The California Birthday Book Part 8

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 pa.s.s 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 s.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sion 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 comrades.h.i.+p their am'rous arms; Here gra.s.ses 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 ever ready, unrelaxing hand ...

We start to see, when dreaming in these bowers, A tiger sleeping on a bed of flowers.

EDWARD ROBESON TAYLOR, in _Moods and Other Verse._

MARCH 1.

THE CITY'S VOICE.

A mighty undertone of mingled sound; The cadent tumult rising from a throng Of urban workers, blending in a song Of greater life that makes the pulses bound.

The whirr of turning wheels, the hammers' ring The noise of traffic and the tread of men, The viol's sigh, the scratching of a pen-- All to a vibrant Whole their echoes fling.

Hark to the City's voice; it tells a tale Of triumphs and defeats, of joy and woe, The lover's tryst, the challenge of a foe, A dying gasp, a new-born infant's wail.

The pulse-beats of a million hearts combined, Reverberating in a rhythmic thrill-- A vital message that is never still-- A sweeping, cosmic chorus, unconfined.

LOUIS J. STELLMANN, in _San Francisco Town Talk, December_ 6, 1902.

MARCH 2.

From his windows on Russian Hill one saw always something strange and suggestive creeping through the mists of the bay. It would be a South Sea Island brig, bringing in copra, to take out cottons and idols; a Chinese junk after sharks' livers; an old whaler, which seemed to drip oil, home from a year of cruising in the Arctic. Even the tramp windjammers were deep-chested craft, capable of rounding the Horn or of circ.u.mnavigating the globe; and they came in streaked and picturesque from their long voyaging.

WILL IRWIN, in _The City That Was._

MARCH 3.

WILD HONEY.

The swarms that escape from their careless owners have a weary, perplexing time of it in seeking suitable homes. Most of them make their way to the foot-hills of the mountains, or to the trees that line the banks of the rivers, where some hollow log or trunk may be found. A friend of mine, while out hunting on the San Joaquin, came upon an old c.o.o.n trap, hidden among some tall gra.s.s, near the edge of the river, upon which he sat down to rest. Shortly afterward his attention was attracted to a crowd of angry bees that were flying excitedly about his head, when he discovered that he was sitting upon their hive, which was found to contain more than 200 pounds of honey.

JOHN MUIR, in _The Mountains of California._

MARCH 4.

PHOSPh.o.r.eSCENT SEA WAVES, BALBOA BEACH, CAL.

Responsive to my oar and hand, Touching to glory sea and sand.

A glint, a sparkle, a flash, a flame, An ecstasy above all name.

What art thou, strange, mysterious flame?

Art thou some flash of central fire, So pure and strong thou wilt not expire Tho' plunged in ocean's seething main?

Mayest thou not be that sacred flame, Creative, moulding, purging fire.

Aspiring, abandoning all desire Shaping perfection from Life's pain?

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

MARCH 5.

THE JOY OF THE HILLS.

I ride on the mountain tops, I ride; I have found my life and am satisfied.

I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget Life's h.o.a.rd of regret-- All the terror and pain Of the chafing chain.