The California Birthday Book | Page 8

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 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