Part 9
A shady nook where nought is overheard But wind among the eucalyptus leaves, The cheery chirp of interflitting bird, Or wooden squeak of tree-frog as it grieves. The resting eye broods o'er the running grass, Or nodding gestures of the bowed wild oats; Watches the oleander lancers pass, And the bright flashing of the oriole notes. Hushed are the senses with the drone of bees And the far glimmer of the mid-day heat; Dreams stealing o'er one like the incoming seas, Soft as the rustling zephyrs in the wheat; While on the breeze is borne the call of Love To Love, dear Love, of Majel, the wild dove.
CHARLES ELMER JENNEY, in _Western Field, Dec._, 1905.
SEPTEMBER 18.
One summer there came a road-runner up from the lower valley, peeking and prying, and he never had any patience with the water baths of the sparrows. His own ablutions were performed in the clean, hopeful dust of the chaparral; and whenever he happened on their morning splatterings, he would depress his glossy crest, slant his shining tail to the level of his body, until he looked most like some bright venomous snake, daunting them with shrill abuse and feint of battle. Then suddenly he would go tilting and balancing down the gully in fine disdain, only to return in a day or two to make sure the foolish bodies were still at it.
MARY AUSTIN, in _The Land of Little Rain._
SEPTEMBER 19.
MEADOW LARKS.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy that I am! (Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!) Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm. O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the Spring!
Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain? Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet! Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain. The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is! Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and call. Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss-- For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!
INA D. COOLBRITH, in _Songs from the Golden Gate._
SEPTEMBER 20.
How could we spare the lark, that most companionable bird of the plains? Wherever one may wander ... his lovely, plaintive, almost human song may be heard nearly everywhere, at frequent intervals the livelong day. He is one of the blessings of this land, one which every lover of beautiful song welcomes as heartily as the ordinary mortal the warm, bright days of this climate.
CHARLES FRANKLIN CARTER, in _Some By-Ways of California._
SEPTEMBER 21.
THE MEADOW LARK AND I.
The song of life is living The love-heart of the year; And the pagan meadow-lark and I Can nothing find to fear. We build our simple homes For opulence of rest Among the hills and the meadow grass, And sing our grateful best.
RUBY ARCHER.
SEPTEMBER 22.
THE RUBY-CROWNED KNIGHT.
The dominant characteristic of the Ruby-Crown is subtlety. He conceals his nest, and even his nest-building region, so successfully that few there are who know where he breeds, or who ever find his nest, hidden in the shaggy end of a high, swinging branch of spruce or pine, deep in the California mountain recesses. His prettiest trick of concealement is the way he alternately hides and reveals the bright red feathers in his crown. You may watch him a long time, seeing only a wee bit of an olive-green bird, toned with dull yellow underneath, marked on wings and about the eyes with white; but suddenly, a more festive mood comes upon him. The bird is transformed. A jaunty dash of brilliant red upcrests itself upon his head, lighting up his quiet dress.... For several moments this flame of color quivers, then it burns into a mere thread of red and is gone.
VIRGINIA GARLAND, in _Feathered Californians._
SEPTEMBER 23.
SONG OF THE LINNETS.
"Cheer!" "Cheer!" sing the linnets Through rapturous minutes, When daylight first breaks And the golden Dawn streaks Through the rose of the morning--so bright! "Gone! gone is the Night! It is light!"
"We have buried our heads Under eaves of the sheds, Where our tender broods sleep; And the long watch we keep Through the darkness and silence--till dawn. It is morn! It is morn! It is morn!"
JOHN WARD STIMSON, in _Wandering Chords._
SEPTEMBER 24.
THE HUMMING BIRD.
Buz-z! whir-r!--a flash and away! A midget bejeweled mid flowers at play! A snip of a birdling, the blossom-bells' king, A waif of the sun-beams on quivering wing! O prince of the fairies, O pygmy of fire, Will nothing those brave little wings of yours tire? You follow the flowers from southern lands sunny, You pry amid petals all summer for honey! Now rest on a twig, tiny flowerland sprite, Your dear little lady sits near in delight; In a wee felted basket she lovingly huddles-- Two dots of white eggs to her warm breast she cuddles! Whiz-z! whiff! off to your flowers! Buzz mid the perfume of jasmine bowers! Chatter and chirrup, my king of the fays, And laugh at the song that I sing in your praise!
CHARLES KEELER, in _Elfin Songs of Sunland._
SEPTEMBER 25.
THE HUMMING BIRD.
A sudden whirr of eager sound-- And now a something throbs around The flowers that watch the fountain. Look! It touched the rose, the green leaves shook, I think, and yet so lightly tost That not a spark of dew was lost. Tell me, O rose, what thing it is That now appears, now vanishes? Surely it took its fire-green hue From day-breaks that it glittered through; Quick, for this sparkle of the dawn Glints through the garden and is gone.
EDWIN MARKHAM, in _Lincoln and Other Poems._
SEPTEMBER 26.
She led the way to the climbing rose at the front of the house, and carefully lifting a branch, motioned to the boys to look under it. There, hidden in the leafy covert, no higher than the young girl's chin, was the daintiest nest ever seen, made of soft cotton from the pussy willows by the brook, interwoven with the finest grasses and green mosses, and embroidered with one shining golden thread. And there was wee mother humming-bird, watching them a moment with bright, inquiring eyes, then darting off and poising in the air just above their heads, uncovering two tiny eggs about the size of buckshot, lying in a downy hollow like a thimble.
FLORA HAINES LOUGHEAD, in _The Abandoned Claim._
SEPTEMBER 27.
THE RUSSET-BACKED THRUSH.
He dwells where pine and hemlock grow, A merry minstrel seldom seen; The voice of Joy is his I know-- Shy poet of the Evergreen!
In dawn's first holy hush I hear His one ecstatic, thrilling strain, So sweet and strong, so crystal clear 'Twould tingle e'en the soul of Pain.
At close of day when Twilight dreams He shakes the air beneath his tree With such exquisite song it seems That Passion breathes through Melody.
HERBERT BASHFORD, in _At the Shrine of Song._
SEPTEMBER 28.
In Marin County birds hold a unique place, for, as the county is sparsely populated, possessing many wild, secluded valleys, and unnumbered rolling hills covered with virgin forests, it is but natural that the birds should congregate in great numbers, reveling in the solitude which man invariably destroys.
HELEN BINGHAM, in _In Tamal Land._
THE ABALONE.
I saw a rainbow, for an instant, gleam, On the west edge of a receeding swell; The next soft surge, Which whispering sought the shore, Swept to my feet an abalone shell; It was the rainbow I had seen before.
JOHN E. RICHARDS, in _Idylls of Monterey._
SEPTEMBER 29.
THE SEAGULL.
A ceaseless rover, waif of many climes, He scorns the tempest, greets the lifting sun With wings that fling the light and sinks at times To ride in triumph where the tall waves run.
The rocks tide-worn, the high cliff brown and bare And crags of bleak, strange shores he rests upon; He floats above, a moment hangs in air Clean-etched against the broad, gold breast of dawn.
Bold hunter of the deep! Of thy swift flights What of them all brings keenest joy to thee-- To drive sharp pinions through storm-beaten nights, Or shriek amid black hollows of the sea?
HERBERT BASHFORD, in _At the Shrine of Song._
SEPTEMBER 30.
TO A SEA GULL AT SEA.
Thou winged Wonder! Tell me I pray thy matchless craft, Poised in air, then slipping wave-ward, Mounting again like an arrow-shaft, Circling, swaying, wheeling, dipping, All with never a flap of wing, Keeping pace with my flying ship here, Give me a key to my wondering! Gales but serve thee for swifter flying, Foam crested waves with thy wings thou dost sweep, Wonderful dun-colored, down-covered body, Living thy life on the face of the deep!
ANNIE W. BRIGMAN.
OCTOBER 1.
THE PASSING OF SUMMER.
She smiled to the hearts that enshrined her, Then the gold of her banner unfurled And trailing her glories behind her Passed over the rim of the world.
HARLEY R. WILEY, in _New England Magazine, October_, 1906.
The California condor, the largest of all flying birds, is found only on this coast and only in the southern half of that, although an occasional specimen has been seen in the high Sierra Neveda. Of all the sailing or soaring birds he is the most graceful and wonderful, drifting to and fro, up and down, right or left, in straight lines or curves, for hours at a time, darting like an arrow or hanging still in air with equal ease on that motionless wing whose power puzzles all philosophy.
T.S. VANDYKE.
OCTOBER 2.
Wild fowl, quacking hordes of them, nest in the tulares. Any day's venture will raise from open shallows the great blue heron on his hollow wings. Chill evenings the mallard drakes cry continually from the glassy pools, the bittern's hollow boom rolls along the water paths. Strange and far-flown fowl drop down against the saffron, autumn sky. All day wings beat above it with lazy speed; long flights of cranes glimmer in the twilight. By night one wakes to hear the clanging geese go over. One wishes for, but gets no nearer speech from those the ready fens have swallowed up. What they do there, how fare, what find, is the secret of the tulares.
MARY AUSTIN, in _The Land of Little Rain._
OCTOBER 3.
MOCKING BIRD.
Warble, whistle and ripple! wake! whip up! ha! ha! Burgle, bubble and frolic--a roundelay far! Pearls on pearls break and roll like bright drops from a bowl! And they thrill, as they spill in a rill, o'er my soul: Then thou laughest so light From thy rapturous height! Earth and Heaven are combined, in thy full dulcet tone; North and south pour the nectar thy throat blends in one! Flute and flageolet, bugle, light zither, guitar! Diamond, topaz and ruby! Sun, moon, silver star! Ripe cherries in wine! Orange blossoms divine! Genius of Songsters! so matchless in witchery! Nature hath fashioned thee out of her mystery!
JOHN WARD STIMSON, in _Wandering Chords._
OCTOBER 4.
THE MOCKING BIRD.
Can anything be more ecstatic than the mockingbird's manner as he pours out his soul in song, flirting that expressive tail--that seems hung on wires, jerking those emphatic wings, which say so much, turning his dainty head this way and that, and now and then flinging himself upon the air--light as a feather--in pure delight, and floating down to place again without dropping a note. It is a poem in action to see him, so lithe, so graceful in every movement.
OLIVE THORNE MILLER.
OCTOBER 5.
THE MOCKING BIRD.
Each flower a single fragrance gives, But not the perfume of the rest; Within each fruit one flavor lives, Not all the flavors of our quest; In every bird one song we 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.