ere entwine
In lovely comradeship their am'rous arms;
Here grasses spread their undecaying charms.
And every wall is eloquent with vine;
Far-reaching avenues make beckoning sign,
And as we stroll along their tree-lined way,
The songster trills his rapture-breathing lay
From where he finds inviolable shrine.
And yet, within this beauty-haunted place
War keeps his dreadful engines at command.
With scarce a smile upon his frowning face,
And ever ready, unrelaxing hand ...
We start to see, when dreaming in these bowers,
A tiger sleeping on a bed of flowers.

EDWARD ROBESON TAYLOR,
in _Moods and Other Verse._

MARCH 1.

THE CITY'S VOICE.

A mighty undertone of mingled sound;
The cadent tumult rising from a throng
Of urban workers, blending in a song
Of greater life that makes the pulses bound.
The whirr of turning wheels, the hammers' ring
The noise of traffic and the tread of men,
The viol's sigh, the scratching of a pen--
All to a vibrant Whole their echoes fling.
Hark to the City's voice; it tells a tale
Of triumphs and defeats, of joy and woe,
The lover's tryst, the challenge of a foe,
A dying gasp, a new-born infant's wail.
The pulse-beats of a million hearts combined,
Reverberating in a rhythmic thrill--
A vital message that is never still--
A sweeping, cosmic chorus, unconfined.

LOUIS J. STELLMANN,
in _San Francisco Town Talk, December_ 6, 1902.

MARCH 2.

From his windows on Russian Hill one saw always something strange and
suggestive creeping through the mists of the bay. It would be a South
Sea Island brig, bringing in copra, to take out cottons and idols; a
Chinese junk after sharks' livers; an old whaler, which seemed to drip
oil, home from a year of cruising in the Arctic. Even the tramp
windjammers were deep-chested craft, capable of rounding the Horn or
of circumnavigating the globe; and they came in streaked and
picturesque from their long voyaging.

WILL IRWIN,
in _The City That Was._

MARCH 3.

WILD HONEY.

The swarms that escape from their careless owners have a weary,
perplexing time of it in seeking suitable homes. Most of them make
their way to the foot-hills of the mountains, or to the trees that
line the banks of the rivers, where some hollow log or trunk may be
found. A friend of mine, while out hunting on the San Joaquin, came
upon an old coon trap, hidden among some tall grass, n