new,
bit by bit, here a feather and there a feather, today a new
wing-quill; tomorrow a new plume on his dainty breast.

OLIVE THORNE MILLER.

AUGUST 9.

CHILDREN IN A CALIFORNIA GARDEN.

Legendry and literature may be taught to your children in the garden.
Tell them the pretty story of how Cupid's mother gave the rose its
thorns; the tale of the sensitive plant; and point out to them the
equipment of the cacti for their strange, hard life on the desert; the
lovely human faces filled with the sweetness of remembrance that we
find in the pansy bed. Show them the delight of the swift-flying
hummingbird in the red and yellow blossoms of the garden, and the
sagacity of the oriole in building his nest near the lantana bush--so
attractive to the insects upon which the scamp feeds.

BELLE SUMNER ANGIER,
in _The Garden Book of California._

AUGUST 10.

ON JOAQUIN MILLER.

Sierra's poet! high and pure thy muse
Enthroned doth sit amongst the stars and snows;
And from thy harp olympian music flows,
Of glacier heights and gleaming mountain dews.
Of western sea and burning sunset hues.
And we who look up--who on the plain repose,
And catch faint glimpses of the mount that throws
Athwart thy poet-sight diviner views.
And not alone from starry shrine is strung
Thy lyre, but timed to gentler lay,
That sings of children, motherhood and home,
And lifts our hearts and lives to sweeter day.
Oh, bard of Nature's heart! thy name will rest
Immortal in thy land--our Golden West!

DORA CURETON,
in _Sunset Magazine._

AUGUST 11.

THE PESSIMIST.

The pessimist leads us into a land of desolation. He makes for the
sight blossoms of ugliness; for the smell repellant odors; for the
taste bitterness and gall; for the hearing harsh discord, and death
for the touch that is the only relief from a desert whose scrawny life
lives but to distress us.

ABBOTT KINNEY,
in _Tasks By Twilight._

The leaves of the wild gourd, lying in great star shaped patches on
the ground, drooped on their stems, and the spikes of dusty white sage
by the road hung limp at the ends, and filled the air with their
wilted fragrance. The sea-breeze did not come up, and in its stead
gusts of hot wind from the north swept through the valley as if from
the door of a furnace.

MARGARET COLLIER GRAHAM,
in _Stories of the Foothills._

AUGUST 12.

ENTICEMENT.

Then haste, sweet April Dear.
Tho