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IN CALIFORNIA'S MOUNTAINS.
'Mid the far, fair hills, beneath the pines With their carpet of needles, soft and brown.
Dwells the precious scent of rare old wines.
Where the sun's distilling rays pour down: Away from the city, mile on mile, Far up in the hills where life's worth while.
There the rivulet in gladness leaps Down a fronded valley, sweet and cool, Or pausing a little moment sleeps In a mossy, rock-bound, limpid pool: Away from the city, mile on mile, Far up in the hills where life's worth while.
The wild bird carols its sweetest lay, And the world seems golden with love's good cheer; There is never a care to cloud the day, And Heaven, itself, seems, oh, so near!
Away from the city, mile on mile.
Far up in the hills where life's worth while.
WILLIS GEORGE EMERSON.
JANUARY 31.
OUT HERE IN CALIFORNIA.
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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d-- 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sing 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 G.o.d's own time-- Live for To-day!
E.A. BRININSTOOL
