raight
by line and shooting salutes at people. On come them Imperial Navy of
Hon. Roosevelt and Hon. Hobson; what heart could quit beating at it?
Such white paint--like bath tub enamel, only more respectful in
appearance. * * *

From collected 1/2 million of persons on hills of S.F. one mad yell of
star-spangly joy. Fire-crack salute, siren whistle, honk-horn,
megaphone, extra edition, tenor solo--all connected together to give
impressions of loyal panderonium.

WALLACE IRWIN,
in _Letters of a Japanese Schoolboy._

FEBRUARY 21.

CALIFORNIA TO THE FLEET.

Behold, upon thy yellow sands,
I wait with laurels in my hands.
The Golden Gate swings wide and there
I stand with poppies in my hair.
Come in, O ships! These happy seas
Caressed the golden argosies
Of forty-nine. They felt the keel
Of dark Ayala's pinnace steal
Across the mellow gulf and pass
Unchallenged, under Alcatraz.
Not War we love, but Peace, and these
Are but the White Dove's argosies--
The symbols of a mighty will
No tyrant hand may use for ill.

DANIEL S. RICHARDSON,
in _Trail Dust._

FEBRUARY 22.

The splendors of a Sierra sunset cannot be accurately delineated by
pencil or brush. The combined pigments of a Hill and a Moran and a
Bierstadt cannot adequately reproduce so gorgeous a canvas. The
lingering sun floods all the west with flame; it touches with scarlet
tint the serrated outlines of the distant summits and hangs with
golden fringe each silvery cloud. Then the colors soften and turn into
amber and lilac and maroon. These soon assimilate and dissolve and
leave an ashes of rose haze on all far-away objects, when receding
twilight spreads its veil and shuts from view all but the mountain
outlines, the giant taxodiums and the fantastic fissures of the
canyons beneath.

BEN C. TRUMAN,
in _Occidental Sketches._

FEBRUARY 23.

GOLDEN GATE PARK IN MIDWINTER.

The dewdrops hang on the bending grass,
A dragon-fly cuts a sunbeam through.
The moaning cypress trees lift somber arms
Up to skies of cloudless blue.
A humming-bird sips from a golden cup,
In the hedge a hidden bird sings,
And a butterfly among the flowers
Tells me that the soul has wings.

GRACE HIBBARD,
in _Wild Roses of California._

FEBRUARY 24.

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will
flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their
own fre