Chapter 11

Houses furnished in all the styles of modern decorative art rise in all directions, embowered in roses, geraniums, heliotropes, and lilies that bloom the long year round and reach a size that makes them hard to recognize as old friends. Among them rise the banana, the palm, the aloe, the rubber tree, and the pampas-grass with its tall feathery plumes. Here and there one sees the guava, the Japanese persimmon, Japanese plum, or some similar exotic--but grapes and oranges are the principal product. Yet there are groves of English walnuts almost rivaling in size the great orange orchards, and orchards of prunes, nectarines, apricots, plums, pears, peaches, and apples that are little behind in size or productiveness.

T.S. VAN DYKE, in _Southern California._

NOVEMBER 25.

He saw a great hall furnished in the most extravagantly complete style of Indian art. The walls were entirely covered with Navaho and Hopi blankets. There was a frieze of Apache hide-shields, each painted with a brave's totem, and beneath, a solid cornice of buffalo skulls. Puma-skins carpeted the floor; at least a hundred baskets trimmed with wood-pecker and quail feathers were scattered about; trophies of Indian bows, arrows, lances, war-clubs, tomahawks, pipes and knives decorated the wall spaces. Two couches were made up of Zuni bead-work ornaments and buck-skin embroideries. In spite of all this, it was a tastefully designed room, rather than a museum, flaming with color and vibrant with vitality.

GELETT BURGESS, in _A Little Sister of Destiny._

NOVEMBER 26.

She sent a hundred messages out into the hills by thought's wonderful telegraphy. She saw the yellow-green of the new shoots; the gray-green of the gnarled live oak; she felt that the mariposa was waking in the brown hillside. She almost heard the creamy bells of the tall yucca pealing out a hymn to the God who expresses himself in continual creation. Then, O, wonder of wonders! Over the same invisible wires came back the response: It all means love, the earth's rendings, the rains, winds, scorchings--it all means love in the grand consummation, nothing but love. She thrilled to the wonder of it.

ELIZABETH BAKER BOHAN, in _The Strength of the Weak._

NOVEMBER 27.

THE IDEAL CALIFORNIA EDITOR.

The ideal editor must be a colossal, composite figure, one to whom no man of whatever age, race or color, is a stranger; one whose mobility of character and elasticity of temperament expands or contracts as occasion demands, without deflecting in the least from the law of perfect harmony. He must know how to smile encouragement, frown disapproval, or, at an instant's notice bow deferentially and attend with utmost courtesy to wearisome stories of stupid patrons, or listen to the fantastic schemes of radical reformers and, with apparent seriousness and ostensible amiability, nod acquiescence to the wild-eyed revolutionist upon whom he inwardly vows to keep a careful watch lest the fire-brand agitator commit serious public mischief. The ideal editor of the popular press must be the quintescence of tact; an adroit strategist, a sagacious chief executive, keenly critical, ably judicial, broad, generous, sympathetic, hospitable, aye, charitable, magnanimous, ready to forgive and forget, patient and long-suffering when subjected to the competitive lash of adverse criticism, bearing calumny rather with quiet dignity than stooping to low and vulgar forms of retaliation.

BERTHA HIRSCH BARUCH, in _Sunday Times Magazine._

NOVEMBER 28.

CALIFORNIA TO IRELAND.

Great! Erect! Majestic! Free! Thrilled with life from sea to sea. See the Motherland uphold To the sky her Green and Gold.

LAURENCE BRANNICK.

NOVEMBER 29.

And the books! Without final data at hand, I incline to believe that by the time the war came along to give us a new text, California had already, in a dozen years, doubled the volume of American literature. In the same way, of course, that it was doubled again--for our war literature was not mostly written upon the battle-field. In half a century this current has not ceased. It is a lean month even now which does not see, somewhere, some sort of book about California. It is certain that as much literature (using the word as it is used) has been written of California as of all the other states together. This means, of course, only matter in which the State is an essential, not an incident.

CHARLES F. LUMMIS, in _The Right Hand of the Continent, Out West, June_, 1902.

NOVEMBER 30.

By a queer sequence of circumstances, the essays, begun in the _Lark_, were continued in the _Queen_, and, if you have read these two papers, you will know that one magazine is as remote in character from the other as San Francisco is from London. But each has happened to fare far afield in search of readers, and between them I may have converted a few to my optimistic view of every-day incident. To educate the British Matron and Young Person was, perhaps, no more difficult than to open the eyes of the California Native Son. The fogs that fall over the Thames are not very different to the mists that drive in through the Golden Gate, after all!

GELETT BURGESS, in _The Romance of the Commonplace._

DECEMBER 1.

The Bohemian Club, whose real founder is said to have been the late Henry George, was formed in the '70's by newspaper writers and men working in the arts or interested in them. It had grown to a membership of 750. It still kept for its nucleus painters, writers, musicians and actors, amateur and professional. They were a gay group of men, and hospitality was their evocation. Yet the thing which set this club off from all others in the world was the midsummer High Jinks. The club owned a fine tract of redwood forest fifty miles north of San Francisco. In August the whole Bohemian Club, or such as could get away from business, went up to this grove and camped out for two weeks. On the last night they put on the Jinks proper, a great spectacle in praise of the forest with poetic words, music and effects done by the club. In late years this has been practically a masque or an opera. It cost about $10,000. * * * The thing which made it possible was the art spirit which is in the Californian.

WILL IRWIN, in _The City That Was._

DECEMBER 2.

Nearly all is now covered with a luxuriant growth of vegetation the most diverse, yet all of it foreign to the soil. Side by side are the products of two zones, reaching the highest stages of perfection, yet none of them natives of this coast.

Gay cottages now line the roads where so recently the hare cantered along the dusty cattle-trail; and villages lie brightly green with a wealth of foliage where the roaring wings of myriads of quail shook the air above impenetrable jungles of cactus.

T.S. VAN DYKE, in _Southern California._

DECEMBER 3.

* * * The chief and highest function of the University is to assert and perpetually prove that general principles--laws--govern Man, Society, Nature, Life; and to make unceasing war on the reign of temporary expedients. * * * There never was a period or a country in which the reign of fundamental law needed constant assertion and more perpetual proof than our own period and our own country. * * * The living danger is that society may come to permanently distrust the reign of law. * * * A national or a personal life built on expedients of the day, like a house built on the sand, will inevitably come to ruin.

PRESIDENT HOLDEN, in _Inaugural Address of University of California_, 1886.

DECEMBER 4.

And now my story is told, the story of my work, and the story of my life. Looking back over all the long stretch of years that I have carried this heavy burden, though I should not care to assume it again, yet I am not sorry to have borne it. Of the various motives which urge men to the writing of books, perhaps the most worthy, worthier by far than the love of fame, is the belief that the author has something to say which will commend itsself to his fellow-man, which perchance his fellow-man may be the better for hearing. If I have fulfilled in some measure even the first of these conditions, then has my labor not been in vain.

HUBERT HOWE BANCROFT, in _Literary Industries._

DECEMBER 5.

LAW IN THE EARLY MINING-CAMPS.

Here, in a new land, under new conditions, subjected to tremendous pressure and strain, but successfully resisting them, were associated bodies of freemen bound together for a time by common interests, ruled by equal laws, and owning allegiance to no higher authority than their own sense of right and wrong. They held meetings, chose officers, decided disputes, meted out a stern and swift punishment to offenders, and managed their local affairs with entire success; and the growth of their committees was proceeding at such a rapid rate, that days and weeks were often sufficient for vital changes, which, in more staid communities, would have required months or even years.

CHARLES HOWARD SHINN, in _Mining Camps._

DECEMBER 6.

New towns were laid out in the valleys to supply the camps, and those already established grew with astonishing rapidity. Stockton, for instance, increased in three months from a solitary ranch-house to a canvas city of one thousand inhabitants. Sacramento also became a canvas city, whose dust-clouds whirled, and men, mules, and oxen toiled; where boxes, barrels, bales innumerable, were piled in the open air, no shelter being needed for months. For the City Hotel, Sacramento, thirty thousand dollars per year was paid as rent, although it was only a small frame building. The Parker House, San Francisco, cost thirty thousand dollars to build, and rented for fifteen thousand dollars per month.

CHARLES HOWARD SHINN, in _Mining Camps._

DECEMBER 7.

The prospector is the advance agent of progress, civilization and prosperity. * * * It is for the sight of a yellow streak in his pan that he has been tempted to endure the fatigue, cold, and hunger of the mountains, and the heat, thirst and horror of the desert.

The prospector is a man of small pretensions, of peaceful disposition, indomitable will, boundless perseverance, remarkable endurance, undoubted courage, irrepressible hopefulness, and unlimited hospitality He is the friend of every man till he has evidence that the man is his enemy, and he is the most respected man in the mining regions of the West.

ARTHUR J. BURDICK, in _The Mystic Mid-Region._

DECEMBER 8.

To a little camp of 1848 a lad of sixteen came one day, footsore, weary, hungry, and penniless. There were thirty robust and cheerful miners at work in the ravine; and the lad sat on the bank, watching them awhile in silence, his face telling the sad story of his fortunes. At last one stalwart miner spoke to his fellows, saying:

"Boys, I'll work an hour for that chap if you will."

At the end of the hour a hundred dollars' worth of gold dust was laid in the youth's handkerchief. The miners made out a list of tools and necessaries.

"You go," they said, "and buy these, and come back. We'll have a good claim staked out for you. Then you've got to paddle for yourself." Thus genuine and unconventional was the hospitality of the mining-camp.

CHARLES HOWARD SHINN, in __Mining Camps._

DECEMBER 9.

Down in the gulch bottoms were the old placer diggings. Elaborate little ditches for the deflection of water, long cradles for the separation of gold, decayed rockers, and shining in the sun the tons and tons of pay dirt which had been turned over pound by pound in the concentrating of its treasure. Some of the old cabins still stood. It was all deserted now, save for the few who kept trail for the freighters, or who tilled the restricted bottom lands of the flats. Road-runners racked away down the paths; squirrels scurried over worn-out placers, jays screamed and chattered in and out of the abandoned cabins. And the warm California sun embalmed it all in a peaceful forgetfulness.

STEWART EDWARD WHITE, in _The Mountains._

DECEMBER 10.

GOD IS EVERYWHERE.

Under the grass, the flowers, and the sod Go deep enough and you will find God. The royal red-gold of the sunset glow A veil for His unseen face doth show. And all the star-cool vastnesses of night Still hide Him not from the Spirit's sight.

I will see Him in all, I will trust Him in all, I will love but the God, to the God will I call. Till God, full and perfect, every soul shall reveal, And God's glorious purpose each life shall fulfill; Till the earth showeth whole, without break, without seam, Till God's truth and God's beauty stand clear and supreme.

MARY RUSSELL MILLS, in _Fellowship Magazine._

DECEMBER 11.

THE KILLING OF THE DEVIL, AS TOLD IN THE LANGUEDOC FOLK-TALE OF THE THREE STRONG MEN.

Oh! that was a desperate struggle--terrific and horrible to see! The devil shrieked and howled; he scratched and bit; while Crowbar, dumb and purple in the face, gave telling blows with his fists. He could not strike the devil's head, because of the horns, and he could not grab his body, because it was so sleek and slimy. At length the devil's strength gave out. Crowbar siezed him by the throat, threw him on his back, put a knee upon his breast, and, with the cane in his right hand, gave him a blow between the horns that split his head in two. But he died hard. His head was split open, yet he was struggling, whipping the ground with his tail, and foaming at the mouth. At last he was still.

SAMUEL JACQUES BRUN, in _Tales of Languedoc._

DECEMBER 12.

FROM "AFTER HEARING PARSIFAL."

The century new announces, "Victory!"-- Through Music's witchery o'er Sin and Hell Man is redeemed. The Christ is here! The Soul Now claims its own! Nor hope nor fear Nor prayer nor hunger now, for lo! 'tis here, The expected Kingdom--God's and Man's! 'Tis here! Day-dawn has come! The world-wide quest is o'er! The Grail was never lost! 'Twas folded safe Within the petals of my heart, and thou Enchanter wise, reveal'st to me, my Self!

HENRY HARRISON BROWN, in _Now, May_, 1904.

DECEMBER 13.

THE VOICE OF THE SNOW.

Silently flying through the darkened air, swirling, glinting, to their appointed places, they seem to have taken counsel together, saying, "Come, we are feeble; let us help one another. We are many, and together we will be strong. Marching in close, deep ranks, let us roll away the stones from these mountain sepulchers, and set the landscape free. Let us uncover these clustering domes. Here let us carve a lake basin; there a Yosemite Valley; here, a channel for a river with fluted steps and brows for the plunge of songful cataracts. Yonder let us spread broad sheets of soil, that man and beast may be fed; and here pile trains of boulders for pines and giant sequoias. Here make ground for a meadow; there for a garden and grove."

JOHN MUIR, in _The Mountains of California._

DECEMBER 14.

It was winter in San Francisco--not the picturesque winter of the North or South, but a mild and intermediate season, as if the great zones had touched hands, and earth were glad of the friendly feeling. There is no breath from a cold Atlantic to chill the ardor of these thoughts. Our great, tranquil ocean lies in majesty to the west. It can fume and fret, but it does so in reason. It does not lash and storm in vain.

FRANCES CHARLES, in _The Siege of Youth._

May the tangling of sunshine and roses never cease upon your path until after the snows of Winter have covered your way with whiteness.

MARTIN V. MERLE, in _The Vagabond Prince, Act IV._

DECEMBER 15.

It was one of those wonderful warm winter days given to San Francisco instead of the spring she has never experienced. After a week's rain the sun shone out of a sky as warmly blue as late spring brings in other climates. The world seemed in a very rapture of creation. The bay below the garden, new washed and sparkling like a pale emerald, spread gaily out, and the city's streets terraced down to meet it. The peculiar delicacy and richness of California roses coaxed by the softness of the climate to live out-doors sent up a perfume that hot-house flowers cannot yield. The turf was of a thick, healthy, wet green, teeming with life. The hills beyond were green as summer in California cannot make them, and off to the west against the tender sky the cross on Lone Mountain was etched.

MIRIAM MICHELSON, in _Anthony Overman._

DECEMBER 16.

The story is never fully told, and the power of paint or pen can never express entirely the glory or the strength of the conception which impelled it. The best is still withheld, inexpressible in human terms.

Our best songs are still unsung; our best thoughts are still unuttered and must so remain until eyes and ears and hands are quickened by a diviner life to a keener sensibility.

W.L. JUDSON, in _The Building of a Picture._

Another value in dialect is the fact that sounds are often retained that are lost in the standard speech, or softer, sweeter tones are fostered and developed.

JAMES MAIN DIXON, in _Dialect in Literature._

DECEMBER 17.

It is a compensation for many ills to awaken some December morning and feel in the air the warmth of summer and see in the foliage the glad green of spring. Children play in the parks, and the sun shines, and even the older folks grew merry. * * * It had been such a day as comes during Indian summer in other countries. The air had been very kindly and had breathed nothing but gentleness toward man and vegetation. Toward February people would be out searching for wild flowers on the suburban hills.

FRANCES CHARLES, in _The Siege of Youth._

DECEMBER 18.

FROM THE FRENCH.

How vain is life! Love's little spell, Hate's little strife, And then--farewell! How brief is life! Hope's lessening light With dreams is rife, And then--good night!

BLANCHE M. BURBANK.

"Everyone for himself," is the law of the jungle. But slowly a new form of expression is shaping and we are beginning to take pride in the things that are "ours," rather than in that which alone is "mine."

DANA W. BARTLETT, in _Our Governtnert in Social Service, or a Nation at Work in Human Uplift._

DECEMBER 19.

"BACK THERE."

"Back there," the gambler-wind the snow is shuffling, Flake after flake down--dealing in despair; The bladeless field, the birdless thicket muffling, But now no more the river's stillness ruffling. Oh, bitter is the sky, and blank its stare-- Back there!

"Back there," the wires are down. The blizzard, meaning No good to man or beast, shakes loose his hair. The storm-bound train and locomotive preening His sable plume, the ferry-boat, careening Between the ice-cakes, icy fringes wear-- Back there!

TRACY and LUCY ROBINSON, in _Out West._

DECEMBER 20.

"OUT HERE."

"Out Here," a mocker trills his carol olden, High-perched upon some eucalyptus near. The meadow lark replies; oranges golden Peer from the green wherewith they are enfolden, And perfume fills the winey atmosphere-- Out Here!

"Out Here," through virgin soil, in sunlight mellow-- Ay, and in moonlight!--man his plow may steer, Nor lose life's edge in friction with his fellow; Nor, parchment-bound, with yellowing creeds turn yellow, But feel his heart grow younger every year-- Out Here!

TRACY and LUCY ROBINSON, in _Out West._

DECEMBER 21.

HAPPY HEART.

As I go lightly on my way I hear the flowers and grasses talk: I listen to the gray-beard rock: I know what 'tis the tree-tops say. A thousand comrades with me walk As I go lightly on my way.

As I go lightly on my way A bonnie bird a greeting sings, And gossip from a far clime brings; A grumbling bee growls out "Good-day"; A jest the saucy chipmonk flings, As I go lightly on my way.

As I go lightly on my way The brook trips by with dancing feet, And Song and Laughter soft repeat Their cadence as I watch its play; And whispers low the wind, and sweet, As I go lightly on my way.

CHARLES E. JENNEY, in _Country Life in America, September_, 1902.

DECEMBER 22.

EUCALYPTUS BLOSSOMS.

I fell asleep beneath a fragrant Arrow-leafed tree; And all night long its drooping branches Showered sweet dreams on me. But when the dawn-wind stirred the tree tops I saw, oh wondrous sight! My dreams, pale spheres amid the leafage, Ethereal, poised for flight.

MARGARET ADELAIDE WILSON, in _Out West Magazine._

DECEMBER 23.

TO MODJESKA.

Crowned with the glory of artistic achievement, with the love and devotion of friends and family, with the homage of the world, her royal yet sweet and gentle spirit has risen from the earth to shine above like a brilliant star, perpetually transmitting its pure white light to a reverently admiring multitude.

BERTHA HIRSCH BARUCH, _Inscribed on banner accompanying floral tribute of the Fine Arts League._

NIGHT ON THE DESERT.

All daylight he followed through endless hot marches The trail of a plodding desire: Now with night he has lost the fierce fever of getting, Adrowse by his dull-embered fire. Immeasurable silences compass him over, His body grows one with the streams Of sands that slide and whisper around him; The stars draw his soul: and he dreams.

MARGARET ADELAIDE WILSON, in _Pall Mall Magazine._

DECEMBER 24.

CHRISTMAS.

The sun's glory lies on the mountain Like the glow of a golden dream, Or the flush on a slumbering fountain That wakes to dawn's roseate beam. So the year's day dies in a glory, And dying, like sunrays unfurled, Casts the peace and love of Christ's story Over the heart of the world.

HAROLD T. SYMMES.

DECEMBER 25 AND 26.

THE NAZARINE.

A manger-cradled child, his mother near, And one they call his father standing by, Shepherd and Magi, with the gifts they bear, An angel chorus rolling through the sky-- Once more the sacred mystery we scan, And wonder if the Christ be God's best gift to man.

Pale, patient Pleader, for the poor and those Whose hearts are homes of sorrow and of pain, Thy voice is as a balm for all their woes; Through twenty centuries it calleth plain As when it breathed the invitation blest-- "Ye weary, come to Me, and I will give you rest."

Reason may seek to ruin, science scorn, But that great love of Thine hath made us wise In wisdom not of understanding born, That bids us turn to Thee with longing eyes And outstretched hands. We know that Thou art He. Nor do we seek a sign as did the Pharisee.

Sweet festival that bringeth back once more The golden dreams of childhood, let us turn Like little children to the Christmas lore That once did hold us spellbound, till we learn Again the lesson of Thy love; for we Must be like children, Lord, ere we can come to Thee.

LOUIS ALEXANDER ROBERTSON, in _Cloistral Strains._

DECEMBER 27.

MEMORIES.

I watched the dying embers, my vision blurred apace-- I trod once more that hallowed ground, of kith, of kin, of race. I saw again the turf-fire send its living flame on high, Saw youthful figures grouped around the Yule board, laden, nigh.

The latch went up, the neighbors came and instantly good cheer Went 'round the festive gathering 'till the Christ-child hour drew near, The piper played, the dance began, and child and parent fond Tripped back and forth, tripped high and low, with smile of loving bond.

ELLEN DWYER DONOVAN, in _The Christinas Card._

DECEMBER 28.

MOUNT SHASTA.

As lone as God, and white as Winter moon, Mount Shasta's peak looks down on forest gloom. The storm-tossed pines and warlike-looking firs Have rallied here upon its silver spurs. Eternal tower, majestic, great and strong, So silent all, except for Heaven's song-- For Heaven's voice calls out through silver bars To Shasta's height; calls out below the stars, And speaks the way, as though but quarter rod From Shasta's top unto its maker, God.

WILLIAM F. BURBANK.

DECEMBER 29 AND 30.