Chapter 2

Out here in California, when Winter's on the scene And the earth is like a maiden clad in shimmering robes of green; When the mountains 'way off yonder lift their snowy peaks to God, While here the dainty flowers raise their faces from the sod; When the sunbeams kiss the waters till they laugh beneath the rays, And nature seems a-joining in a matchless hymn of praise; When there's just enough of frostiness a sense of life to give, Right here in California it's a comfort just to live.

Out here in California in the January days The soul of nature seems to sing a jubilee of praise, And the songbirds whistle clearer, and the blossoms are more fair, And someway joy and blessing seem about us in the air. It's cold perhaps off yonder, but we never feel it here, For the seasons run together through a Summer-haunted year, And Dame Nature in her bounty leaves us nothing to forgive Right here in California, where it's comfort just to live.

Out here in California where the orange turns to gold And Nature has forgotten all the art of growing old, There's not a day throughout the year when flowers do not grow; There's not a single hour the streams do not unfettered flow; There's not a briefest moment when the songsters do not sing, And life's a sort of constant race 'twixt Summer and the Spring. Why, just to know the joy of it one might his best years give-- Out here in California, where it's comfort just to live.

A.J. WATERHOUSE.

FEBRUARY 1.

Night-time in California. Elsewhere men only guess At the glory of the evenings that are perfect--nothing less; But here the nights, returning, are the wond'rous gifts of God-- As if the days were maidens fair with golden slippers shod. There is no cloud to hide the sky; the universe is ours, And the starlight likes to look and laugh in Cupid-haunted bowers. Oh the restful, peaceful evenings! In them my soul delights, For God loved California when He gave to her her nights.

ALFRED JAMES WATERHOUSE, in _Some Homely Little Songs._

FEBRUARY 2.

There it lay, a constellation of lights, a golden radiance dimmed by the distance. San Francisco the Impossible. The City of Miracles! Of it and its people many stories have been told, and many shall be; but a thousand tales shall not exhaust its treasury of romance. Earthquake and fire shall not change it, terror and suffering shall not break its glad, mad spirit. Time alone can tame the town, restrain its wanton manners, refine its terrible beauty, rob it of its nameless charm, subdue it to the commonplace. May time be merciful--may it delay its fatal duty till we have learned that to love, to forgive, to enjoy, is but to understand!

GELETT BURGESS, in _The Heart Line._

FEBRUARY 3.

INCONSTANCY.

The bold West Wind loved a crimson Rose. West winds do. This dainty secret he never had told. He thought she knew. But there were poppies to be caressed-- When he returned from his fickle quest, He found _his_ Rose on another's breast. Alas! Untrue!

IDA MANSFIELD-WILSON.

FEBRUARY 4.

THE FIRST FLAG RAISING IN CALIFORNIA.

In February, 1829 the ship Brookline of Boston arrived at San Diego. The mate, James P. Arthur, was left at Point Loma, with a small party to cure hides, while the vessel went up the coast. To attract passing ships Arthur and one of his men, Greene, concluded to make and raise a flag. This was done by using Greene's cotton shirt for the white and Arthur's woolen shirts for the red and blue. With patient effort they cut the stars and stripes with their knives, and sewed them together with sail needles. A small tree lashed to their hut made a flag-pole. A day or two later a schooner came in sight, and up went the flag. This was on Point Loma, on the same spot, possibly, hallowed by the graves of the seventy-five men who lost their lives in the Bennington explosion, July 21, 1905.

MAJOR W.J. HANDY.

FEBRUARY 5.

Live for to-day--nor pause to fear Of what To-morrow's sun may bring! To-day has hours of hope and cheer. To-day your songs of joy should ring. The Yesterdays are dead and gone Adown the long, uneven way; But Hope is smiling with the dawn-- Live for To-day!

* * * * *

Live for To-day! He wins the crown Whose work stands but the crucial test! Who scales the heights through sneer and frown And gives unto the world his best. Bend to your task! The steep slopes climb, And Love's true light will lead the way To perfect peace in God's own time-- Live for To-day!

E.A. BRININSTOOL

FEBRUARY 6.

It is a peculiar feature of our sailing that within a few hours we may change our climate. Cool, windy, moist, in the lower bays; and hot, calm, and quiet in the rivers, creeks, and sloughs. As you go to Napa, for instance, the wind gradually lightens as the bay is left, the air is balmier, and finally the yacht is left becalmed. We can, moreover, in two hours run from salt into fresh water. In spring the water is fresh down into Suisun Bay; and at Antioch, fresh water is the rule. The yachts frequently sail up there so that the barnacles will be killed by the fresh water.

CHARLES G. YALE, in _The Californian._

FEBRUARY 7.

Across San Pablo's heaving breast I see the home-lights gleam, As the sable garments of the night Drop down on vale and stream.

* * * * *

Hard by, yon vessel from the seas Her cargo homeward brings, And soon, like sea-bird on her nest, Will sleep with folded wings. The fisher's boat swings in the bay, From yonder point below, While ours is drifting with the tide, And rocking to and fro.

LUCIUS HARWOOD FOOTE, in _A Red-Letter Day._

FEBRUARY 8.

A few years ago this valley of San Gabriel was a long open stretch of wavy slopes and low rolling hills; in winter robed in velvety green and spangled with myriads of flowers all strange to Eastern eyes; in summer brown with sun-dried grass, or silvery gray where the light rippled over the wild oats. Here and there stood groves of huge live-oaks, beneath whose broad, time-bowed heads thousands of cattle stamped away the noons of summer. Around the old mission, whose bells have rung o'er the valley for a century, a few houses were grouped; but beyond this there was scarcely a sign of man's work except the far-off speck of a herdsman looming in the mirage, or the white walls of the old Spanish ranch-house glimmering afar through the hazy sunshine in which the silent land lay always sleeping.

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

FEBRUARY 9.

The surroundings of Monterey could not well be more beautiful if they had been gotten up to order. Hills, gently rising, the chain broken here and there by a more abrupt peak, environ the city, crowned with dark pines and the famous cypress of Monterey (_Cypressus macrocarpa_.) Before us the bay lies calm and blue, and away across, can be seen the town of Santa Cruz, an indistinct white gleam on the mountain side.

JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD McCRACKIN, in _Another Juanita._

LOS ALTOS.

The lark sends up a carol blithe, Bloom-billows scent the breeze, Green-robed the rolling foot-hills rise And poppies paint the leas.

HANNA OTIS BRUN.

FEBRUARY 10.

SANTA BARBARA.

A golden bay 'neath soft blue skies, Where on a hillside creamy rise The mission towers, whose patron saint Is Barbara--with legend quaint.

HELEN ELLIOTT BANDINI, in __History of California._

Dare to be free. Free to do the thing you crave to do and that craves the doing. Free to live in that higher realm where none is fit to criticise save one's self. Free to scorn ridicule, to face contempt, to brave remorse. Free to give life to the one human soul that can demand and grant such a boon--one's own self.

MIRIAM MICHELSON, in _Anthony Overman._

FEBRUARY 11.

In Carmel pines the summer wind Sings like a distant sea. O harps of green, your murmurs find An echoing chord in me! On Carmel shore the breakers moan Like pines that breast the gale. O whence, ye winds and billows, flown To cry your wordless tale?

GEORGE STERLING, in _A Wine of Wizardry and Other Poems._

OAKLAND--BERKELEY--ALAMEDA.

O close-clasped towns across the bay, Whose lights like gleaming jewels stray, A ruby, golden, splendid way, When day from earth has flown. I watch you lighting night by night, O twisted strands of jewels bright, The altar-fires of home, alight-- I who am all alone.

GRACE HIBBARD, in _Forget-me-nots from California._

FEBRUARY 12.

On the Berkeley Hills for miles away I went a-roaming one winter's day, And what do you think I saw, my dear? A place where the sky came down to the hill, And a big white cloud on the fresh green grass, And bright red berries my basket to fill, And mustard that grew in a golden mass-- All on a winter's day, my dear!

CHARLES KEELER, in _Elfin Songs of Sunland._

FEBRUARY 13.

THE SUNSET GUN AT ANGEL ISLAND

A touch of night on the hill-tops gray; A dusky hush on the quivering Bay; A calm moon mounting the silent East-- White slave the day-god has released; Small, scattered clouds That seemed to wait Like sheets of fire O'er the Golden Gate. And under Bonita, growing dim. With a seeming pause on the ocean's rim, Like a weary lab'rer, smiles the sun To the booming crash of the sunset gun.

LOWELL OTUS REESE.

FEBRUARY 14.

MY VALENTINE.

My valentine needs not this day Of Cupid's undisputed sway To have my loving heart disclose The love for her that brightly glows; For it is hers alway, alway. Whate'er the fickle world may say, There's nought within its fair array That for a moment could depose My valentine. Where'er the paths of life may stray, 'Mid valleys dark or gardens gay, With holly wild or blushing rose, Through summer's gleam or winter's snows, Thou art, dear love, for aye and aye. My valentine.

CLIFFORD HOWARD.

FEBRUARY 15.

JOAQUIN MILLER'S HOME ON THE HIGHTS.

* * * * *

Rugged! Rugged as Parnassus! Rude, as all roads I have trod-- Yet are steeps and stone-strewn passes Smooth o'erhead, and nearest God. Here black thunders of my canyon Shake its walls in Titan wars! Here white sea-born clouds companion With such peaks as know the stars.

* * * * *

Steep below me lies the valley, Deep below me lies the town, Where great sea-ships ride and rally, And the world walks up and down. O, the sea of lights far streaming When the thousand flags are furled-- When the gleaming bay lies dreaming As it duplicates the world.

* * * * *

JOAQUIN MILLER.

FEBRUARY 16.

I have watched the ships sailing and steaming in through the Golden Gate, and they seemed like doves of peace bringing messages of good-will from all the world. In the still night, when the scream of the engine's whistle would reach my ears, I would reflect upon the fact that though dwelling in a city whose boundaries were almost at the verge of our nation's great territory, yet we were linked to it by bands of steel, and Plymouth Rock did not seem so far from Shag Rock, nor Bedloe's Island from Alcatraz.

LORENZO SOSSO, in _Wisdom of the Wise._

FEBRUARY 17.

We believe that when future generations shall come to write our history they will find that in this city of San Francisco we have been true to our ideals; that we have struggled along as men who struggle, not always unfalteringly, but at least always with a good heart; that we have tried to do our duty by our town and by our country and by the people who look to us for light, and that history will be able to say of San Francisco that she has been true to her trust as the "Warder of two continents"; that she has been the jewel set in the place where the ends of the ring had met; that she is the mistress of the great sea which spreads before us, and of the people who hunger for light, for truth, and for civilization; that she stands for truth, a flaming signal set upon the sentinel hills, calling all the nations to the blessings of the freedom which we enjoy.

FATHER P.C. YORKE, in _The Warder of Two Continents._

FEBRUARY 18.

FROM THE MOUNTAIN TOPS, LOOKING TOWARDS SAN FRANCISCO BAY.

From the mountain tops we see the valleys stretching out for leagues below. The eye travels over the tilled fields and the blossoming orchards, through the tall trees and along the verdant meadows that are watered by the mountain streams. Beyond the valley rolls the ocean, whereon we see the armored vessels, and the pleasure yachts, and the merchant ships, laden with the grain of our golden shores, sailing under every flag that floats the sea.

LAURENCE BRANNICK.

FEBRUARY 19.

THE POET'S SONG.

I gather flowers on moss-paved woodland ways I roam with poets dead in tranced amaze; Soon must my wild-wood sheaf be cast away, But in my heart the poet's song shall stay.

CHARLES KEELER, in _A Season's Sowing._

FEBRUARY 20.

Morning of fleet-arrive was splandid. By early hour of day all S.F. persons has clustered therselves on tip of hills and suppression of excitement was enjoyed. Considerable watching occurred. Barking of dogs was strangled by collars, infant babies which desired to weep was spanked for prevention of. Silences. Depressed banners was held in American hands to get ready wave it.

Many persons in Sabbath clothings was there, including 1,000 Japanese spies which were very nice behaviour. I was nationally proud of them.

Of suddenly, Oh!!!

Through the Goldy Gate, what see? Maglificent sight of marine insurance! Floating war-boats of dozens approaching directly straight by line and shooting salutes at people. On come them Imperial Navy of Hon. Roosevelt and Hon. Hobson; what heart could quit beating at it? Such white paint--like bath tub enamel, only more respectful in appearance. * * *

From collected 1/2 million of persons on hills of S.F. one mad yell of star-spangly joy. Fire-crack salute, siren whistle, honk-horn, megaphone, extra edition, tenor solo--all connected together to give impressions of loyal panderonium.

WALLACE IRWIN, in _Letters of a Japanese Schoolboy._

FEBRUARY 21.

CALIFORNIA TO THE FLEET.

Behold, upon thy yellow sands, I wait with laurels in my hands. The Golden Gate swings wide and there I stand with poppies in my hair. Come in, O ships! These happy seas Caressed the golden argosies Of forty-nine. They felt the keel Of dark Ayala's pinnace steal Across the mellow gulf and pass Unchallenged, under Alcatraz. Not War we love, but Peace, and these Are but the White Dove's argosies-- The symbols of a mighty will No tyrant hand may use for ill.

DANIEL S. RICHARDSON, in _Trail Dust._

FEBRUARY 22.

The splendors of a Sierra sunset cannot be accurately delineated by pencil or brush. The combined pigments of a Hill and a Moran and a Bierstadt cannot adequately reproduce so gorgeous a canvas. The lingering sun floods all the west with flame; it touches with scarlet tint the serrated outlines of the distant summits and hangs with golden fringe each silvery cloud. Then the colors soften and turn into amber and lilac and maroon. These soon assimilate and dissolve and leave an ashes of rose haze on all far-away objects, when receding twilight spreads its veil and shuts from view all but the mountain outlines, the giant taxodiums and the fantastic fissures of the canyons beneath.

BEN C. TRUMAN, in _Occidental Sketches._

FEBRUARY 23.

GOLDEN GATE PARK IN MIDWINTER.

The dewdrops hang on the bending grass, A dragon-fly cuts a sunbeam through. The moaning cypress trees lift somber arms Up to skies of cloudless blue. A humming-bird sips from a golden cup, In the hedge a hidden bird sings, And a butterfly among the flowers Tells me that the soul has wings.

GRACE HIBBARD, in _Wild Roses of California._

FEBRUARY 24.

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.

JOHN MUIR.

It was indeed a glorious morning. The bay, a molten blaze of many blended hues, bore upon its serene surface the flags of all nations, above which brooded the white doves of peace. Crafts of every conceivable description swung in the flame-lit fathoms that laved the feet of the stately hills, then stepping out, one by one, from their gossamer night robes to receive the first kiss of dawn.

Grim Alcatraz, girdled with bristling armaments, scintillating in the sun, suggested the presence of some monster leviathan, emerging from the deep, still undivested of gems, from his submarine home.

EUGENIA KELLOGG, in _The Awakening of Poccalito._

FEBRUARY 25.

THE SIERRA NEVADAS

They watch and guard the sleeping dells Where ice born torrents flow-- A myriad granite sentinels, Helmed and cuirassed with snow.

* * * * *

Yon glacial torrent's deep, hoarse lute Its upward music flings-- The great, eternal crags stand mute, And listen while it sings O mighty range! Thy wounds and scars, Thy weird, bewildering forms, Attest thine everlasting wars-- Thy heritage of storms And still what peace! Serenity On crag and deep abyss, O, may such calmness fall on me When Azrael stoops to kiss.

GEORGE N. LOWE.

FEBRUARY 26.

Tamalpais is a wooded mountain with ample slopes, and from it on the north stretch away ridges of forest land, the out posts of the great Northern woods of _Sequoia sempervirens_, This mountain and the mountainous country to the south bring the forest closer to San Francisco than to any other American city. Within the last few years men have killed deer on the slopes of Tamalpais and looked down to see the cable cars crawling up the hills of San Francisco to the south. In the suburbs coyotes still stole in and robbed hen roosts by night.

WILL IRWIN, in _The City That Was._

FEBRUARY 27.

DAWN ON MOUNT TAMALPAIS.

A cloudless heaven is bending o'er us, The dawn is lighting the linn and lea; Island and headland and bay before us, And, dim in the distance, the heaving sea. The Farallon light is faintly flashing, The birds are wheeling in fitful flocks, The coast-line brightens, the waves are dashing And tossing their spray on the Lobos rocks. The Heralds of Morn in the east are glowing And boldly lifting the veil of night; Whitney and Shasta are bravely showing Their crowns of snow in the morning light. The town is stirring with faint commotion, In all its highways it throbs and thrills; We greet you! Queen of the Western Ocean, As you wake to life on your hundred hills. The forts salute, and the flags are streaming From ships at anchor in cove and strait; O'er the mountain tops, in splendor beaming, The sun looks down on the Golden Gate.

LUCIUS HARWOOD FOOTE.

FEBRUARY 28.

ENOUGH.

When my calm majestic mountains are piled white and high Against the perfect rose-tints of a living sunrise sky, I can resign the dearest wish without a single sigh, And let the whole world's restlessness pass all unheeded by.

MARY RUSSELL MILLS.

FEBRUARY 29.

MARSHALL SAUNDERS ON SAN FRANCISCO.

How we all love a city that we have once contemplated making our home! Such a city to me is San Francisco, and but for unavoidable duties elsewhere, I would be there today. I loved that bright, beautiful city, and even the mention of its name sends my blood bounding more quickly through my veins. That might have been _my_ city, and I therefore rejoice in its prosperity. I am distressed when calamity overtakes it--I never lose faith in its ultimate success. The heart of the city is sound. It has always been sound, even in the early days when a ring of corrupt adventurers would have salted the city of the blessed herb with an unsavory reputation, but for the care of staunch and courageous protectors at the heart of it.

San Francisco is not the back door of the continent. San Francisco is the front door. Every ship sailing out of its magnificent bay to the Orient, proclaims this fact. San Francisco will one day lead the continent. A city that cares for its poor and helpless, its children and dumb animals, that encourages art and learning, and never wearies in its prosecution of evil-doers--that city will eventually emerge triumphant from every cloud of evil report. Long live the dear city by the Golden Gate!

MARSHALL SAUNDERS, _July_, 1909.

"Senor Barrow, I congratulate you," Morale said, in his native tongue. "A woman who cannot be won away by passion or by chance, is a woman of gold."

GERTRUDE B. MILLARD, in _On the Ciudad Road, The Newsletter, Jan._, 1899.

AT THE PRESIDIO OF SAN FRANCISCO.

The rose and honey-suckle here entwine In lovely comradeship their am'rous arms; Here grasses spread their undecaying charms. And every wall is eloquent with vine; Far-reaching avenues make beckoning sign, And as we stroll along their tree-lined way, The songster trills his rapture-breathing lay From where he finds inviolable shrine. And yet, within this beauty-haunted place War keeps his dreadful engines at command. With scarce a smile upon his frowning face, And ever ready, unrelaxing hand ... We start to see, when dreaming in these bowers, A tiger sleeping on a bed of flowers.

EDWARD ROBESON TAYLOR, in _Moods and Other Verse._

MARCH 1.

THE CITY'S VOICE.

A mighty undertone of mingled sound; The cadent tumult rising from a throng Of urban workers, blending in a song Of greater life that makes the pulses bound. The whirr of turning wheels, the hammers' ring The noise of traffic and the tread of men, The viol's sigh, the scratching of a pen-- All to a vibrant Whole their echoes fling. Hark to the City's voice; it tells a tale Of triumphs and defeats, of joy and woe, The lover's tryst, the challenge of a foe, A dying gasp, a new-born infant's wail. The pulse-beats of a million hearts combined, Reverberating in a rhythmic thrill-- A vital message that is never still-- A sweeping, cosmic chorus, unconfined.

LOUIS J. STELLMANN, in _San Francisco Town Talk, December_ 6, 1902.

MARCH 2.

From his windows on Russian Hill one saw always something strange and suggestive creeping through the mists of the bay. It would be a South Sea Island brig, bringing in copra, to take out cottons and idols; a Chinese junk after sharks' livers; an old whaler, which seemed to drip oil, home from a year of cruising in the Arctic. Even the tramp windjammers were deep-chested craft, capable of rounding the Horn or of circumnavigating the globe; and they came in streaked and picturesque from their long voyaging.

WILL IRWIN, in _The City That Was._

MARCH 3.

WILD HONEY.

The swarms that escape from their careless owners have a weary, perplexing time of it in seeking suitable homes. Most of them make their way to the foot-hills of the mountains, or to the trees that line the banks of the rivers, where some hollow log or trunk may be found. A friend of mine, while out hunting on the San Joaquin, came upon an old coon trap, hidden among some tall grass, near the edge of the river, upon which he sat down to rest. Shortly afterward his attention was attracted to a crowd of angry bees that were flying excitedly about his head, when he discovered that he was sitting upon their hive, which was found to contain more than 200 pounds of honey.

JOHN MUIR, in _The Mountains of California._

MARCH 4.

PHOSPHORESCENT SEA WAVES, BALBOA BEACH, CAL.