Part 8
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.
You needn't talk to me about yer "enterprise" 'nd "go," Fer how about them river floods us folks hear tell of so, Where a feller goes to bed at night with nary thought o' fear, 'Nd discovers in the mornin' that he's changed his hemisphere; 'Nd where grasshoppers eat the crops 'nd all about the place, But leave that gilt-edged mortgage there ter stare you in the face. If that is where you want ter live it's where you'd orter be, But I reckon ol' Cal'forny's good 'nough fer me.
I sort o' low the climate thar is somewhat diff'runt too, Accordin' to the weather prophet's watchful p'int o' view. In course, if ten foot snowbanks don't bother you at all, Er slosh 'nd mud 'nd drizzlin' rain, combined with a snowfall, It's just the most delightful spot this side o' heaven's dome-- But I kind o' sorter reckon that I couldn't call it home. When you talk about that climate, it's all tomfoolery, Fer sunny ol' Cal'forny's good enough fer me.
Oh, you live away back east, you don't know what you miss By stayin' in that measly clime, without the joy an' bliss Of knowin' what the weather is from one day to the next; It's "mebby this," "I hope it's that," er some such like pretext. Come out to Californy' whar the sky is allers bright, 'Nd where the sun shines all the while, with skeerce a cloud in sight; You'd never pine fer eastern climes--ther's no denyin' that-- Fer when you want a heaven on earth, Los Angeles stands pat.
E.A. BRININSTOOL.
CALIFORNIA.
In all methinks I see the counterpart Of Italy, without her dower of art. We have the lordly Alps, the fir-fringed hills, The green and golden valleys veined with rills, A dead Vesuvius with its smouldering fire, A tawny Tiber sweeping to the sea. Our seasons have the same superb attire, The same redundant wealth of flower and tree, Upon our peaks the same imperial dyes, And day by day, serenely over all, The same successive months of smiling skies. Conceive a cross, a tower, a convent wall, A broken column and a fallen fane, A chain of crumbling arches down the plain, A group of brown-faced children by a stream, A scarlet-skirted maiden standing near, A monk, a beggar, and a muleteer, And lo! it is no longer now a dream. These are the Alps, and there the Apennines; The fertile plains of Lombardy between; Beyond Val d'Arno with its flocks and vines, These granite crags are gray monastic shrines Perched on the cliffs like old dismantled forts; And far to seaward can be dimly seen The marble splendor of Venetian courts; While one can all but hear the mournful rhythmic beat Of white-lipped waves along the sea-paved street. O childless mother of dead empires, we, The latest born of all the western lands, In fancied kinship stretch our infant hands Across the intervening seas to thee. Thine the immortal twilight, ours the dawn, Yet we shall have our names to canonize, Our past to haunt us with its solemn eyes, Our ruins, when this restless age is gone.
LUCIUS HARWOOD FOOTE.
SEPTEMBER 1.
THE SCARF OF IRIS.
Something magical is near me--hidden, breathing everywhere, Shaken out in mystic odors, caught unseen in the mid-air. Life is waking, palpitating; souls of flowers are drawing nigh; Flitting birds with fluted warble weave between the earth and sky; And a soft excitement welling from the inmost heart of things Such a sense of exaltation, such a call to rapture brings, That my heart--all tremulous with a virgin wonderment-- Waits and yearns and sings in carols of the rain and sunshine blent, Knowing more will be revealed with the dawning every day-- For the fairy scarf of Iris falls across the common way.
RUBY ARCHER.
SEPTEMBER 2.
To the left as you rode you saw, far on the horizon, rising to the height of your eye, the mountains of the Channel Islands. Then the deep sapphire of the Pacific, fringed with the soft, unchanging white of the surf and the yellow of the shore. Then the town like a little map, and the lush greens of the wide meadows, the fruit-groves, the lesser ranges--all vivid, fertile, brilliant, and pulsating with vitality.
STEWART EDWARD WHITE, in _The Mountains._
SEPTEMBER 3.
Never was garden more unintentionally started, and never did one prove greater source of pleasure. * * * One day, about Christmas time, my little nephew brought me two small twigs of honeysuckle--not slips or shoots, and I stuck them in the ground by the front porch. * * * When it was just eighteen months old honeysuckle vines were twining tenderly about the corner pillars of the porch, drawing their network across to the other support, and covered with bunches of white, creamy tubes, the air heavy with their perfume. * * * The climbing rose had reached the lattice work, and its yellowish flowers formed a most effective contrast to the sky-blue of the sollya blossoms, trained up on the other side of the porch. The beds were edged variously with dark blue violets and pink daisies, above which bloomed salvias, euphorbias, lantanas, tube-roses, forget-me-nots, carnations, white lilies, Japan lilies, iris, primroses, ranunculus, lilies-of-the-valley, pansies, anemones, dahlias, and roses--white, red, pink, yellow, crimson, cream--in the wildest profusion.
JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD McCRACKIN, in _Another Juanita._
SEPTEMBER 4.
AFTERWARD.
A dying moon fell down the sky, As one looked out to see The place where once her soul endured Its lengthened Calvary. Of all the mem'ries gathered there-- Their faces wan with tears-- One only smiled--a baby's smile-- To rectify the years.
DOROTHEA L. MOORE.
SEPTEMBER 5.
The harvesting of hops is the conjunction of the rude essentials of farm life with the highest effect in art. What artist but would note enthusiastically the inimitable pose of that young girl tip-toeing to bring down the tuft of creamy blossoms overhead; or the modest nudity of the wee bronze savage capering about a stolid squaw in a red sprigged muslin? Indeed, there is indescribable piquancy in this unconscious grouping of the pickers and their freedom from restraint. For each artistic bit--a laughing face in an aureole of amber clusters, a statuesque chin and throat, Indians in grotesquely picturesque raiment, and the yellow visages of the Chinese--the vines make an idyllic framing with a sinking summer sun in the background lending a shimmering transparency to leaf and flower.
NINETTA EAMES, in _Hop-Picking Time, The Cosmopolitan, November_, 1893.
SEPTEMBER 6.
Golf has spread with great rapidity throughout California, and though many people may have taken it up from an idea that it is the correct thing, the game will always be popular, especially in the Southern part of the State, where more people of leisure live than in the Northern part, and where the large infusion of British and Eastern residents tends to foster a love of out-door sports. Golf may be played in any part of Central or Southern California on any day in the year when a gale is not blowing or heavy rain falling. Occasionally the strong winds render golfing somewhat arduous, but the enthusiast can play on about three hundred and fifty days in the year.
ARTHUR INKERSLEY, in _Overland Monthly._
SEPTEMBER 7.
My roses bud and bloom and fail me never, From Lent and Whitsun to the Christmas time; Climbing in eagerness and great endeavor-- Our Southland bushes ever love to climb.
JAMES MAIN DIXON, in _My Garden._
How bright the world looked, to be sure; flowers covered the earth, not scattered in niggardly manner as in the older, colder Eastern states, but covering the earth for miles, showing nothing but a sea of blue, an ocean of crimson, or a wilderness of yellow. Then came patches where all shades and colors were mixed; delicate tints of pink and mauve, of pure white and deep red, and over all floated a fragrance that was never equaled by garden-flowers or their distilled perfume.
JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD McCRACKIN, in _Overland Tales._
SEPTEMBER 8.
The love that gives all, craves all, asks nothing, is so bitter that no one lifts the cup voluntarily, and yet if the sweetness of it could be distilled, prosperous love would regard it enviously and kings seek it on foot.
AMANDA MATHEWS, in _Hieroglyphics of Love._
The world will never be saved from its sin and shame until a larger number of men are ready to lash themselves like Ulysses of old to those enduring principles of righteousness which stand erect like masts and sail on, no matter what sirens of personal indulgence sing along the course.
CHARLES REYNOLDS BROWN.
SEPTEMBER 9.
TO CALIFORNIA:
Queen of the Sunset! Within the crown upon thy forehead glow The crystal jewels of eternal snow. Down at thy feet the broad Pacific towers, And Summer ever binds thy breast with flowers.
MADGE MORRIS WAGNER, in _Debris._
The religious life of California is characterized by the spirit of freedom and tolerance. The aim has been to "Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's," by legislating only in regard to those secular interests in which all stand alike before the law and to leave to the free and untrammeled decision of the individual conscience those deeper, personal attitudes and relationships "which are God's."
CHARLES REYNOLDS BROWN.
SEPTEMBER 10.
Gay little oriole, fond little lover, Watching thy mate o'er her tiny ones hover, Tell me, I pray, from your cottonwood tree, When will my true love come riding to me?
Will he come with his lariat hung at his side? On a wild prancing bronco, my love, will he ride? So high on your tree top you surely can see, O, how will my true love come riding to me?
Sing of my lover and tell me my fate, Will he guard me as fondly as thou dost thy mate? Dear oriole, sing, while I listen to thee-- When will my true love come riding to me?
CHARLES KEELER, in _Overland Monthly._
SEPTEMBER 11.
LOOKING BACKWARD!
My heart aches, and a poignant yearning pains My pulse, as though from revel I had waked To find sore disenchantment. Oh for the simple ways of childhood, And its joys! Why have I grown so cold and cynical? My life seems out of tune; Its notes harsh and discordant; The crowded thoroughfare doth fret me And make lonely. Darkling I muse and yearn For those glad days of yore, When my part chorded too, And I, a merry, trustful boy, Found consonance in every friend without annoy. Since then, how changed! Strained are the strings of friendship; fled the joys; Seeming the show. An alien I, unlike, alone! And yet my mother! The welcome word o'erflows the eye, And makes the very memory weep. No, love is not extinct--that sweetest name-- The covering ashes keep alive the flame.
MALCOLM McLEOD, in _Culture Simplicity._
SEPTEMBER 12.
The overgoing sun shines upon no region, of equal extent, which offers so many and such varied inducements to men in search of homes and health, as does the region which is entitled to the appellation of "Semi-Tropical California."
BEN C. TRUMAN, in _Semi-Tropical California._
SEPTEMBER 13.
THE CRESTED JAY.
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, in _Elfin 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 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."
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, in _Birds of Song and Story._
SEPTEMBER 17.
SIESTA.