Chapter 5

The animals of the hanging gardens are not confined to the kelp or the rocks of the bottom. The blue water where the sunlight enters brings out myriads of delicate forms, poising, drifting, swimming, the veritable gems of the sea; some are red as the ruby; others blue like sapphire; some yellow, white, brown, or emitting vivid flashes of seeming phosphorescent light. Ocean sapphires they are called; the true gems of the sea, thickly strewn in the deep blue water. Sweeping by, poised in classic shapes, are the smaller jelly-fishes; crystal vases, so delicate that the rich tone of the ocean can be seen through them, changing to a steely blue. Some are mere spectres, a tracery of lace; others rich in colors and flaunting long trains.

CHARLES FREDERICK HOLDER, in _Life in the Open._

MAY 11.

BUILDING THE TRANSCONTINENTAL RAILWAY.

Few can realize the problem before those intrepid men, who, with little money and large hostility behind them, hauled their strenuously obtained subsistence and material over nearly a thousand miles of poorly equipped road. They fought mountains of snow as they had never before been fought. They forced their weak, wheezy little engines up tremendous grades with green wood that must sometimes be coaxed with sage-brush gathered by the firemen running alongside of their creeping or stalled iron horses. There were no steel rails. Engineers worked unhelped by the example of perfected railroad building of later times. No tracks or charts of the man-killing desert! No modern helps, no ready, over-eager capital seeking their enterprise! Only skepticism, hatred from their enemies, and "You can't do it!" flung at them from friend and foe.

SARAH PRATT CARR, in _The Iron Way._

MAY 12.

ANGLING THE SWORDFISH.

As he brought the great fish around again, a wonderful sight with its gaudy fins, enormous black eyes and menacing sword, the head boatman hurled the heavy spear into it. The swordfish fairly doubled up under the shock, deluging with water the fishermen, its sword coming out and striking the boat. A moment more and it might have escaped; but one of the men seized it by the sword, while another threw a rope around it, and the big game was theirs; in all probability the first large swordfish ever taken with a rod and reel.

CHARLES FREDERICK HOLDER, in _Big Game at Sea._

MAY 13.

The old Greeks taught their children how to sing, because it taught them how to be obedient. This is a difficult universe to the man who drives dead against it, but to the man who has learned the secret of harmony through obedience it is a happy place. Discord is sickness; harmony is health. Discord is restlessness; harmony is peace. Discord is sorrow; harmony is joy. Discord is death; harmony is life. Discord is hell; harmony is heaven. He who is in love and peace with his neighbors, filling the sphere where God has placed him, hath heaven in his heart already. Only through blue in the eye, the scientist tells us, can blue out of the eye be seen. Only through C in the ear can C out of the ear be heard. Only through Heaven down here can Heaven up there be interpreted.

MALCOLM McLEOD, in _Earthly Discords._

MAY 14.

As one approaches the mission from the road, it defines itself more and more as a distinct element in the view: the hills ... seem to distribute themselves on either side, as though realizing that here, at least, they are subordinate and must not intrude. This brings Santa Lucia into view, directly behind the mission, and thus the two most prominent, most interesting, most beautiful objects in the landscape are brought together in one perfect whole: Mt. Santa Lucia--Nature's grandest creation for miles around; Mission San Antonio--man's noblest, most artistic handiwork between Santa Barbara and Carrnelo.

CHARLES FRANKLIN CARTER, in _Some By-Ways of California._

MAY 15.

There is what may be called a _sense_ of the sea, which is indefinable. No lesser body of water, no other aspect of Nature affords this. It is in the air, like a touch of autumn, and we know it as much through feeling as through seeing. The coast is saturated for some distance inland with this presence of the sea, much as the beach is soaked with salt water. It is music and poetry to the soul and as elusive as they, wrapping us in dreams and yielding fugitive glimpses of that which we may never grasp, but which skirts, like a beautiful phantom, the mind's horizon. Like music, it is an opiate, and unlocks for us new states of mind in which we wander, as in halls of alabaster and mother-of-pearl, but where, alas, we may not linger. We can as readily sound the ocean as fathom the feelings it inspires. It is too deep for thought. As often as the sea speaks to us of the birth of Venus and of Joy, so also does it remind of Prometheus bound and the thrall of Nature.

STANTON DAVIS KIRKHAM, in _In the Open._

MAY 16.

The morning breeze with breath of rose Steals from the dawn and softly blows Beneath the lintel, where is hung My little bell with winged tongue; Steals from the dawn, that it may be An oracle of peace to me; For hark! athwart my fitful dreams There mingles with the Orient beams A wakening psalm of tinkling bell: "God brings the day, and all is well."

CLIFFORD HOWARD, in _The Wind Bell._

MAY 17.

CATCHING A SWORDFISH.

The swordfish was not disturbed by reflections of any kind. Of an uncertain and vicious temper it was annoyed, then maddened by being held by something it could not see, and dropping into the water it dashed away in blind fear and fury, still feeling the strange, uncanny check which seemed to follow it as a sheet of foam. Cutting the water one hundred, two hundred feet, it shot ahead with the speed of light, then still held, still in the toils, it again sprang into the air with frenzied shake and twist, whirling itself from side to side, striking terrific blows in search of the invisible enemy. Falling, the swordfish plunged downward, and reached two hundred feet below the surface and the bottom, then turned, and rose with a mighty rush, going high into the air again, whirling itself completely over in its madness, so that it fell upon its back, beating the sea into a maelstrom of foam and spume, in its blind and savage fury.

CHARLES FREDERICK HOLDER, in _Big Game at Sea._

MAY 18.

One is disposed to put "climate" in the plural when writing of so large a state as California and one so wonderfully endowed with conditions which make health, comfort and beauty in all seasons. Its great length of coast-line and its mountain ranges irregularly paralleling that, offer a wealth of resource in varying temperature, altitudes, shelter from the sea breezes or exposure to them, perhaps unequaled by any state in the union, or indeed by any country in the world.

MADAME CAROLINE SEVERANCE, in _The Mother of Clubs._

MAY 19.

A GLOUCESTER SKIPPER'S SONG.

Oh, the roar of shoaling waters, and the awful, awful sea, Busted shrouds and parting cables, and the white death on our lee! Oh, the black, black night on Georges, when eight score men were lost! Were ye there, ye men of Gloucester? Aye, ye were; and tossed Like chips upon the water were your little craft that night-- Driving, swearing, calling out, but ne'er a call of fright. So knowing ye for what ye are, ye masters of the sea, Here's to ye, Gloucester fishermen, a health to ye from me!

JAMES B. CONNOLLY, in _Scribner's, May_, 1904.

MAY 20.

DEDICATION TO HIS FIRST BOOK.

* * * It is the proudest boast of the profession of literature, that no man ever published a book for selfish purposes or with ignoble aim. Books have been published for the consolation of the distressed; for the guidance of the wandering; for the relief of the destitute; for the hope of the penitent; for uplifting the burdened soul above its sorrows and fears; for the general amelioration of the condition of all mankind; for the right against the wrong; for the good against, the bad; for the truth. This book is published for two dollars per volume.

ROBERT J. BURDETTE, in _The Rise and Fall of the Mustache._

MAY 21.

THE YOSEMITE ROAD.

There at last are the snow-peaks, in virginal chastity standing! Through the nut-pines I see them, their ridges expanding. Ye peaks! from celestial sanctities benisons casting, Ye know not your puissant influence, lifting and lasting; Nothing factitious, self-conscious or impious bides in you; On your high serenities No hollow amenities Nor worldly impurities cast their dread blight; August and courageous, you stand for the right; The gods love you and lend you their soft robes of white.

BAILEY MILLARD, in _Songs of the Press._

MAY 22.

ON THE STEPS OF THE LECONTE MEMORIAL LODGE, YOSEMITE VALLEY.

I wonder not, whether it is well with this true seer, Who saw, while dwelling in the flesh, foundations strong and broad; I do not doubt that when he ceased to worship in this temple, Serene, he passed from beauty unto beauty, from God to God.

BENJAMIN FAY MILLS.

Within, a whole rainbow is condensed in one of these magnificent shells.

JOSIAH KEEP, in _West Coast Shells._

MAY 23.

TO YOSEMITE.

The silence of the centuries, The calm where doubtings cease, And over all the brooding of God's presence And the spell of perfect peace! O Granite Cliffs that steadfast face the dawn, O Forest Kings that heard Creation's sigh! Teach me thy simple creed, that, living, I May live like thee, and as serenely die!

E.F. GREEN.

TO THE UNNAMED FALL IN THE YOSEMITE VALLEY.

Thou needest not that any man should name thee; God counts thine ethereal jewels, one by one; And, lest some selfish, inappropriate word should claim thee, Silent, we watch thee sparkle in the sun.

BENJAMIN FAY MILLS.

MAY 24.

The white man calls it Bridal Veil. To the Indian it is Po-ho-no, Spirit of the Evil Wind.

The white man, in passing, pauses to watch the filmy cloud that hangs there like a thousand yards of tulle flung from the crest of the rocky precipice, wafted outward by the breeze that blows ever and always across the Bridal Veil Meadows. By the light of the mid-afternoon the veil seems caught half-way with a clasp of bridal gems, seven-hued, evanescent; now glowing with color, now fading to clear white sun rays before the eye.

BERTHA H. SMITH, in _Yosemite Legends._

MAY 25.

MATCHLESS YOSEMITE.

High on Cloud's Rest, behind the misty screen, Thy Genius sits! The secrets of thy birth Within its bosom locked! What power can rend The veil, and bid it speak--that spirit dumb, Between two worlds, enthroned upon a Sphinx? Guard well thine own, thou mystic spirit! Let One place remain where Husbandry shall fear To tread! One spot on earth inviolate, As it was fashioned in eternity!

FRED EMERSON BROOKS, in _Old Abe and Other Poems._

You ask for my picture. I have never had one taken. I have my reasons. One is that a man always seems to me most of an ass when smirking on cardboard.

GERTRUDE ATHERTON, in _Rulers of Kings._

MAY 26.

INVITATION TO AN INDIAN FEAST IN YOSEMITE.

As the time of the feast drew near, runners were sent across the mountains, carrying a bundle of willow sticks, or a sinew cord or leaf of dried grass tied with knots, that the Monos might know how many suns must cross the sky before they should go to Ah-wah-nee to share the feast of venison with their neighbors. And the Monos gathered together baskets of pinion nuts, and obsidian arrow-heads, and strings of shells, to carry with them to give in return for acorns and chinquapin nuts and basket willow.

BERTHA H. SMITH, in _Yosemite Legends._

MAY 27.

It is owing to the ever active missionary spirit among the Friars Minor (Franciscans) that millions upon millions of American Indians have obtained the Christian faith. The children of St. Francis were, indeed, the principal factors in the very discovery of America, inasmuch as the persons most prominently connected with that event belonged to the Seraphic Family. Fr. Juan Perez de Marchena, the friend and counsellor of Christopher Columbus, was the guardian or superior of the Franciscan monastery at La Rabida; * * * and the great navigator likewise belonged to the Third Order.

FR. ZEPHYRIN, in _Missions and Missionaries of California._

MAY 28.

JUNIPERO SERRA.

Not with the clash of arms or conquering fleet He came, who first upon this kindly shore Planted the Cross. No heralds walked before; But, as the Master bade, with sandalled feet, Weary and bleeding oft, he crossed the wild. Carrying glad tidings to the untutored child Of Nature; and that gracious mother smiled, And made the dreary waste to bloom once more. Silently, selflessly he went and came; He sought to live and die unheard of men-- Praise made his pale cheek glow as if with shame. A hundred years and more have passed since then. And yet the imprint of his feet today Is traced in flowers from here to Monterey.

MARY E. MANNIX.

MAY 29.

San Gabriel! I stand and wonder at thy walls So old, so quaint; a glory falls Upon them as I view the past. And read the story which thou hast Preserved so well.

* * * * *

San Gabriel! What souls were they who fashioned thee To be a blessed charity! What faith was theirs who bore the cross, And counted wealth and ease but loss, Of Christ to tell!

* * * * *

San Gabriel! A glamour of the ancient time Remains with thee! Thou hast the rhyme Of some old poem, and the scent Of some old rose's ravishment Naught can dispel!

* * * * *

LYMAN WHITNEY ALLEN, in _A Parable of the Rose._

MAY 30.

Wherever a green blade looks up, A leaf lisps mystery, Whereso a blossom holds its cup A mist rings land or sea, Wherever voice doth utter sound Or silence make her round-- There worship; it is holy ground.

JOHN VANCE CHENEY, _The Grace of the Ground_, in _Poems._

MAY 31.

TO MOUNT WILSON.

Thou mystic one! Thou prophet hoar! Thy teachings quicken--man's shall fade. Ere man was dust thou wert before; Thy bosom for his resting place was made. And when thou tak'st in thy embrace And hold'st me up against the sky And Earth's fair 'broideries I trace-- All girdled in by circling bands that tie Unto her side my destiny-- Then unto me thou dost make clear Why with Life's essence here I'm thrilled. Then all thy prophecies I hear, And in my being feel them all fulfilled. And as the narrow rim of eye Contains the vast and all-encircling sky. So in the confines of the soul The undulating universe may roll. And out in space, my soul set free, I turn an astral forged key Which opes the door 'twixt God and me, I hear the secrets of Eternity! In Immortality I trust, Believing that the cosmic dust-- Alike in man and skies star-sown-- Is pollen from the Amaranth blown.

LANNIE HAYNES MARTIN.

Pause upon the gentle hillside, view San Carlos by the sea 'Gainst pale light a shape Morisco wrought in faded tapestry. 'Neath Mt. Carmel's brooding shadow, peaceful lies the storied pile, And the white-barred river near it sings a requiem all the while.

* * * * *

Where were roofs of tiles or thatches, roughest mounds mark every side, And where once the busy courtyard searching winds find crevice wide.

* * * * *

AMELIA WOODWARD TRUESDELL, in _A California Pilgrimage._

JUNE 1.

In fifteen years the Mission of San Juan Bautista had erected one of the most beautiful and ornate chapels in Alta California, which, together with the necessary buildings for the padres, living rooms and dormitories for the neophytes, storehouses and corrals for the grain and cattle, formed three sides of a patio two hundred feet square, with the corrals leading away beyond. The Indians, with only a few teachers and helpers, had done all this work.

MRS. A.S.C. FORBES, in _Mission Tales in the Days of the Dons._

JUNE 2.

From his (the Indian's) point of view there is perhaps love; even, it may be, romance. Much depends upon the standpoint one takes. The hills that look high from the valley, seem low looking down from the mountain. * * * For the world over, under white skin or skin of bronze-brown, the human heart throbs the same; for we are brothers--aye, brothers all!

IDAH MEACHAM STROBRIDGE, in _Loom of the Desert._

We had seen the spire of the Episcopal Church, which forms so pleasing a feature in the bosom of the valley, pale and fade from sight; the lofty walls of the old Mission of San Gabriel were no longer visible Suddenly from out the silence and gathering shades fell upon our ears a chime so musical and sweet, so spiritually clear and delicate, that had honest John Bunyan heard it he might well have deemed himself arrived at the land of Beulah. * * * It was the hour of vespers at the Old Mission.

BEN C. TRUMAN, in _Semi-Tropical California._

JUNE 3.

The Mission San Gabriel and its quadrangle of buildings made a beautiful picture. It nestled against distant hills, and neither stood out from the dim background nor entirely melted within it. It attracted the eye--this pink, yellow-gray of the little stone church crowned with dull-reddish tile, and supported by a bulwark of quaint buttresses. The picture was perfect--but since then the chill hands of both temblor and tempest have touched rudely the charm and blighted the pride of all of the California Missions--San Gabriel Archangel.

MRS. A.S.C. FORBES, in _Mission Tales in the Days of the Dons._

JUNE 4.

Obey my word, O Ten-ie-ya, and your people shall be many as the blades of grass, and none shall dare to bring war unto Ah-wah-nee. But look you ever, my son, against the white horsemen of the great plains beyond, for once they have crossed the western mountains, your tribe will scatter as the dust before the desert wind, and never come together again.

BERTHA H. SMITH, in _Yosemite Legends._

San Juan, Aunt Phoebe, is one of the places where there is an old Mission. People in this country (California) think a great deal of them. I've remarked to Ephraim, "Many's the time," says I, "that the Missions seem to do more real good than the churches. They get hold of the people better, somehow. I'll be real glad to set me down in one, and I do hope they'll have some real lively hymns to kind of cheer us up."

ALBERTA LAWRENCE, in _The Travels of Phoebe Ann._

JUNE 5.

In proper California fashion we made our nooning by the roadside, pulling up under the shade of a hospitable sycamore and turning Sorreltop out to graze. We drew water from a traveling little river close at hand, made a bit of camp-fire with dry sticks that lay about, and in half an hour were partaking of chops and potatoes and tea to the great comfort of our physical nature.

CHARLES FRANCIS SAUNDERS, in _A Pala Pilgrimage, The Travel Magazine._

JUNE 6.

Yellow-white the Mission gleamed like an opal in a setting of velvety ranges under turquoise skies. About its walls were the clustered adobes of the Mexicans, like children creeping close to the feet of the one mother; and beyond that the illimitable ranges of mesa and valley, of live-oak groves and knee-deep meadows, of countless springs and canyons of mystery, whence gold was washed in the freshets; and over all, eloquent, insistent, appealing, the note of the meadow-lark cutting clearly through the hoof-beats of the herd and the calls of the vaqueros.

MARAH ELLIS RYAN, in _For the Soul of Rafael._

The missions should be thought of today as they were at their best, when, after thirty years of struggle and hardship, they had attained the height of their usefulness, which was followed by thirty years of increase and prosperity, material as well as spiritual--the proud outcome of so humble a beginning--before their final passing away.

CHARLES FRANKLIN CARTER, in _The Missions of Nueva California._

JUNE 7.

Already the Emperor has given to us many fine paintings, vestments and a chime of sweetest bells. How we long to hear them calling out over the sea of vast silence, turning the white quiet into coral hues of deeper thrill! The church bells singing to the people of Al-lak-shak, recall the wandering Padres' labors among your thousands here in California. Those who cannot understand the great words of the teachers may look upon the beauteous pictures of the Madonna and the Child; all can understand that love.

MRS. A.S.C. FORBES, in _Mission Tales in the Days of the Dons._

JUNE 8.

JUNE. (IN CALIFORNIA.)

Oh June! thou comest once again With bales of hay and sheaves of grain, That make the farmer's heart rejoice, And anxious herds lift up their voice. I hear thy promise, sunny maid, Sound in the reapers' ringing blade. And in the laden harvest wain That rumbles through the stubble plain. Ye tell a tale of bearded stacks. Of busy mills and floury sacks, Of cars oppressed with cumbrous loads, Hard curving down their iron roads Of vessels speeding to the breeze. Their snowy sails in stormy seas. While bearing to some foreign land The products of this Golden Strand.

PALMER COX, in _Comic Yarns._

JUNE 9.

MADAME MODJESKA'S DEVOTION TO THE CATHOLIC CHURCH.

During the hey-day of A.P.A.-ism in this section, Madame Modjeska returned from a triumphant tour and played for a week in Los Angeles. * * * She selected as her principal piece--Mary Stuart. * * * At the final scene of the play, as Mary Stuart passes out to her execution, Modjeska in the title-role held us spellbound by the intense emotions of the situation. The sight of her beautiful face, upturned to heaven, showing the expression of the zeal and fervor of her Catholic heart, was intensified by the manner in which she carried the crucifix and rosary in her hand, and was the last glimpse of her as she disappeared from the stage. There was a thrill passed over the audience, which had its effect, not only upon the unbeliever, but likewise upon the pusillanimous member of the church.

JOSEPH SCOTT, in _The Tidings._

JUNE 10.

The Mission floor was with weeds o'ergrown, And crumbling and shaky its walls of stone; Its roof of tiles, in tiers on tiers, Had stood the storms of a hundred years. An olden, weird, medieval style Clung to the mouldering, gloomy pile, And the rhythmic voice of the breaking waves Sang a lonesome dirge in its land of graves. Strangely awed I felt, that day, As I walked in the Mission old and gray-- The Mission Carmel at Monterey.

MADGE MORRIS WAGNER, in _Mystery of Carmel._

JUNE 11.

Up to the American invasion, the traveler in California found welcome in whatsoever house. Not food and bed and tolerance only, but warm hearts and home. Fresh clothing was laid out in his chamber. His jaded horse went to the fenceless pasture; a new and probably better steed was saddled at the door when the day came that he must go. And in the houses which had it, a casual fistful of silver lay upon his table, from which he was expected to help himself against his present needs. It was a society in which hotels could not survive (even long after they were attempted) because every home was open to the stranger; and orphan asylums were impossible. Not because fathers and mothers never died, but because no one was civilized enough to shirk orphans.

CHARLES F. LUMMIS. in _The Right Hand of the Continent, Out West, August_, 1892.

JUNE 12.