Part 3

Responsive to my oar and hand, Touching to glory sea and sand. A glint, a sparkle, a flash, a flame, An ecstasy above all name. What art thou, strange, mysterious flame? Art thou some flash of central fire, So pure and strong thou wilt not expire Tho' plunged in ocean's seething main? Mayest thou not be that sacred flame, Creative, moulding, purging fire. Aspiring, abandoning all desire Shaping perfection from Life's pain?

MARY RUSSELL MILLS, in _Fellowship Magazine._

MARCH 5.

THE JOY OF THE HILLS.

I ride on the mountain tops, I ride; I have found my life and am satisfied.

* * * * *

I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget Life's hoard of regret-- All the terror and pain Of the chafing chain. Grind on, O cities, grind; I leave you a blur behind.

I am lifted elate--the skies expand; Here the world's heaped gold is a pile of sand. Let them weary and work in their narrow walls; I ride with the voices of waterfalls!

I swing on as one in a dream; I swing Down the airy hollows, I shout, I sing! The world is gone like an empty word; My body's a bough in the wind, my heart a bird.

EDWIN MARKHAM, in _The Man with a Hoe, and Other Poems._

MARCH 6.

We move about these streets of San Francisco in cars propelled by electric energy created away yonder on the Tuolumne River in the foothills of the Sierras; we sit at home and read by a light furnished from the same distant source. How splendid it all is--the swiftly flowing cascades of the Sierra Nevadas are being harnessed like beautiful white horses, tireless and ageless, to draw the chariots of industry around this Bay.

CHARLES REYNOLDS BROWN.

MARCH 7.

BACK, BACK TO NATURE.

Weary! I am weary of the madness of the town, Deathly weary of all women, and all wine. Back, back to Nature! I will go and lay me down, Bleeding lay me down before her shrine. For the mother-breast the hungry babe must call, Loudly to the shore cries the surf upon the sea; Hear, Nature wide and deep! after man's mad festival How bitterly my soul cries out for thee!

HERMAN SCHEFFAUER, in _Of Both Worlds._

MARCH 8.

Across the valley was another mountain, dark and grand, with flecks of black growing _chemisai_ in clefts and crevices, and sunny slopes and green fields lying at its base. And oh, the charm of these mountains. In the valley there might be fog and the chill of the north, but on the mountains lay the warmth and the dreaminess of the south.

JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD McCRACKIN, in _Overland Tales._

The furious wind that came driving down the canyon lying far below him was the breath of the approaching multitude of storm-demons. The giant trees on the slopes of the canyon seemed to brace themselves against the impending assault. * * *

At the bottom of the canyon, the Sacramento River here a turbulent mountain stream, and now a roaring torrent from the earlier rains of the season, fumed and foamed as it raced with the wind down the canyon hurrying on its way to the placid reaches in the plains of California.

W.C. MORROW, in _A Man: His Mark._

MARCH 9.

THE ROCK DIVING OF MOUNTAIN SHEEP.

On another occasion, a flock ... retreated to another portion of this same cliff (over 150 feet high), and, on being followed, they were seen jumping down in perfect order, one behind another, by two men who happened to be chopping where they had a fair view of them and could watch their progress from top to bottom of the precipice. Both ewes and rams made the frightful descent without evincing any extraordinary concern, hugging the rock closely, and controlling the velocity of their half-falling, half-leaping movements by striking at short intervals and holding back with their cushioned, rubber feet upon small ledges and roughened inclines until near the bottom, when they "sailed off" into the free air and alighted on their feet, but with their bodies so nearly in a vertical position that they appeared to be diving.

JOHN MUIR, in _The Mountains of California._

MARCH 10.

The ridge, ascending from seaward in a gradual coquetry of foot-hills, broad low ranges, cross-systems, canyons, little flats, and gentle ravines, inland dropped off almost sheer to the river below. And from under your very feet rose range after range, tier after tier, rank after rank, in increasing crescendo of wonderful tinted mountains to the main crest of the Coast Range, the blue distance, the mightiness of California's western systems. * * * And in the far distance, finally, your soul grown big in a moment, came to rest on the great precipices and pines of the greatest mountains of all, close under the sky.

STEWART EDWARD WHITE, in _The Mountains._

MARCH 11.

TO YOU, MY FRIEND.

To you, my friend, where'er you be, Though known or all unknown to me; To you, who love the things of God, The dew-begemmed and velvet sod, The birds that trill beside their nest. "Oh, love, sweet love, of life is best;" To you, for whom each sunset glows. This message goes.

To you, my friend. Mayhap 'tis writ We ne'er shall meet. What matters it? Where'er we roam, God's light shall gleam For us on hill and wold and stream. And we shall hold the blossoms dear, And baby lips shall give us cheer, And, loving these, leal friends are we, Where'er you be.

To you, my friend, who know right well That life is more than money's spell, Who hear the universal call, "Let all love all, as He loves all," Oh, list me in your ranks benign, Accept this falt'ring hand of mine Which, though unworthy, I extend. And hold me friend.

A.J. WATERHOUSE.

MARCH 12.

Strength is meant for something more than merely to be strong; And Life is not a lifetime spent in strain to keep alive.

CHARLES F. LUMMIS, in _The Transplantation._

MARCH 13.

HER KING.

A winsome maiden planned her life-- How, when she was her hero's wife, He should be royal among men, And worthy of a diadem. Through all the devious ways of earth She sought her king; The snows of Winter fell before-- She walked o'er flowers of vanished Spring Into the Summer's fragrant heat; She bent her quest, with rapid feet, Then saddened; still she journeyed down The Autumn hillsides, bare and brown, Through shadowy eves and golden morns; And lo! she found him--crowned with thorns.

ANNA MORRISON REED.

MARCH 14.

The area of San Francisco Bay proper is two hundred and ninety square miles; the area of San Pablo Bay, Carquinez Straits, and Mare Island, thirty square miles; the area of Suisun Bay, to the confluence of the San Joaquin and Sacramento rivers, is sixty-three square miles. The total bay area is therefore four hundred and eighty square miles; and there are hundreds of miles of slough, river, and creek. A yachtsman, starting from Alviso, at the southern end of the bay, may sail in one general direction one hundred and fifty-four miles to Sacramento, before turning. All of this, of course, in inland waters.

CHARLES G. YALE, in _The Californian._

MARCH 15.

It was the green heart of the canyon, where the walls swerved back from the rigid plain and relieved their harshness of line by making a little sheltered nook and filling it to the brim with sweetness and roundness and softness. Here all things rested. Even the narrow stream ceased its turbulent down-rush long enough to form a quiet pool. Knee-deep in the water, with drooping head and half-shut eyes, drowsed a red-coated, many-antlered buck.

On one side, beginning at the very lip of the pool, was a tiny meadow, a cool, resilient surface of green, that extended to the base of the frowning wall. Beyond the pool a gentle slope of earth ran up and up to meet the opposing wall. Fine grass covered the slope--grass that was spangled with flowers, with here and there patches of color, orange and purple and golden. Below, the canyon was shut in. There was no view. The walls leaned together abruptly and the canyon ended in a chaos of rocks, moss-covered and hidden by a green screen of vines and creepers and boughs of trees. Up the canyon rose far hills and peaks, the big foot-hills, pine covered and remote. And far beyond, like clouds upon the border of the sky, towered minarets of white, where the Sierra's eternal snows flashed austerely the blazes of the sun.

JACK LONDON, in _All Gold Canyon._

MARCH 16.

Except you are kindred with those who have speech with great spaces, and the four winds of the earth, and the infinite arch of God's sky, you shall not have understanding of the desert's lure.

IDAH MEACHAM STROBRIDGE, in _Miner's Mirage Land._

MARCH 17.

ST. PATRICK'S DAY IN CALIFORNIA.

This day we celebrate is a day of faith, faith in God and the motherland. It is a day of gratitude to the God whose grace brought our fathers into the Christian life, a day of gratitude to the nations which received our fathers and blessed them with the privileges of citizenship. Let us not mind the minor chord of sorrow and persecution. Let us rather take the major chord of glory and of honor, and from the days of scholarship and of freedom to the present moment of a world's national power, let us chant the hymns of glory and sing of victory.

BISHOP THOMAS J. CONATY.

MARCH 18.

Said one, who upward turned his eye, To scan the trunks from earth to sky: "These trees, no doubt, well rooted grew When ancient Nineveh was new; And down the vale long shadows cast When Moses out of Egypt passed, And o'er the heads of Pharaoh's slaves And soldiers rolled the Red Sea waves." "How must the timid rabbit shake, The fox within his burrow quake, The deer start up with quivering hide To gaze in terror every side, The quail forsake the trembling spray, When these old roots at last give way, And to the earth the monarch drops To jar the distant mountain-tops."

PALMER COX, in _The Brownies Through California._

MARCH 19 AND MARCH 20.

A WINDOW AND A TREE IN ALTADENA.

By my window a magician, breathing whispers of enchantment, Stands and waves a wand above me till the flowing of my soul, Like the tide's deep rhythm, rises in successive swells that widen All my circumscribed horizon, till the finite fades away; And the fountains of my being in their innermost recesses Are unsealed, and as the seas sweep, sweep the waters of my soul Till they reach the shores of Heaven and with ebb-tide bear a pearl Back in to the heart's safe-keeping, where no thieves break through nor steal.

* * * * *

By my window stands confessor with his hands outstretched to bless me, And on bended knee I listen to his low "Absolvo te." Ne'er was mass more sacramental, ne'er confessional more solemn, And the benediction given ne'er shall leave my shriven soul.

* * * * *

Just a tree beside my window--just a symbol sent from Heaven-- But with Proteus power it ever changes meaning--changes form-- And it speaks with tongues of angels, and it prophesies the rising Of the day-star which shall shine out from divinity in man.

LANNIE HAYNES MARTIN.

MARCH 21.

IN THE REDWOOD CANYONS.

Down in the redwood canyons cool and deep, The shadows of the forest ever sleep; The odorous redwoods, wet with fog and dew, Touch with the bay and mingle with the yew. Under the firs the red madrona shines, The graceful tan-oaks, fairest of them all, Lean lovingly unto the sturdy pines, In whose far tops the birds of passage call. Here, where the forest shadows ever sleep, The mountain-lily lifts its chalice white; The myriad ferns hang draperies soft and white Thick on each mossy bank and watered steep, Where slender deer tread softly in the night-- Down in the redwood canyons dark and deep.

LILLIAN H. SHUEY, in _Among the Redwoods._

MARCH 22.

You rode three miles on the flat, two in the leafy and gradually ascending creek-bed of a canyon, a half hour of laboring steepness in the overarching mountain lilac and laurel. There you came to a great rock gateway which seemed the top of the world. * * * Beyond the gateway a lush level canyon into which you plunged as into a bath; then again the laboring trail, up and always up toward the blue California sky, out of the lilacs, and laurels, and redwood chaparral into the manzanita, the Spanish bayonet, the creamy yucca, and the fine angular shale of the upper regions. Beyond the apparent summit you found always other summits yet to be climbed, and all at once, like thrusting your shoulders out of a hatchway, you looked over the top.

STEWART EDWARD WHITE, in _The Mountains._

MARCH 23.

DONNER LAKE.

So fair thou art--so still and deep-- Half hidden in thy granite cup. From depths of crystal smiling up As smiles a woman in her sleep!

The pine trees whisper where they lean Above thy tide; and, mirrored there The purple peaks their bosoms bare, Reflected in thy silver sheen.

So fair thou art! And yet there dwells Within thy sylvan solitudes A memory which darkling broods And all thy witchery dispels.

DANIEL S. RICHARDSON, in _Trail Dust._

MARCH 24.

DONNER LAKE.

Donner Lake a pleasure resort! Can you understand for one moment how strange this seems to me? I must be as old as Haggard's "She," since I have lived to see our papers make such a statement. It is years since I was there, yet I can feel the cold and hunger and hear the moan of the pines; those grand old trees that used to tell me when a storm was brewing and seemed to be about the only thing there alive, as the snow could not speak. But now that the place is a pleasure resort--the moan of the pines should cease.

VIRGINIA REED MURPHY.

MARCH 25.

THE LURE OF THE DESERT LAND.

Have you slept in a tent alone--a tent Out under the desert sky-- Where a thousand thousand desert miles All silent 'round you lie? The dust of the aeons of ages dead, And the peoples that tramped by!

* * * * *

Have you lain with your face in your hands, afraid, Face down--flat down on your face--and prayed, While the terrible sandstorm whirled and swirled In its soundless fury, and hid the world And quenched the sun in its yellow glare-- Just you and your soul, and nothing there? If you have, then you know, for you've felt its spell, The lure of the desert land. And if you have not, then you could not tell-- For you could not understand.

MADGE MORRIS WAGNER, in _Lippincott's._

MARCH 26.

One of the most beautiful lakes in the world is Lake Tahoe. It is six thousand feet above sea-level, and the mountains around it rise four thousand feet higher. * * * The first thing one would notice, perhaps, is the wonderful clearness of the lake water. As one stands on the wharf the steamer _Tahoe_ seems to be hanging in the clear green depths with her keel and propellers in plain sight. The fish dart under her and all about as in some large aquarium. * * * Every stick or stone shows on the bottom as one sails along where the water is sixty or seventy feet deep.

ELLA M. SEXTON, in _Stories of California._

MARCH 27.

A PLAINSMAN'S SONG--MY LOVE.

Oh, give me a clutch in my hand of as much Of the mane of a horse as a hold, And let his desire to be gone be a fire And let him be snorting and bold! And then with a swing on his back let me fling My leg that is naked as steel And let us away to the end of the day To quiet the tempest I feel. And keen as the wind with the cities behind And prairie before--like a sea, With billows of grass that lash as we pass. Make way for my stallion and me! And up with his nose till his nostril aglows, And out with his tail and his mane, And up with my breast till the breath of the West Is smiting me--knight of the plain! Oh, give me a gleam of your eyes, love adream With the kiss of the sun and the dew, And mountain nor swale, nor the scorch nor the hail Shall halt me from spurring to you! For wild as a flood-melted snow for its blood-- By crag, gorge, or torrent, or shoal, I'll ride on my steed and lay tho' it bleed, My heart at your feet--and my soul!

PHILIP VERRILL MICHELS, in _Harper's Weekly._

MARCH 28.

Lo, a Power divine, in all nature is found, A Power omniscient, unfailing, profound; A great Heart, that loves beauty and order and light. In the flowers, in the shells, in the stars of the night.

JOSIAH KEEP, in _Shells and Sea-Life._

MARCH 29.

BACK TO THE DESERT.

Call it the land of thirst, Call it the land accurst, Or what you will; There where the heat-lines twirl And the dust-devils whirl His heart turns still.

* * * * *

Back to the land he knows, Back where the yucca grows And cactus bole; Where the coyote cries, Where the black buzzard flies Flyeth his soul!

BAILEY MILLARD, in _Songs of the Press._

MARCH 30.

DRIVING THE LAST SPIKE, 1869.

Under the desert sky the spreading multitude was called to order. There followed a solemn prayer of thanksgiving. The laurel tie was placed, amidst ringing cheers. The golden spike was set. The trans-American telegraph wire was adjusted. Amid breathless silence the silver hammer was lifted, poised, dropped, giving the gentle tap that ticked the news to all the world! Then, blow on blow, Governor Stanford sent the spike to place! A storm of wild huzzas burst forth; desert rock and sand, plain and mountain, echoed the conquest of their terrors. The two engines moved up, touched noses; and each in turn crossed the magic tie. America was belted! The great Iron Way was finished.

SARAH PRATT CARR, in _The Iron Way._

MARCH 31.

THE SPIRIT OF THE WEST.

All wearied with the burdens of a place Grown barren, over-crowded and despoiled Of vital freshness by the weight of years. A sage ascended to the mountain tops To peer, as Moses once had done of old, Into the distance for a Promised Land: And there, his gaze toward the setting sun. Beheld the Spirit of the Occident, Bold, herculean, in its latent strength-- A youthful destiny that beckoned on To fields all vigorous with natal life. The years have passed; the sage has led a band Of virile, sturdy men into the West. And these have toiled and multiplied and stamped Upon the face of Nature wondrous things. Until, created from the virgin soil, Great industries arise as monuments To their endeavor; and a mighty host Now labors in a once-untrodden waste-- Quick-pulsed with life-blood, from a heart that throbs Its vibrant dominance throughout the world. Today, heroic in the sunset's glow, A figure looms, colossal and serene. In royal power of accomplishment, That claims the gaze of nations over sea And beckons, still, as in the years agone. The weary ones of earth to its domain-- That they may drink from undiluted founts An inspiration of new energy.

LOUIS J. STELLMAN, in _Sunset Magazine, August_, 1903.

DESERT LURE.

The hills are gleaming brass, and bronze the peaks, The mesas are a brazen, molten sea, And e'en the heaven's blue infinity, Undimmed by kindly cloud through arid weeks, Seems polished turquoise. Like a sphinx she speaks, The scornful desert: "What would'st thou from me?" And in our hearts we answer her; all three Unlike, for each a different treasure seeks. One sought Adventure, and the desert gave; His restless heart found rest beneath her sands. One sought but gold. He dug his soul a grave; The desert's gift worked evil in his hands. One sought for beauty; him She made her slave. Turn back! No man her 'witched gift withstands.

CHARLTON LAWRENCE EDHOLM, in _Ainslee's, July_, 1907.

APRIL 1.

Hark! What is the meaning of this stir in the air. why are the brooks so full of laughter, the birds pouring forth such torrents of sweet song, as if unable longer to contain themselves for very joy? The hills and ravines resound with happy voices. Let us re-echo the cheering vibrations with the gladness of our hearts, with the hope arisen from the tomb of despair. With buoyant spirit, let us join in the merry mood of the winged songsters; let us share the gaiety of the flowers and trees, and let our playful humor blend with the musical flow and tinkle of the silvery, shimmering rivulet. Greetings, let fond greetings burst from the smiling lips on this most happy of all occasions! The natal day of the flowers, the tender season of love and beauty, the happy morn of mother Nature's bright awakening! The resurrection, indeed! The world palpitating with fresh young life--it is the Holiday of holidays, the Golden Holiday for each and all--the Birth of Spring.

BERTHA HIRSCH BARUCH, _Copyright_, 1907.

APRIL 2.

Almost has the Californian developed a racial physiology. He tends to size, to smooth symmetry of limb and trunk, to an erect, free carriage; and the beauty of his women is not a myth. The pioneers were all men of good body; they had to be to live and leave descendants. The bones of the weaklings who started for El Dorado in 1849 lie on the plains or in the hill cemeteries of the mining camps. Heredity began it; climate has carried it out.

WILL IRWIN, in _The City That Was._

APRIL 3.

AN EASTER OFFERING.

I watched a lily through the Lenten-tide; From when its emerald sheath first pierced the mould. I saw the satin blades uncurl, unfold, And, softly upward, stretch with conscious pride Toward the fair sky. At length, the leaves beside, There came a flower beauteous to behold, Breathing of purest joy and peace untold; Its radiance graced the Easter altar-side. And in my heart there rose a sense of shame That I, alas, no precious gift had brought Which could approach the beauty of this thing-- I who had sought to bear the Master's name! Humbly I bowed while meek repentance wrought, With silent tears, her chastened offering.

BLANCHE M. BURBANK

APRIL 4.

For all the toll the desert takes of a man it gives compensations, deep breaths, deep sleep, and the communion of the stars. It comes upon one with new force that the Chaldeans were a desert-bred people. It is hard to escape the sense of mastery as the stars move in the wide, clear heavens to risings and settings unobscured. They look large and near and palpitant; as if they moved on some stately service not needful to declare. Wheeling to their stations in the sky, they make the poor world fret of no account. Of no account you who lie out there watching, nor the lean coyote that stands off in the scrub from you and howls and howls.

MARY AUSTIN, in _The Land of Little Rain._

APRIL 5.

DESERT CALLS.

There are breaks in the voice of the shouting street Where the smoke drift comes sifting down, And I list to the wind calls, far and sweet-- They are not from the winds of the town. O I lean to the rush of the desert air And the bite of the desert sand, I feel the hunger, the thirst and despair-- And the joy of the still border land! For the ways of the city are blocked to the end With the grim procession of death-- The treacherous love and the shifting friend And the reek of a multitude's breath. But the arms of the Desert are lean and slim And his gaunt breast is cactus-haired, His ways are as rude as the mountain rim-- But the heart of the Desert is bared.

HARLEY R. WILEY, in _Out West Magazine._

APRIL 6.