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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 p.u.s.s.y willows by the brook, interwoven with the finest gra.s.ses 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 Pa.s.sion 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 spa.r.s.ely 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 sh.o.r.e, Swept to my feet an abalone sh.e.l.l; 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 sh.o.r.es 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 Pa.s.sING OF SUMMER.
She smiled to the hearts that enshrined her, Then the gold of her banner unfurled And trailing her glories behind her Pa.s.sed over the rim of the world.
HARLEY R. WILEY, in _New England Magazine, October_, 1906.
