o look
eagerly for our first flowers.

MARY ELIZABETH PARSONS,
in _The Wild Flowers of California._

NOVEMBER 4.

In basketry the Pomo Indians of California found an outlet for the
highest conceptions of art that their race was capable of. Protected
by their isolation from other tribes, they worked out their ideas
undisturbed--with every incentive for excellence they had reached a
height in basketry when the American first disturbed them which has
never been equaled--not only by no other Indian tribe, but by no other
people in the world in any age. These stolid Indian women have a
knowledge of materials and their preparation, a delicacy of touch, an
artistic conception of symmetry, of form and design, a versatility in
varying and inventing beautiful designs, and an eye for color, which
place their work on a high plane of art.

CARL PURDY,
in _Out West._

NOVEMBER 5.

WHEN IT RAINS IN CALIFORNY.

When it rains in Californy
It makes the tourist mad,
But folks that's got the crops to raise
Is feelin' mighty glad;
I stand out in the showers,
Wet as a drownded rat,
And watch the grain a-growin',
And the cattle gettin' fat.

Sorry for them Easterners,
Kickin' like Sam Hill,
But the sun-kissed land is thirsty
And wants to drink its fill.
Oh, hear the poppies laughin',
And the happy mockers sing,
When it rains in Californy,
Through the glory of the spring.

JOHN S. McGROARTY,
in _Just California._

NOVEMBER 6.

The broad valley had darkened. The mountains opposite had lost their
sharp details and dulled to an opaque silver blue in the mists of
twilight. They had become great shadow mountains, broad spirit masses,
and seemed to melt imperceptibly from form to form toward the
horizon....

There had come a harmony more perfect than life could ever give. It
included all their love that had gone before and something greater,
vaster--all life, all nature, and all God.

HAROLD S. SYMMES,
in _The Divine Benediction, Putnam's, Oct._, 1906.

NOVEMBER 7.

AFTER THE RAIN.

"Sweet fields stand dressed in living green,"
That late were brown and bare.
The twitter of the calling birds
With music fills the air.

Was ever sky so heavenly blue--
"Clear shining after rain!"
Was ever wind so soft and pure,
To breathe away our pain!

Oh, roses white, and roses red,
Your fragrant leaves unfold!
Oh, lily, li