his eyes
No man is ever old,
With all this wealth to fill his purse
No one need lack for gold.

O rare Ben Jonson, you should see
The draught that I may sup:
How sweet the drink, her kiss within.
The poppy's golden cup.

My lowly queen, I bow to thee
And worship with my soul:
I hope to drink her love from out
The poppy's golden bowl.

Look up, my sweet, and catch my words,
A secret I would tell:
I think I hear her "Yes" ring from
The poppy's golden bell.

CHARLES McKNIGHT SAIN,
in _Sunset, August_, 1908.

AUGUST 20.

Flowering vines overhung, climbed and clung about the balcony pillars
and balustrades. Roses drooped in heavy-headed cascades from
second-story railings; the wide purple flowers of the clematis climbed
aloft. On one wall a heliotrope broke in lavender foam and the creamy
froth of the Banksia rose dabbled railings and pillars and dripped
over on to the ground. It was a big, cool, friendly looking house with
a front door that in summer was always open, giving the approaching
visitor a hospitable glimpse of an airy, unencumbered hall.

GERALDINE BONNER,
in _The Pioneer._

AUGUST 21.

A DREAM OF POPPIES.

Brown hills long parched, long lifting to the blue
Of summer's brilliant sky but russet hue
Of sere grass shivering in the trade-wind's sweep.
Soon, with light footfalls, from their tranced sleep
The first rains bid the poppies rise anew,
And trills the lark exultant summons, too.
How swift at Fancy's beck those gay crowds leap
To glowing life! The eager green leaves creep
For welcome first; then hooded buds, pale gold,
Each tender shower and sun-kiss help unfold
Till smiling hosts crowd all the fields, and still
A yellow sea of poppies breasts each hill
And breaks in joyous floods as children hold
Glad hands the lavish cups as gladly fill!

ELLA M. SEXTON,
in _The Golden Poppy._

AUGUST 22.

CALIFORNIA.

Her poppies fling a cloth of gold
O'er California's hills--
Fit emblem of the wealth untold
That hill and dale and plain unfold.
Her fame the whole world fills.

ELIZA D. KEITH.

_How can one convey meaning to another in a language_ which that
other does not understand? I can only tell you the charm of the
desert, when you, too, have learned to love it. And then there will be
no need for me to speak.

IDAH MEACHAM STROBRIDGE,
in _Miner's Mirage Land._