paz are purple where the sage-brush is, and rose-color where the rains have washed the steep places to the clay, and over all of mesa and mountain the soft glory of golden haze.
MARAH ELLIS RYAN,inFor the Soul of Rafael.
OCTOBER 7.
THE MOCKING BIRD.
He has an agreeable way of improving upon the original of any song he imitates, so that he is supposed to give free music-lessons to all the other birds. His own notes, belonging solely to himself, are beautiful and varied, and he sandwiches them in between the rest in a way to suit the best. No matter who is the victim of his mimicry, he loves the corner of a chimney better than any other perch, and carols out into the sky and down into the black abyss as if chimneys were made on purpose for mocking-birds.
ELIZABETH AND JOSEPH GRINNELL,inBirds of Song and Story.
OCTOBER 8.
I love the mocking-bird; not because he is a wonderful musician, for—as I have heard him—that he is not; nor because he has a sweet disposition, for that he certainly has not, but because of his mysterious habit of singing at night, which seems to differentiate him from his kind, and approach him to the human; because of his rapturous manner of song, his joy of living; because he shows so much character, and so much intelligence.
OLIVE THORNE MILLER.
The lift of every man's heart is upward; to help another human soul in its upward evolution is life's greatest and most joyful privilege; to lend ourselves each to the other as an inspiration to grander living is life's highest ministry and reward.
DANA W. BARTLETT,inThe Better City.
OCTOBER 9.
THE WATER OUZEL.
The vertical curves and angles of the most precipitous torrents he traces with the same rigid fidelity, swooping down the inclines of cascades, dropping sheer over dizzy falls amid the spray, and ascending with the same fearlessness and ease, seldom seeking to lessen the steepness of the acclivity by beginning to ascend before reaching the base of the fall. No matter though it may be several hundred feet in height he holds straight on, as if about to dash headlong into the throng of booming rockets, and darts abruptly up ward, and, after alighting at the top of the precipice to rest a moment, proceeds to feed and sing.
JOHN MUIR,inThe Mountains of California.
OCTOBER 10.
Who can hear the wild song of the ouzel and not feel an answering thrill? Perched upon a rock in the midst of the rapids, he is the incarnation of all that is untamed, a wild spirit of the mountain stream, as free as a raindrop or a sunbeam. How solitary he is, a lone little bird, flitting from rock to rock through the desolate gorge, like some spirit in a Stygian world. Yet he sings continually as he takes his solitary way along the stream, and bursts of melody, so eerie and sylvan as to fire the imagination, come to the ear, sounding above the roar of the torrent. Like Orpheus, he seeks in the nether world of that wild gorge for his Eurydice, now dashing through the rapids, now peering into some pool, as if to discern her fond image in its depths, and calling ever to lure her thence from that dark retreat up into the world of light and love.
C.H. KIRKHAM,inIn the Open.
OCTOBER 11.
TO LOS ANGELES.
May this great city of Los Angeles, destined to be a mighty metropolis, flanked by the mountains and the sea, grow in the spirit of charity and toleration between man and man, and in the fear and love of God. May our city ever remain a fair virgin, sought for by the valiant sons from all lands, adorned with the wealth of the golden orange and caressed by the clinging vine.
(Fiach Fionn) LAURENCE BRANNICK.
OCTOBER 12.
Like most of the early cities of the coast, Los Angeles owes its origin to the proselyting enthusiasm of the Spanish priesthood. The Mission of San Gabriel had been in existence ten years, and it had gathered several thousand Indians under its guardianship when it was proposed to establish a pueblo in that vicinity in order that a temporal development might proceed together with the spiritual. Had there been no mission at San Gabriel to hold the savages in check by the force of a religious awe, and to lead them to industrial pursuits, there probably would have been no founding of a city on the lands above the Los Angeles river—at least not until some date half a century later.
C.D. WILLARD,inHistory of the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce.
MY CREED.
I believe the best I can think, being fully persuaded that if this be not true, it is because the truth transcends my present power of thought.
BENJAMIN FAY MILLS.
OCTOBER 13.
THE BEAUTIES OF LOS ANGELES.
So beautiful for situation, between its guardian mountain ranges and the smiling sea, so wonderful in its resources and its possibilities is this charming valley of ours, that one cannot reasonably doubt that its manifest destiny is to be a world sanitarium.  ∗ ∗ ∗ To him who seeks it wisely here, no demand of necessity, comfort or luxury is impossible.
MADAME CAROLINE SEVERANCE,inThe Mother of Clubs.
OCTOBER 14.
The entire situation with regard to manufacturing in Southern California has undergone a radical change in the last few years, by reason of the discovery of oil in great quantities in and around Los Angeles, and in other sections of Southern and Central California. This puts an entirely new face on the fuel question, and removes, in a great measure, what has always been the most serious problem in manufacturing development.
C.D. WILLARD,inHistory of the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce.
A fog had drifted in during the night and was still tangled in the tops of the sycamores. The soft, humid air was sweet with the earthy scents of the canyon, and the curled fallen leaves of the live-oaks along the flume path were golden-brown with moisture. Beads of mist fringed the silken fluffs of the clematis, dripping with gentle, rhythmical insistence from the trees overhead.
MARGARET COLLIER GRAHAM,inStories of the Foothills.
OCTOBER 15.
All believed they were located over an inexhaustible, subterranean lake of oil, and Oilville, city of tents and shacks, within a month had acquired the recklessness, the devil-may-care air of a mining camp, or the Pennsylvania oil fields.  ∗ ∗ ∗ Then there was a pause in the work, for the experts decided that the new oil which spouted forth in such vast quantities was too heavy and malodorous to serve as an illuminant. Presently, however, it was discovered that this defect was a virtue, for here was a non-explosive petroleum that could be utilized in great quantities as a fuel, and work was hastened with renewed vigor, for now California possessed the monopoly of the one great need, not only of herself, but of all the world.
MRS. FREMONT OLDER,inThe Giants.
OCTOBER 16.
SAN PEDRO.
MORNING.A smooth, smooth sea of gray, gray glass;An open sea, where big ships passInto the sun;A boat-dotted harbor; gulls, wheeling and screaming,And surf-song and fisher-cry end our night's dreaming.Day has begun.EVENING.A broken sea of rosy jade;A rose-pink sky; black ships that fadeInto the night;Across the bay, the city seemsBut elfin music, drowsy dreamsAnd silver light!
MORNING.A smooth, smooth sea of gray, gray glass;An open sea, where big ships passInto the sun;A boat-dotted harbor; gulls, wheeling and screaming,And surf-song and fisher-cry end our night's dreaming.Day has begun.
MORNING.
A smooth, smooth sea of gray, gray glass;
An open sea, where big ships pass
Into the sun;
A boat-dotted harbor; gulls, wheeling and screaming,
And surf-song and fisher-cry end our night's dreaming.
Day has begun.
EVENING.A broken sea of rosy jade;A rose-pink sky; black ships that fadeInto the night;Across the bay, the city seemsBut elfin music, drowsy dreamsAnd silver light!
EVENING.
A broken sea of rosy jade;
A rose-pink sky; black ships that fade
Into the night;
Across the bay, the city seems
But elfin music, drowsy dreams
And silver light!
OLIVE PERCIVAL.
OCTOBER 17.
SUNSET IN SAN DIEGO.
The city sits amid her palms;The perfume of her twilight breathIs something as the sacred balmsThat bound sweet Jesus after death,Such soft, warm twilight sense as lieAgainst the gates of Paradise.Such prayerful palms, wide palms upreached!This sea mist is as incense smoke,Yon ancient walls a sermon preached,White lily with a heart of oak.And O, this twilight! O the graceOf twilight on my lifted face.
The city sits amid her palms;The perfume of her twilight breathIs something as the sacred balmsThat bound sweet Jesus after death,Such soft, warm twilight sense as lieAgainst the gates of Paradise.Such prayerful palms, wide palms upreached!This sea mist is as incense smoke,Yon ancient walls a sermon preached,White lily with a heart of oak.And O, this twilight! O the graceOf twilight on my lifted face.
The city sits amid her palms;
The perfume of her twilight breath
Is something as the sacred balms
That bound sweet Jesus after death,
Such soft, warm twilight sense as lie
Against the gates of Paradise.
Such prayerful palms, wide palms upreached!
This sea mist is as incense smoke,
Yon ancient walls a sermon preached,
White lily with a heart of oak.
And O, this twilight! O the grace
Of twilight on my lifted face.
JOAQUIN MILLER,inCollected Poems.
OCTOBER 18.
AT EVENTIDE.
Behind Point Loma's beacon heightIn shimmering waves of grey and goldThe winter sunset dies; and NightDrops her dusk mantle, fold on fold,At Eventide.And now, above yon shadowy lineThat faintly limns the distant bar,Through darkening paths, with steps that shine,She comes at last, our favorite star,At Eventide.O friend, our lives are far apartAs Western sea from Eastern shore!But in their orisons, dear heart,Our souls are with you, evermore,At Eventide.
Behind Point Loma's beacon heightIn shimmering waves of grey and goldThe winter sunset dies; and NightDrops her dusk mantle, fold on fold,At Eventide.
Behind Point Loma's beacon height
In shimmering waves of grey and gold
The winter sunset dies; and Night
Drops her dusk mantle, fold on fold,
At Eventide.
And now, above yon shadowy lineThat faintly limns the distant bar,Through darkening paths, with steps that shine,She comes at last, our favorite star,At Eventide.
And now, above yon shadowy line
That faintly limns the distant bar,
Through darkening paths, with steps that shine,
She comes at last, our favorite star,
At Eventide.
O friend, our lives are far apartAs Western sea from Eastern shore!But in their orisons, dear heart,Our souls are with you, evermore,At Eventide.
O friend, our lives are far apart
As Western sea from Eastern shore!
But in their orisons, dear heart,
Our souls are with you, evermore,
At Eventide.
MARY E. MANNIX.
OCTOBER 19.
THE DOUGLAS SQUIRREL.
One never tires of this bright chip of nature—this brave little voice crying in the wilderness—of observing his many works and ways, and listening to his curious language. His musical, piny gossip is as savory to the ear as balsam to the palate; and, though he has not exactly the gift of song, some of his notes are as sweet as those of a linnet—almost flute-like in softness, while others prick and tingle like thistles. He is the mocking-bird of squirrels, pouring forth mixed chatter and song like a perennial fountain; barking like a dog, screaming like a hawk, chirping like a blackbird or a sparrow; while in bluff, audacious noisiness he is a very jay.
JOHN MUIR,inThe Mountains of California.
OCTOBER 20.
A beautiful sight it must have been, the wild-eyed graceful mustang with its gaily dressed rider sweeping hither and thither among the frightened hosts, swerving suddenly to right or left to avoid the horns of some infuriated beast, the riata flashing high in air, then, with unerring aim, descending upon the shoulders of some reluctant prisoner; amid all the confusion the bursts of musical laughter or noisier applause, then the oaths, in the liquid Spanish tongue sounding sweetly to the ear of the uninitiated.
HELEN ELLIOTT BANDINI,inCamping with Fox-Hounds in Southern California, Overland Monthly, February, 1892.
OCTOBER 21.
Immediately, with that short, pumping bay that tells the trail is hot, the game near, and sends the blood rushing to one's very finger-ends, the swaying, eager line of hounds came swiftly down the rocky slope, across the gully ahead and up the other side, following, exactly, the path of the game. One directly behind the other they went, heads well up, so strong was the scent, necks out-stretched, rumps in air, tails wagging in short, fierce strokes. No thought had they for us, intent only on the game their noses told them must be close at hand.
HELEN ELLIOTT BANDINI,inHunting the Wild Cat in Southern California. From Overland Monthly, March, 1892.
OCTOBER 22.
Life is a fight. Millions fail. Only the strong win. Failure is worse than death. Man's internal strength is created by watching circumstances like a hawk, meeting her every spring stiff and straight, laughing at her pit-falls—which in the beginning of life are excess, excess, and always excess, and all manner of dishonor. Strength is created by adversity, by trying to win first the small battles of life, then the great, by casting out fear, by training the mind to rule in all things—the heart, the passions, the impulses, which if indulged make the brain the slave instead of the master. Success, for which alone a man lives, if he be honest with himself, comes to those who are strong, strong, strong.
GERTRUDE ATHERTON,inRulers of Kings.
OCTOBER 23.
WITH THE ARIZONA COWBOYS.
The cow or steer that is selected to be roped or cut out rarely escapes. While the horse is in hot pursuit the rider dexterously whirls his riata above his head until, at a favorable moment, it leaves his hand, uncoiling as it flies through the air, and if the throw is successful, the noose falls over the animal's head. Suddenly the horse comes to a full stop and braces himself for the shock. When the animal caught reaches the end of the rope it is brought to an abrupt halt and tumbled in a heap on the ground.  ∗ ∗ ∗ The cowboy is out of the saddle and on his feet in a jiffy. He grasps the prostrate animal by the tail and a hind leg, throws it on its side, and ties its four feet together, so that it is helpless and ready for branding or inspection.
J.A. MUNK,inArizona Sketches.
OCTOBER 24.
So here I am—settled at the ole Bar Y. And it'd take a twenty-mule team t'pull me offen it. Of a evenin', like this, the boss, he sits on the east porch, smokin'; the boys're strung along the side of the bunk-house t'rest and pass and laugh; and, out yonder, is the cottonwoods, same as ever, and the ditch, and the mesquite leveler'n a floor; and—up over it all—the moon, white and smilin'.
Then, outen the door nigh where the sunflowers're growin', mebbe she'll come—a slim, little figger in white. And, if it's plenty warm, and not too late, why, she'll be totin' the smartest, cutest——  ∗ ∗ ∗ That's my little wife—that's Macie, now—a-singin' to the kid!
ELEANOR GATES,inCupid: the Cow-Punch.
OCTOBER 25.
Let this be known, that a west-land ranch is no more than a farm, and a farm at the outermost edge of man's dominions is forever a school and a field of strife and a means of grace to those who live thereon.
∗ ∗ ∗ The ways of the earth, the ways of the seasons, the ways of the elements, these had something to impart, eternally. And man, no longer in the bond with the wild things all about him, wages ceaseless war against them, to protect his crops and the fowls and the animals that have come beneath his guardian-ship and know no laws of the air-folk, the brush-folk, or the forest-folk with whom they were once in brotherhood.
PHILIP VERRILL MIGHELS,inChatwit, the Man-Talk Bird.
OCTOBER 26.
And after supper, when the sun was down, and they was just a kinda half-light on the mesquite, and the old man was on the east porch, smokin', and the boys was all lined up along the front of the bunk-house, clean outen sight of the far side of the yard, why I just sorta wandered over to the calf-corral, then 'round by the barn and the Chink's shack, and landed up out to the west, where they's a row of cottonwoods by the new irrigatin' ditch. Beyond, acrost a hunderd mile of brown plain, here was the moon a-risin', bigger'n a dishpan, and a cold white. I stood agin a tree and watched it crawl through the clouds. The frogs was a-watchin', too, I reckon, fer they begun to holler like the dickens, some bass and some squeaky. And then, frum the other side of the ranch-house, struck up a mouth-organ.
ELEANOR GATES,inCupid: the Cow-Punch.
OCTOBER 27.
EL VAQUERO.
Tinged with the blood of Aztec lands,Sphinx-like, the tawny herdsman stands,A coiled riata in his hands.Devoid of hope, devoid of fear,Half brigand, and half cavalier—This helot, with imperial grace,Wears ever on his tawny faceA sad, defiant look of pain.Left by the fierce iconoclast,A living fragment of the past—Greek of the Greeks he must remain.
Tinged with the blood of Aztec lands,Sphinx-like, the tawny herdsman stands,A coiled riata in his hands.Devoid of hope, devoid of fear,Half brigand, and half cavalier—This helot, with imperial grace,Wears ever on his tawny faceA sad, defiant look of pain.Left by the fierce iconoclast,A living fragment of the past—Greek of the Greeks he must remain.
Tinged with the blood of Aztec lands,
Sphinx-like, the tawny herdsman stands,
A coiled riata in his hands.
Devoid of hope, devoid of fear,
Half brigand, and half cavalier—
This helot, with imperial grace,
Wears ever on his tawny face
A sad, defiant look of pain.
Left by the fierce iconoclast,
A living fragment of the past—
Greek of the Greeks he must remain.
LUCIUS HARWOOD FOOTE.
His broad brimmed hat push'd back with careless air,The proud vaquero sits his steed as freeAs winds that toss his black, abundant hair.
His broad brimmed hat push'd back with careless air,The proud vaquero sits his steed as freeAs winds that toss his black, abundant hair.
His broad brimmed hat push'd back with careless air,
The proud vaquero sits his steed as free
As winds that toss his black, abundant hair.
JOAQUIN MILLER.
OCTOBER 28.
There was to be arodeoon the Del Garda ranch. Out of the thousands of that moving herd could they single the mighty steer that bore their brand, or the wild-eyed cow whose yearling calf had not yet felt the searing-iron. Into the very midst of the seething mass would avaquerodart, single out his victim without a moment's halt, drive the animal to the open space, and throw his lasso with unerring aim. If a steer proved fractious two of the centaurs would divide the labor, and while one dexterously threw the rope around his horns, the other's lasso had quickly caught the hind foot, and together they brought him to the earth.
JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD McCRACKIN,inOverland Tales.