The California Birthday Book Part 12

MARCH 30.

DRIVING THE LAST SPIKE, 1869.

Under the desert sky the spreading mult.i.tude was called to order.

There followed a solemn prayer of thanksgiving. The laurel tie was placed, amidst ringing cheers. The golden spike was set. The trans-American telegraph wire was adjusted. Amid breathless silence the silver hammer was lifted, poised, dropped, giving the gentle tap that ticked the news to all the world! Then, blow on blow, Governor Stanford sent the spike to place! A storm of wild huzzas burst forth; desert rock and sand, plain and mountain, echoed the conquest of their terrors. The two engines moved up, touched noses; and each in turn crossed the magic tie. America was belted! The great Iron Way was finished.

SARAH PRATT CARR, in _The Iron Way._

MARCH 31.

THE SPIRIT OF THE WEST.

All wearied with the burdens of a place Grown barren, over-crowded and despoiled Of vital freshness by the weight of years.

A sage ascended to the mountain tops To peer, as Moses once had done of old, Into the distance for a Promised Land: And there, his gaze toward the setting sun.

Beheld the Spirit of the Occident, Bold, herculean, in its latent strength-- A youthful destiny that beckoned on To fields all vigorous with natal life.

The years have pa.s.sed; the sage has led a band Of virile, st.u.r.dy men into the West.

And these have toiled and multiplied and stamped Upon the face of Nature wondrous things.

Until, created from the virgin soil, Great industries arise as monuments To their endeavor; and a mighty host Now labors in a once-untrodden waste-- Quick-pulsed with life-blood, from a heart that throbs Its vibrant dominance throughout the world.

Today, heroic in the sunset's glow, A figure looms, colossal and serene.

In royal power of accomplishment, That claims the gaze of nations over sea And beckons, still, as in the years agone.

The weary ones of earth to its domain-- That they may drink from undiluted founts An inspiration of new energy.

LOUIS J. STELLMAN, in _Sunset Magazine, August_, 1903.

DESERT LURE.

The hills are gleaming bra.s.s, and bronze the peaks, The mesas are a brazen, molten sea, And e'en the heaven's blue infinity, Undimmed by kindly cloud through arid weeks, Seems polished turquoise. Like a sphinx she speaks, The scornful desert: "What would'st thou from me?"

And in our hearts we answer her; all three Unlike, for each a different treasure seeks.

One sought Adventure, and the desert gave; His restless heart found rest beneath her sands.

One sought but gold. He dug his soul a grave; The desert's gift worked evil in his hands.

One sought for beauty; him She made her slave.

Turn back! No man her 'witched gift withstands.

CHARLTON LAWRENCE EDHOLM, in _Ainslee's, July_, 1907.

APRIL 1.

Hark! What is the meaning of this stir in the air. why are the brooks so full of laughter, the birds pouring forth such torrents of sweet song, as if unable longer to contain themselves for very joy? The hills and ravines resound with happy voices. Let us re-echo the cheering vibrations with the gladness of our hearts, with the hope arisen from the tomb of despair. With buoyant spirit, let us join in the merry mood of the winged songsters; let us share the gaiety of the flowers and trees, and let our playful humor blend with the musical flow and tinkle of the silvery, shimmering rivulet. Greetings, let fond greetings burst from the smiling lips on this most happy of all occasions! The natal day of the flowers, the tender season of love and beauty, the happy morn of mother Nature's bright awakening! The resurrection, indeed! The world palpitating with fresh young life--it is the Holiday of holidays, the Golden Holiday for each and all--the Birth of Spring.

BERTHA HIRSCH BARUCH, _Copyright_, 1907.

APRIL 2.

Almost has the Californian developed a racial physiology. He tends to size, to smooth symmetry of limb and trunk, to an erect, free carriage; and the beauty of his women is not a myth. The pioneers were all men of good body; they had to be to live and leave descendants.

The bones of the weaklings who started for El Dorado in 1849 lie on the plains or in the hill cemeteries of the mining camps. Heredity began it; climate has carried it out.

WILL IRWIN, in _The City That Was._

APRIL 3.

AN EASTER OFFERING.

I watched a lily through the Lenten-tide; From when its emerald sheath first pierced the mould.

I saw the satin blades uncurl, unfold, And, softly upward, stretch with conscious pride Toward the fair sky. At length, the leaves beside, There came a flower beauteous to behold, Breathing of purest joy and peace untold; Its radiance graced the Easter altar-side.

And in my heart there rose a sense of shame That I, alas, no precious gift had brought Which could approach the beauty of this thing-- I who had sought to bear the Master's name!

Humbly I bowed while meek repentance wrought, With silent tears, her chastened offering.

BLANCHE M. BURBANK

APRIL 4.

For all the toll the desert takes of a man it gives compensations, deep breaths, deep sleep, and the communion of the stars. It comes upon one with new force that the Chaldeans were a desert-bred people.

It is hard to escape the sense of mastery as the stars move in the wide, clear heavens to risings and settings un.o.bscured. They look large and near and palpitant; as if they moved on some stately service not needful to declare. Wheeling to their stations in the sky, they make the poor world fret of no account. Of no account you who lie out there watching, nor the lean coyote that stands off in the scrub from you and howls and howls.

MARY AUSTIN, in _The Land of Little Rain._

APRIL 5.

DESERT CALLS.

There are breaks in the voice of the shouting street Where the smoke drift comes sifting down, And I list to the wind calls, far and sweet-- They are not from the winds of the town.

O I lean to the rush of the desert air And the bite of the desert sand, I feel the hunger, the thirst and despair-- And the joy of the still border land!

For the ways of the city are blocked to the end With the grim procession of death-- The treacherous love and the shifting friend And the reek of a mult.i.tude's breath.

But the arms of the Desert are lean and slim And his gaunt breast is cactus-haired, His ways are as rude as the mountain rim-- But the heart of the Desert is bared.

HARLEY R. WILEY, in _Out West Magazine._