How may the feeble lips, of mortal, rhyme
A measure fitted to thy statures grand,
As like a gathering of gods ye stand
And raise your solemn arms up to the skies,
While through your leaves pour Ocean's symphonies!
What Druid lore ye know! What ancient rites--
Gray guardians of ten thousand days and nights,
Watching the stars swim round their sapphire pole,
The ocean surges break about earth's brimming bowl.
The cyclone's driving swirl, the storm-tossed seas.
Hymning for aye their myriad litanies!
* * * * *
What dawn of Life saw ye, Grand Prophets old?
What pristine years? What advents manifold?
When first the glaciers in their icy throes
Were grinding thy repasts; and feeding thee with snows?
What earthquake shocks? What changes of the sun?
While ye laughed down their wrack and builded on!
JOHN WARD STIMSON,
in _Wandering Chords._
JULY 28.
High above on the western cliff a giant head of cactus reared infernal
arms and luminous bloom. One immense clump threw a shadow across the
cliff road where it leaves the river plain and winds along the canyon
to the mesa above the sea--the road over which in the old days the
Mission Indians bore hides to the ships and flung them from the cliffs
to the waiting boats below.
MARAH ELLIS RYAN,
in _For the Soul of Rafael._
JULY 29.
Distinct from all others, the sequoias are a race apart. The big-tree,
and the redwood of the Coast Range, are the only surviving members of
that ancient family, the giants of the fore-world. Their immense
trunks might be the fluted columns of some noble order of
architecture, surviving its builders like the marble temples of
Greece--columns three hundred feet high and thirty feet through at the
base. Such a vast nave, such majestic aisles, such sublime spires,
only the forest cathedrals know. Symmetrical silver firs, giant cedars
and spruce, grow side by side with sugar pines of vast and irregular
outline, whose huge branches, like outstretched arms, hold aloft the
splendid cones--such is the ancient wood.
C.H. KIRKHAM,
in _In the Open._
JULY 30.
Said one, "This city, as you know,
Though young in years, as cities go,
Has quite a history to repeat
If records have been kept complete.
Oft has it felt the earthquake shock
That made the strongest building rock.
And more than once 'gone up' in smoke
Till scarce a building sheltered folk.
The citizens can point to spots
Where people fashioned hangman's knots
With nimble fingers, to supply
Some hardened rogues a hempen tie,
Whom _Vigilantes_ and their friends
Saw fit to drop from gable-ends."
PALMER COX,
in _The Brownies Through California._
JULY 31.
ROSEMARY.
Indian summer has gone with its beautiful moon.
And all the sweet roses I gathered in June
Are faded. It may be the cloud-sylphs of Even
Have stolen the tints of those roses for Heaven.
O bonnie bright blossom! in the years far away.
So evanished thy bloom on an evening in May.
The sunlight now sleeps in the lap of the west,
And the star-beams are barring its chamber of rest.
While Twilight is weaving her blue-tinted bowers
To mellow the landscape where slumber the flowers.
I would fain learn the music that won thee away,
When the earth was the beautiful temple of May;
For our fancies were measured the bright summer long
To the carols we learned from the lark's morning song.
They still haunt me--those echoes from Child land--but now
My heart beats alone to their musical flow.
_Then_ I never looked up to the portals on high,
For our Heaven was here; and our azure-stained sky
Was the violet mead; the cloud-billows of snow
Were the pale nodding lilies; the roses that glow
On the crown of the hill, gave the soft blushing hue:
The gold was the crocus; the silver, the dew
Which met as it fell, the glad sunlight of smiles.
And wove the gay rainbow of Hope, o'er our aisles.
But the charm of the spring-time has vanished with thee;
To its mystical speech I've forgotten the key;
Yet, if angels and flowers _are_ closely allied,
I may trace thy lost bloom on the blushing hillside;
And when rose-buds are opening their petals in June,
I'll feel thou art near me and teaching the tune.
Which chanted by seraphim, won thee away
On that blossoming eve, from the gardens of May.
MARY V. TINGLEY LAWRENCE,
in _Poetry of the Pacific._
A VOICE ON THE WIND.
And out of the West came a voice on the wind:
O seek for the truth and behold, ye shall find!
O strive for the right and behold, ye shall do
All things that the Master commandeth of you.
For love is the truth ye have sought for so long,
And love is the right that ye strove for through wrong.
Love! love spheres our lives with a halo of fire,
But God, how 'tis dimmed by each selfish desire!
CHARLES KEELER,
in _Idyls of El Dorado_ (out of print).
AUGUST 1.
THE AGE OF THE SEQUOIAS.
Prof. Jordan estimates that the oldest of the sequoias is at least
7000 years old. The least age assigned to it is 5000 years. It was a
giant when the Hebrew Patriarchs were keeping sheep. It was a sapling
when the first seeds of human civilization were germinating on the
banks of the Euphrates and the Nile. It had attained its full growth
before the Apostles went forth to spread the Christian religion. It
began to die before William of Normandy won the battle of Hastings. It
has been dying for a thousand years. And unless some accident comes to
it, it will hardly be entirely dead a thousand years from now. It has
seen the birth, growth and decay of all the generations and tribes and
nations of civilized men. It will see the birth and decay of many more
generations. It is the oldest living thing on the face of the earth.
G.W. BURTON,
in _Burton's Book on California._
AUGUST 2.
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 race
That ends somewhere amid the stars--
Give me a chance to gather dreams
By California's willowed streams.
CLARENCE URMY,
in _Sunset 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, the _madrona_, the coffee-berry, the
manzanita, the wild mahogany, the choke-berry, all of brightest green,
with _adenostoma_ and _baccharis_, 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,
in _Southern 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,
in _Bird Notes Afield._
AUGUST 5.
THE NAVEL ORANGE 250 YEARS AGO.
Most Americans know an orange by sight, and we of California count it
a blood relation. We do grow the best orange in the world, and ship
thousands of loads of it in a year; and we have a modest notion that
we invented it, and that we "know oranges." But the handsomest, the
fullest and the most erudite treatise on oranges ever printed does not
derive from California, nor yet from the Only Smart Nation.... On the
contrary, it was printed in Rome in the year 1646.... More accurate
drawings of these fruits have never been printed; and the
illustrations cover not only the varieties and even the "freaks" of
the Golden Apple, but the methods of planting, budding, wall-training
and housing it. Perhaps the point likeliest to jar our complacent
ignorance is the fact that this venerable work describes and pictures
seedless oranges, and even the peculiar "sport," now an established
variety, which we know as the "Navel." Two hundred and fifty seven
years ago it was called the "Female, or Foetus-bearing orange;" but no
one today can draw a better picture, nor a more unmistakable, of a
navel orange.
CHARLES F. LUMMIS,
in _Out West._
AUGUST 6.
THE SIERRA NEVADAS.
Serene and satisfied! Supreme! As lone
As God, they loom like God's archangels churl'd;
They look as cold as kings upon a throne;
* * * * *
A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow.
JOAQUIN MILLER.
AUGUST 7.
TO THE VIOLET.
Welcome little violet,
I gladly welcome thee;
Peeping with thy dewy eyes
So shyly out at me.
Modest little violet
Hide not thy face away.
I love thee and thy sweet perfume,
Thy purple-hued array.
Sweetest little violet,
I'll pluck thee gently dear,
I'll nurture thee so tenderly--
Then have of me no fear.
Sweetest little violet,
Delight of every heart;
No flow'ret rare is like thee fair,
None praised as thou art.
BERTHA HIRSCH BARUCH.
AUGUST 8.
August is a word of dire import in the bird-lover's calendar. It means
virtually the end of the bird season. The wooing and nesting and
rearing the family are all over, and now looms before the feathered
population that annual trouble--the change of dress, the only time in
his life--happy soul!--that he has to concern himself about clothes.
In the business of getting a new suit he has more trouble than a fine
lady, for he has to shake off the old garments, while getting the new,
bit by bit, here a feather and there a feather, today a new
wing-quill; tomorrow a new plume on his dainty breast.
OLIVE THORNE MILLER.
AUGUST 9.
CHILDREN IN A CALIFORNIA GARDEN.
Legendry and literature may be taught to your children in the garden.
Tell them the pretty story of how Cupid's mother gave the rose its
thorns; the tale of the sensitive plant; and point out to them the
equipment of the cacti for their strange, hard life on the desert; the
lovely human faces filled with the sweetness of remembrance that we
find in the pansy bed. Show them the delight of the swift-flying
hummingbird in the red and yellow blossoms of the garden, and the
sagacity of the oriole in building his nest near the lantana bush--so
attractive to the insects upon which the scamp feeds.
BELLE SUMNER ANGIER,
in _The Garden Book of California._
AUGUST 10.
ON JOAQUIN MILLER.
Sierra's poet! high and pure thy muse
Enthroned doth sit amongst the stars and snows;
And from thy harp olympian music flows,
Of glacier heights and gleaming mountain dews.
Of western sea and burning sunset hues.
And we who look up--who on the plain repose,
And catch faint glimpses of the mount that throws
Athwart thy poet-sight diviner views.
And not alone from starry shrine is strung
Thy lyre, but timed to gentler lay,
That sings of children, motherhood and home,
And lifts our hearts and lives to sweeter day.
Oh, bard of Nature's heart! thy name will rest
Immortal in thy land--our Golden West!
DORA CURETON,
in _Sunset Magazine._
AUGUST 11.
THE PESSIMIST.
The pessimist leads us into a land of desolation. He makes for the
sight blossoms of ugliness; for the smell repellant odors; for the
taste bitterness and gall; for the hearing harsh discord, and death
for the touch that is the only relief from a desert whose scrawny life
lives but to distress us.
ABBOTT KINNEY,
in _Tasks By Twilight._
The leaves of the wild gourd, lying in great star shaped patches on
the ground, drooped on their stems, and the spikes of dusty white sage
by the road hung limp at the ends, and filled the air with their
wilted fragrance. The sea-breeze did not come up, and in its stead
gusts of hot wind from the north swept through the valley as if from
the door of a furnace.
MARGARET COLLIER GRAHAM,
in _Stories of the Foothills._
AUGUST 12.
ENTICEMENT.
Then haste, sweet April Dear.
Thou alone canst find her.
Her hair so soft, so silken soft thy breezes blow
And thou shall laugh with her, give her thy first sweet kiss.
On her white blossom's snow ...
Why, why, dost thou not fly, on clouds of love.
'Tis thou alone canst find her.
Thou fain would'st ask doth she love thee.
Thou knowest well
She loves thee,
April Dear.
ADRIADNE HOLMES EDWARDS.
AUGUST 13.
Our pitcher-plant is one of the most wonderful and interesting of all
the forms that grow, linking, as it were, the vegetable world with the
animal, by its unnatural carnivorous habits.
No ogre in his castle has ever gone to work more deliberately or
fiendishly to entrap his victims while offering them hospitality, than
does this plant-ogre. Attracted by the bizarre yellowish hoods of the
tall, nodding flowers, the foolish insect alights upon the former and
commences his exploration of the fascinating region.
But at last, when he has partaken to satiety and would fain depart, he
turns to retrace his steps. In the dazzlement of the transparent
windows of the dome above, he loses sight of the darkened door in the
floor by which he entered and flies forcibly upward, bumping his head
in his eagerness to escape. He is stunned by the blow and plunges
downward into the tube below. Here he struggles to rise, but countless
downward-pointing, bristly hairs urge him to his fate.
MARY ELIZABETH PARSONS,
in _The Wild Flowers of California._
AUGUST 14.
Sausalito is noted for its abundance of flowers. These not only grow
in thick profusion in the quaint hillside gardens, but are planted
beside the roadways, covering many an erstwhile bare and unsightly
bank with trailing vines, gay nasturtiums and bright geraniums. There
is something in the spirit of this hillside gardening, this planting
of sweet blossoms for the public at large, that is very appealing.
HELEN BINGHAM,
in _In Tamal Land._
AUGUST 15.
A GROUP OF CACTI.
(IN CALIFORNIA.)
Flower of the desert, type mysterious, strange,
Like bird or monster on some sculptured tomb
In Egypt's curious fashion wrought, what change
Or odd similitude of fate, what range
Of cycling centuries from out the gloom
Of dusty ages has evolved thy bloom?
In the bleak desert of an alien zone,
Child of the past, why dwellest thou alone?
Grotesque, incongruous, amid the flowers;
Unlovely and unloved, standing aside,
Like to some rugged spirit sheathed in pride;
Unsmiling to the sun, untouched by showers--
The dew falls--every bud has drunk its fill:
Bloom of the desert, thou art arid still!
MARY E. MANNIN.
AUGUST 16.
In late spring and early summer upon the fading grasslands and on the
dry sunny slopes of the hills, the Mariposa tulips set their
long-stemmed chalices of delicate color. Bulbous plants of the lily
family, they are frequently called Mariposa lilies, but as a matter of
fact their relationship is very near to the true tulips of the Old
World, and like the latter, they have been extensively introduced into
cultivation both in this country and abroad.
The petals are often conspicuously marked with lines and dots and
eye-like spots in a manner that suggests the gay wings of a butterfly,
whence the term, "Mariposa," which is the Spanish word for that
insect.
ELIZABETH H. SAUNDERS,
in _California Wild Flowers._
AUGUST 17.
COPA DE ORO.
(CALIFORNIA POPPY.)
Thy satin vesture richer is than looms
Of Orient weave for raiment of her kings,
Not dyes of olden Tyre, not precious things
Regathered from the long forgotten tombs
Of buried empires, not the iris plumes
That wave upon the tropics' myriad wings,
Not all proud Sheba's queenly offerings,
Could match the golden marvel of thy blooms,
For thou art nurtured from the treasure-veins
Of this fair land; thy golden rootlets sup
Her sands of gold--of gold thy petals spun,
Her golden glory, thou! of hills and plains,
Lifting, exultant, every kingly cup
Brimmed with the golden vintage of the sun.
INA D. COOLBRITH,
in _Songs from the Golden Gate._
AUGUST 18.
The Golden Eagle is California's noblest bird of prey. He is more than
a match for any animal of his own size. Not a beast of the field or a
fowl of the air can dispossess him; he stands intrepid before every
earthly power except the hand of man. He is shy and wary at all times,
clean and handsome, swift in flight and strong in body. An experience
gained in the fiercest of schools makes the Eagle as formidable as any
creature of the wild. He is a valuable inhabitant of any cattle range
or farming community. His food consists almost entirely of the ground
squirrels that are so abundant through the California hills and cause
such damage to the grain fields.
WILLIAM L. FINLEY,
in _Feathered Foragers._
AUGUST 19.
THE POPPY'S CHIMES.
With all this youth to cheer his eyes
No man is ever old,
With all this wealth to fill his purse
No one need lack for gold.
O rare Ben Jonson, you should see
The draught that I may sup:
How sweet the drink, her kiss within.
The poppy's golden cup.
My lowly queen, I bow to thee
And worship with my soul:
I hope to drink her love from out
The poppy's golden bowl.
Look up, my sweet, and catch my words,
A secret I would tell:
I think I hear her "Yes" ring from
The poppy's golden bell.
CHARLES McKNIGHT SAIN,
in _Sunset, August_, 1908.
AUGUST 20.
Flowering vines overhung, climbed and clung about the balcony pillars
and balustrades. Roses drooped in heavy-headed cascades from
second-story railings; the wide purple flowers of the clematis climbed
aloft. On one wall a heliotrope broke in lavender foam and the creamy
froth of the Banksia rose dabbled railings and pillars and dripped
over on to the ground. It was a big, cool, friendly looking house with
a front door that in summer was always open, giving the approaching
visitor a hospitable glimpse of an airy, unencumbered hall.
GERALDINE BONNER,
in _The Pioneer._
AUGUST 21.
A DREAM OF POPPIES.
Brown hills long parched, long lifting to the blue
Of summer's brilliant sky but russet hue
Of sere grass shivering in the trade-wind's sweep.
Soon, with light footfalls, from their tranced sleep
The first rains bid the poppies rise anew,
And trills the lark exultant summons, too.
How swift at Fancy's beck those gay crowds leap
To glowing life! The eager green leaves creep
For welcome first; then hooded buds, pale gold,
Each tender shower and sun-kiss help unfold
Till smiling hosts crowd all the fields, and still
A yellow sea of poppies breasts each hill
And breaks in joyous floods as children hold
Glad hands the lavish cups as gladly fill!
ELLA M. SEXTON,
in _The Golden Poppy._
AUGUST 22.
CALIFORNIA.
Her poppies fling a cloth of gold
O'er California's hills--
Fit emblem of the wealth untold
That hill and dale and plain unfold.
Her fame the whole world fills.
ELIZA D. KEITH.
_How can one convey meaning to another in a language_ which that
other does not understand? I can only tell you the charm of the
desert, when you, too, have learned to love it. And then there will be
no need for me to speak.
IDAH MEACHAM STROBRIDGE,
in _Miner's Mirage Land._
AUGUST 23.
THE PÆAN OF THE POPPIES.
The mountains sway with flame
Where the frail glories tremble--
Fair fallen stars of fire!
The valleys green acclaim
The legions that assemble
In royal robe and tire,
With timbrel, shawm and choir.
* * * * *
Afar in darker lands
I feel their kisses burning
As sweet, uncertain lips.
As faint, unhindered hands
Are felt by exiles yearning
On shores when tears eclipse
The wan and westering ships.
HERMAN SCHEFFAUER,
in _Looms of Life._
AUGUST 24.
PEACE.
No hand have I on rudder laid;
All my oars lie idly by;
All my sheets are steadfast made.
For Love now guides me silently.
His are the waves and flowing tide;
He is my bark and chart and hand;
He is companion at my side;
His the coming and departed land.
Somewhere, I know, I port shall win;
Somewhen I know, dear friends, I'll see;
Love, "The I Am" is lord within!
Daily he brings mine own to me.
HENRY HARRISON BROWN,
in _Now, March_, 1900.
AUGUST 25.
IN THE SEASON OF POPPIES.
From the shoulders of Dawn the night shadow slipped,
As the shy, saintly Moon evaded her tryst
With the roystering Sun, who eagerly sipped
From the valley's green cup the golden-white mist.
Day flashed like a smile from Dawn's rosy mouth,
With a passion of birds and fragrant appeals,
And the warm winds up from the sleepy South
Sluiced the red, scented gold of our poppy fields.
HARLEY R. WILEY,
in _Overland Monthly, Sept._, 1908.
AUGUST 26.
WHEN THE POPPY GOES TO SLEEP.
Now the sandman comes a-calling,
And those eyes can scarcely peep:
It is little children's bedtime
When the poppy goes to sleep.
In the west the sun is sinking,
And the chickens go to roost:
And the poppy folds its petals
That the beaming sun had loosed.
* * * * *
And the poppy like the Arab,
Silent in the close of day,
Fearful of the coming darkness,
Folds its tent and steals away.
Hear the sandman's final warning
On the land and on the deep,
Saying, "Good night, good night, good night,"
When the poppy goes to sleep.
CHARLES McKNIGHT SAIN,
in _The Call of the Muse._
AUGUST 27.
THE SIERRA SNOW-PLANT.
Thou growest in eternal snows
As flower never grew;
The sun upon thy beauty throws
No kiss--the dawn no dew.
Thou knowest not the love-warm marl
Of Earth, but dead and white
The wastes wherein thy roots ensnarl
Ere thou art freed in light.
Where blighted dawns, with twilight blent,
Die pale, thou liftest strong,
A tongue of crimson, eloquent
With one unceasing song.
O Life in vasts of death! O Flame
That thrills the stark expanse;
Let Love and Longing be thy name!
Love and Renunciance.
HERMAN SCHEFFAUER,
in _Looms of Life._
AUGUST 28.
IN A CALIFORNIA GARDEN.
Thro' the green cloister, folding us within.
The leaves are audible--our ear to win;
They whisper of the realm of old Romance.
Of sunny Spain, and of chivalric France;
And poor Ramona's love and her despair,
Thrill, like Aeolian harp, the twilight air--
So the dear garden claims its mystic due.
Linking the legends of the Old and New.
FRANCES MARGARET MILNE,
in _The Grizzly Bear Magazine, June_, 1909.
AUGUST 29.
The evening primrose covers the lower slopes with long sheets of
brightest yellow, and from the hills above, the rock-rose adds its
golden bloom to that of the sorrel and the wild alfalfa, until the
hills almost outshine the bright light from the slopes and plains. And
through all this nods a tulip of delicate lavender; vetches, lupins
and all the members of the wild-pea family are pushing and winding
their way everywhere in every shade of crimson, purple and white. New
bell-flowers of white and blue and indigo rise above the first, which
served merely as ushers to the display, and whole acres ablaze with
the orange of the poppy are fast turning with the indigo of the
larkspur. The mimulus alone is almost enough to color the hills.
T.S. VAN DYKE,
in _Southern California._
AUGUST 30.
THE MARIPOSA LILY.
Insect or blossom? Fragile, fairy thing,
Poised upon slender tip, and quivering
To flight! a flower of the fields of air;
A jeweled moth; a butterfly, with rare
And tender tints upon his downy wings,
A moment resting in our happy sight;
A flower held captive by a thread so slight
Its petal-wings of broidered gossamer
Are light as the wind, with every wind astir,
Wafting sweet odor, faint and exquisite.
O dainty nursling of the field and sky.
What fairer thing looks up to heaven's blue
And drinks the noontide sun, the dawning's dew?
Thou winged bloom! thou blossom-butterfly!
INA D. COOLBRITH,
in _Songs from the Golden Gate._
AUGUST 31.
CALIFORNIA PHILOSOPHY.
You kin talk about yer eastern states, their stiddy growth 'nd size,
'Nd brag about yer cities, with their business enterprise;
You kin blow about tall buildin's runnin' clean up to the clouds,
'Nd gas about yer graded streets 'nd chirp about yer crowds;
But how about yer "twisters" 'nd the cyclones you have there,
That's runnin' 'round uncorralled 'nd a-gittin' on a tear,
'Nd a-mixin' towns 'nd counties up at sich a tarnal rate
A man can't be dead sartin that he's in his native state.