s given to us many fine paintings, vestments and
a chime of sweetest bells. How we long to hear them calling out over
the sea of vast silence, turning the white quiet into coral hues of
deeper thrill! The church bells singing to the people of Al-lak-shak,
recall the wandering Padres' labors among your thousands here in
California. Those who cannot understand the great words of the
teachers may look upon the beauteous pictures of the Madonna and the
Child; all can understand that love.

MRS. A.S.C. FORBES,
in _Mission Tales in the Days of the Dons._

JUNE 8.

JUNE. (IN CALIFORNIA.)

Oh June! thou comest once again
With bales of hay and sheaves of grain,
That make the farmer's heart rejoice,
And anxious herds lift up their voice.
I hear thy promise, sunny maid,
Sound in the reapers' ringing blade.
And in the laden harvest wain
That rumbles through the stubble plain.
Ye tell a tale of bearded stacks.
Of busy mills and floury sacks,
Of cars oppressed with cumbrous loads,
Hard curving down their iron roads
Of vessels speeding to the breeze.
Their snowy sails in stormy seas.
While bearing to some foreign land
The products of this Golden Strand.

PALMER COX,
in _Comic Yarns._

JUNE 9.

MADAME MODJESKA'S DEVOTION TO THE CATHOLIC CHURCH.

During the hey-day of A.P.A.-ism in this section, Madame Modjeska
returned from a triumphant tour and played for a week in Los Angeles.
* * * She selected as her principal piece--Mary Stuart. * * * At the
final scene of the play, as Mary Stuart passes out to her execution,
Modjeska in the title-role held us spellbound by the intense emotions
of the situation. The sight of her beautiful face, upturned to heaven,
showing the expression of the zeal and fervor of her Catholic heart,
was intensified by the manner in which she carried the crucifix and
rosary in her hand, and was the last glimpse of her as she disappeared
from the stage. There was a thrill passed over the audience, which had
its effect, not only upon the unbeliever, but likewise upon the
pusillanimous member of the church.

JOSEPH SCOTT,
in _The Tidings._

JUNE 10.

The Mission floor was with weeds o'ergrown,
And crumbling and shaky its walls of stone;
Its roof of tiles, in tiers on tiers,
Had stood the storms of a hundred years.
An olden, weird, medieval style
Clung to the mouldering, gloomy pile,
And the rhythmic voice of the breaking waves