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
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