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 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,
in _Pickett'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,
in _For 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,
in _Birds 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,
in _The 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,
in _The 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,
in _In 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,
in _History 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,
in _The 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,
in _History 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,
in _Stories 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,
in _The Giants._
OCTOBER 16.
SAN PEDRO.
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 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 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,
in _Collected Poems._
OCTOBER 18.
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 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 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,
in _The 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,
in _Camping 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,
in _Hunting 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,
in _Rulers 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,
in _Arizona 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,
in _Cupid: 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,
in _Chatwit, 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,
in _Cupid: 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 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 free
As winds that toss his black, abundant hair.
JOAQUIN MILLER.
OCTOBER 28.
There was to be a _rodeo_ on 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 a
_vaquero_ dart, 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,
in _Overland Tales._
OCTOBER 29.
Near noon we came to a little cattle ranch situated in a flat
surrounded by red dykes and buttes after the manner of Arizona. Here
we unpacked, early as it was, for through the dry countries one has to
apportion his day's journeys by the water to be had. If we went
farther today, then tomorrow night would find us in a dry camp.
The horses scampered down the flat to search out alfilaria. We roosted
under a slanting shed--where were stock saddles, silver-mounted bits
and spurs, rawhide riatas, branding-irons, and all the lumber of the
cattle business. * * * Shortly the riders began to come in, jingling
up to the shed, with a rattle of spurs and bit-chains. * * * The
chief, a six-footer wearing beautifully decorated gauntlets and a pair
of white buckskin _chaps_, went so far as to say it was a little warm
for the time of year.
STEWART EDWARD WHITE,
in _The Mountains._
OCTOBER 30.
HANDS UP!
This is a request that, in the wild and woolly West, "may not be
denied"; and the braver the man is to whom it is addressed, the
quicker does he hasten to comply. Indeed, it would argue the height of
folly if, after a glance into the barrels of a "sawed off," and a look
at the determined eyes behind them, covering your every move, you did
not instantly elevate your hands, and do it with cheerful alacrity.
The plea, "He had the drop on me," will clear you in any frontier
Court of Honor.
A.E. LYNCH,
in _Self-Torture._
OCTOBER 31.
OUT WEST.
When the world of waters was parted by the stroke of a mighty rod,
Her eyes were first of the lands of earth to look on the face of God;
The white mists robed and throned her, and the sun in his orbit wide
Bent down from his ultimate pathway and claimed her his chosen bride;
And He that had formed and dowered her with the dower of a royal
queen,
Decreed her the strength of mighty hills, the peace of the plains
between;
The silence of utmost desert, and canyons rifted and riven,
And the music of wide-flung forests where strong winds shout to
heaven.
* * * * *
Calling--calling--calling--resistless, imperative, strong--
Soldier and priest and dreamer--she drew them, a mighty throng.
The unmapped seas took tribute of many a dauntless band,
And many a brave hope measured but bleaching bones in the sand;
Yet for one that fell, a hundred sprang out to fill his place,
For death at her call was sweeter than life in a tamer race.
Sinew and bone she drew them; steel-thewed--and the weaklings shrank--
Grim-wrought of granite and iron were the men of her foremost rank.
* * * * *
The wanderers of earth turned to her--outcast of the older lands--
With a promise and hope in their pleading, and she reached them
pitying hands;
And she cried to the Old World cities that drowse by the Eastern main:
"Send me your weary, house-worn broods and I'll send you men again!
Lo! here in my wind-swept reaches, by my marshalled peaks of snow,
Is room for a larger reaping than your o'er-tilled fields can grow;
Seed of the Man-seed springing to stature and strength in my sun,
Free with a limitless freedom no battles of men, have won."
SHARLOT HALL,
in _Out West._
NOVEMBER 1.
One night when the plain was like a sea of liquid black, and the sky
blazed with stars, we rode by a sheep-herder's camp. The flicker of a
fire threw a glow out into the dark. A tall wagon, a group of
silhouetted men, three or four squatting dogs, were squarely within
the circle or illumination. And outside, in the penumbra of shifting
half light, now showing clearly, now fading into darkness, were the
sheep, indeterminate in bulk, melting away by mysterious thousands
into the mass of night. We passed them. They looked up, squinting
their eyes against the dazzle of the fire. The night closed about us
again.
STEWART EDWARD WHITE,
in _The Mountains._
NOVEMBER 2.
THE DROUTH: 1898.
No low of cattle from these silent fields
Fills, with soft sounds of peace, the evening air;
No fresh-mown hay its scented incense yields
From these sad meadows, stricken brown and bare.
The brook, that rippled on its summer way,
Shrinks out of sight within its sandy bed,
Defenseless of a covert from the ray,
Dazzling and pitiless, that beams o'erhead.
The rose has lost its bloom; the lily dies;
Our garden's perfumed treasures all are fled;
The bee no longer to their sweetness flies,
The humming-bird no longer dips his head.
The butterfly--that fairy-glancing thing--
Ethereal blossom of the light and air!
No longer poises on its fluttering wing;
How could it hover in this bleak despair?
FRANCES M. MILNE,
in _For Today._
NOVEMBER 3.
During this first autumn rain, those of us who are so fortunate as to
live in the country are conscious of a strange odor pervading all the
air. It is as though Dame Nature were brewing a vast cup of herb tea,
mixing in the fragrant infusion all the plants dried and stored so
carefully during the summer. When the clouds vanish after this
baptismal shower, everything is charmingly fresh and pure, and we have
some of the rarest of days. Then the little seeds, harbored through
the long summer in earth's bosom, burst their coats and push up their
tender leaves, till on hillside and valley-floor appears a delicate
mist of green, which gradually confirms itself into a soft, rich
carpet--and all the world is verdure clad. Then we begin to look
eagerly for our first flowers.
MARY ELIZABETH PARSONS,
in _The Wild Flowers of California._
NOVEMBER 4.
In basketry the Pomo Indians of California found an outlet for the
highest conceptions of art that their race was capable of. Protected
by their isolation from other tribes, they worked out their ideas
undisturbed--with every incentive for excellence they had reached a
height in basketry when the American first disturbed them which has
never been equaled--not only by no other Indian tribe, but by no other
people in the world in any age. These stolid Indian women have a
knowledge of materials and their preparation, a delicacy of touch, an
artistic conception of symmetry, of form and design, a versatility in
varying and inventing beautiful designs, and an eye for color, which
place their work on a high plane of art.
CARL PURDY,
in _Out West._
NOVEMBER 5.
WHEN IT RAINS IN CALIFORNY.
When it rains in Californy
It makes the tourist mad,
But folks that's got the crops to raise
Is feelin' mighty glad;
I stand out in the showers,
Wet as a drownded rat,
And watch the grain a-growin',
And the cattle gettin' fat.
Sorry for them Easterners,
Kickin' like Sam Hill,
But the sun-kissed land is thirsty
And wants to drink its fill.
Oh, hear the poppies laughin',
And the happy mockers sing,
When it rains in Californy,
Through the glory of the spring.
JOHN S. McGROARTY,
in _Just California._
NOVEMBER 6.
The broad valley had darkened. The mountains opposite had lost their
sharp details and dulled to an opaque silver blue in the mists of
twilight. They had become great shadow mountains, broad spirit masses,
and seemed to melt imperceptibly from form to form toward the
horizon....
There had come a harmony more perfect than life could ever give. It
included all their love that had gone before and something greater,
vaster--all life, all nature, and all God.
HAROLD S. SYMMES,
in _The Divine Benediction, Putnam's, Oct._, 1906.
NOVEMBER 7.
AFTER THE RAIN.
"Sweet fields stand dressed in living green,"
That late were brown and bare.
The twitter of the calling birds
With music fills the air.
Was ever sky so heavenly blue--
"Clear shining after rain!"
Was ever wind so soft and pure,
To breathe away our pain!
Oh, roses white, and roses red,
Your fragrant leaves unfold!
Oh, lily, lift your chalice pure
And show your heart of gold!
FRANCES MARGARET MILNE,
in _For To-day._
NOVEMBER 8.