The California Birthday Book | Page 9

was indeed a glorious morning. The bay, a molten blaze of many

blended hues, bore upon its serene surface the flags of all nations,
above which brooded the white doves of peace. Crafts of every
conceivable description swung in the flame-lit fathoms that laved the
feet of the stately hills, then stepping out, one by one, from their
gossamer night robes to receive the first kiss of dawn.
Grim Alcatraz, girdled with bristling armaments, scintillating in the sun,
suggested the presence of some monster leviathan, emerging from the
deep, still undivested of gems, from his submarine home.
EUGENIA KELLOGG,
in The Awakening of Poccalito.
FEBRUARY 25.
THE SIERRA NEVADAS
They watch and guard the sleeping dells
Where ice born torrents
flow--
A myriad granite sentinels,
Helmed and cuirassed with
snow.

Yon glacial torrent's deep, hoarse lute
Its upward music flings--
The
great, eternal crags stand mute,
And listen while it sings
O mighty
range! Thy wounds and scars,
Thy weird, bewildering forms,
Attest
thine everlasting wars--
Thy heritage of storms
And still what peace!
Serenity
On crag and deep abyss,
O, may such calmness fall on me

When Azrael stoops to kiss.
GEORGE N. LOWE.
FEBRUARY 26.
Tamalpais is a wooded mountain with ample slopes, and from it on the
north stretch away ridges of forest land, the out posts of the great
Northern woods of Sequoia sempervirens, This mountain and the
mountainous country to the south bring the forest closer to San
Francisco than to any other American city. Within the last few years

men have killed deer on the slopes of Tamalpais and looked down to
see the cable cars crawling up the hills of San Francisco to the south. In
the suburbs coyotes still stole in and robbed hen roosts by night.
WILL IRWIN,
in The City That Was.
FEBRUARY 27.
DAWN ON MOUNT TAMALPAIS.
A cloudless heaven is bending o'er us,
The dawn is lighting the linn
and lea;
Island and headland and bay before us,
And, dim in the
distance, the heaving sea.
The Farallon light is faintly flashing,
The
birds are wheeling in fitful flocks,
The coast-line brightens, the waves
are dashing
And tossing their spray on the Lobos rocks.
The
Heralds of Morn in the east are glowing
And boldly lifting the veil of
night;
Whitney and Shasta are bravely showing
Their crowns of
snow in the morning light.
The town is stirring with faint commotion,

In all its highways it throbs and thrills;
We greet you! Queen of the
Western Ocean,
As you wake to life on your hundred hills.
The
forts salute, and the flags are streaming
From ships at anchor in cove
and strait;
O'er the mountain tops, in splendor beaming,
The sun
looks down on the Golden Gate.
LUCIUS HARWOOD FOOTE.
FEBRUARY 28.
ENOUGH.
When my calm majestic mountains are piled white and high
Against
the perfect rose-tints of a living sunrise sky,
I can resign the dearest
wish without a single sigh,
And let the whole world's restlessness
pass all unheeded by.
MARY RUSSELL MILLS.

FEBRUARY 29.
MARSHALL SAUNDERS ON SAN FRANCISCO.
How we all love a city that we have once contemplated making our
home! Such a city to me is San Francisco, and but for unavoidable
duties elsewhere, I would be there today. I loved that bright, beautiful
city, and even the mention of its name sends my blood bounding more
quickly through my veins. That might have been my city, and I
therefore rejoice in its prosperity. I am distressed when calamity
overtakes it--I never lose faith in its ultimate success. The heart of the
city is sound. It has always been sound, even in the early days when a
ring of corrupt adventurers would have salted the city of the blessed
herb with an unsavory reputation, but for the care of staunch and
courageous protectors at the heart of it.
San Francisco is not the back door of the continent. San Francisco is
the front door. Every ship sailing out of its magnificent bay to the
Orient, proclaims this fact. San Francisco will one day lead the
continent. A city that cares for its poor and helpless, its children and
dumb animals, that encourages art and learning, and never wearies in
its prosecution of evil-doers--that city will eventually emerge
triumphant from every cloud of evil report. Long live the dear city by
the Golden Gate!
MARSHALL SAUNDERS, July, 1909.
"Senor Barrow, I congratulate you," Morale said, in his native tongue.
"A woman who cannot be won away by passion or by chance, is a
woman of gold."
GERTRUDE B. MILLARD,
in On the Ciudad Road, The
Newsletter, Jan., 1899.
AT THE PRESIDIO OF SAN FRANCISCO.
The rose and honey-suckle here entwine
In lovely comradeship their
am'rous arms;
Here grasses spread their undecaying charms.
And

every wall is eloquent with vine;
Far-reaching avenues make
beckoning sign,
And as we stroll along their tree-lined way,
The
songster trills his rapture-breathing lay
From where he finds
inviolable shrine.
And yet, within this beauty-haunted place
War
keeps his dreadful engines at command.
With scarce a smile upon his
frowning face,
And