The California Birthday Book Part 44

DECEMBER 8.

To a little camp of 1848 a lad of sixteen came one day, footsore, weary, hungry, and penniless. There were thirty robust and cheerful miners at work in the ravine; and the lad sat on the bank, watching them awhile in silence, his face telling the sad story of his fortunes. At last one stalwart miner spoke to his fellows, saying:

"Boys, I'll work an hour for that chap if you will."

At the end of the hour a hundred dollars' worth of gold dust was laid in the youth's handkerchief. The miners made out a list of tools and necessaries.

"You go," they said, "and buy these, and come back. We'll have a good claim staked out for you. Then you've got to paddle for yourself."

Thus genuine and unconventional was the hospitality of the mining-camp.

CHARLES HOWARD s.h.i.+NN, in __Mining Camps._

DECEMBER 9.

Down in the gulch bottoms were the old placer diggings. Elaborate little ditches for the deflection of water, long cradles for the separation of gold, decayed rockers, and s.h.i.+ning in the sun the tons and tons of pay dirt which had been turned over pound by pound in the concentrating of its treasure. Some of the old cabins still stood. It was all deserted now, save for the few who kept trail for the freighters, or who tilled the restricted bottom lands of the flats.

Road-runners racked away down the paths; squirrels scurried over worn-out placers, jays screamed and chattered in and out of the abandoned cabins. And the warm California sun embalmed it all in a peaceful forgetfulness.

STEWART EDWARD WHITE, in _The Mountains._

DECEMBER 10.

G.o.d IS EVERYWHERE.

Under the gra.s.s, the flowers, and the sod Go deep enough and you will find G.o.d.

The royal red-gold of the sunset glow A veil for His unseen face doth show.

And all the star-cool vastnesses of night Still hide Him not from the Spirit's sight.

I will see Him in all, I will trust Him in all, I will love but the G.o.d, to the G.o.d will I call.

Till G.o.d, full and perfect, every soul shall reveal, And G.o.d's glorious purpose each life shall fulfill; Till the earth showeth whole, without break, without seam, Till G.o.d's truth and G.o.d's beauty stand clear and supreme.

MARY RUSSELL MILLS, in _Fellows.h.i.+p Magazine._

DECEMBER 11.

THE KILLING OF THE DEVIL, AS TOLD IN THE LANGUEDOC FOLK-TALE OF THE THREE STRONG MEN.

Oh! that was a desperate struggle--terrific and horrible to see! The devil shrieked and howled; he scratched and bit; while Crowbar, dumb and purple in the face, gave telling blows with his fists. He could not strike the devil's head, because of the horns, and he could not grab his body, because it was so sleek and slimy. At length the devil's strength gave out. Crowbar siezed him by the throat, threw him on his back, put a knee upon his breast, and, with the cane in his right hand, gave him a blow between the horns that split his head in two. But he died hard. His head was split open, yet he was struggling, whipping the ground with his tail, and foaming at the mouth. At last he was still.

SAMUEL JACQUES BRUN, in _Tales of Languedoc._

DECEMBER 12.

FROM "AFTER HEARING PARSIFAL."

The century new announces, "Victory!"-- Through Music's witchery o'er Sin and h.e.l.l Man is redeemed. The Christ is here! The Soul Now claims its own! Nor hope nor fear Nor prayer nor hunger now, for lo! 'tis here, The expected Kingdom--G.o.d's and Man's! 'Tis here!

Day-dawn has come! The world-wide quest is o'er!

The Grail was never lost! 'Twas folded safe Within the petals of my heart, and thou Enchanter wise, reveal'st to me, my Self!

HENRY HARRISON BROWN, in _Now, May_, 1904.

DECEMBER 13.

THE VOICE OF THE SNOW.

Silently flying through the darkened air, swirling, glinting, to their appointed places, they seem to have taken counsel together, saying, "Come, we are feeble; let us help one another. We are many, and together we will be strong. Marching in close, deep ranks, let us roll away the stones from these mountain sepulchers, and set the landscape free. Let us uncover these cl.u.s.tering domes. Here let us carve a lake basin; there a Yosemite Valley; here, a channel for a river with fluted steps and brows for the plunge of songful cataracts. Yonder let us spread broad sheets of soil, that man and beast may be fed; and here pile trains of boulders for pines and giant sequoias. Here make ground for a meadow; there for a garden and grove."

JOHN MUIR, in _The Mountains of California._

DECEMBER 14.

It was winter in San Francisco--not the picturesque winter of the North or South, but a mild and intermediate season, as if the great zones had touched hands, and earth were glad of the friendly feeling.

There is no breath from a cold Atlantic to chill the ardor of these thoughts. Our great, tranquil ocean lies in majesty to the west. It can fume and fret, but it does so in reason. It does not lash and storm in vain.

FRANCES CHARLES, in _The Siege of Youth._

May the tangling of suns.h.i.+ne and roses never cease upon your path until after the snows of Winter have covered your way with whiteness.

MARTIN V. MERLE, in _The Vagabond Prince, Act IV._

DECEMBER 15.

It was one of those wonderful warm winter days given to San Francisco instead of the spring she has never experienced. After a week's rain the sun shone out of a sky as warmly blue as late spring brings in other climates. The world seemed in a very rapture of creation. The bay below the garden, new washed and sparkling like a pale emerald, spread gaily out, and the city's streets terraced down to meet it. The peculiar delicacy and richness of California roses coaxed by the softness of the climate to live out-doors sent up a perfume that hot-house flowers cannot yield. The turf was of a thick, healthy, wet green, teeming with life. The hills beyond were green as summer in California cannot make them, and off to the west against the tender sky the cross on Lone Mountain was etched.