everywhere, at frequent intervals the livelong
day. He is one of the blessings of this land, one which every lover of
beautiful song welcomes as heartily as the ordinary mortal the warm,
bright days of this climate.

CHARLES FRANKLIN CARTER,
in _Some By-Ways of California._

SEPTEMBER 21.

THE MEADOW LARK AND I.

The song of life is living
The love-heart of the year;
And the pagan meadow-lark and I
Can nothing find to fear.
We build our simple homes
For opulence of rest
Among the hills and the meadow grass,
And sing our grateful best.

RUBY ARCHER.

SEPTEMBER 22.

THE RUBY-CROWNED KNIGHT.

The dominant characteristic of the Ruby-Crown is subtlety. He conceals
his nest, and even his nest-building region, so successfully that few
there are who know where he breeds, or who ever find his nest, hidden
in the shaggy end of a high, swinging branch of spruce or pine, deep in
the California mountain recesses. His prettiest trick of concealement
is the way he alternately hides and reveals the bright red feathers in
his crown. You may watch him a long time, seeing only a wee bit of an
olive-green bird, toned with dull yellow underneath, marked on wings
and about the eyes with white; but suddenly, a more festive mood comes
upon him. The bird is transformed. A jaunty dash of brilliant red
upcrests itself upon his head, lighting up his quiet dress.... For
several moments this flame of color quivers, then it burns into a mere
thread of red and is gone.

VIRGINIA GARLAND,
in _Feathered Californians._

SEPTEMBER 23.

SONG OF THE LINNETS.

"Cheer!" "Cheer!" sing the linnets
Through rapturous minutes,
When daylight first breaks
And the golden Dawn streaks
Through the rose of the morning--so bright!
"Gone! gone is the Night! It is light!"

"We have buried our heads
Under eaves of the sheds,
Where our tender broods sleep;
And the long watch we keep
Through the darkness and silence--till dawn.
It is morn! It is morn! It is morn!"

JOHN WARD STIMSON,
in _Wandering Chords._

SEPTEMBER 24.

THE HUMMING BIRD.

Buz-z! whir-r!--a flash and away!
A midget bejeweled mid flowers at play!
A snip of a birdling, the blossom-bells' king,
A waif of the sun-beams on quivering wing!
O prince of the fairies, O pygmy of fire,
Will nothing those brave little wings of yours tire?
You follow the flowers from southern lands sunny,
You pr