ear the edge of
the river, upon which he sat down to rest. Shortly afterward his
attention was attracted to a crowd of angry bees that were flying
excitedly about his head, when he discovered that he was sitting upon
their hive, which was found to contain more than 200 pounds of honey.

JOHN MUIR,
in _The Mountains of California._

MARCH 4.

PHOSPHORESCENT SEA WAVES, BALBOA BEACH, CAL.

Responsive to my oar and hand,
Touching to glory sea and sand.
A glint, a sparkle, a flash, a flame,
An ecstasy above all name.
What art thou, strange, mysterious flame?
Art thou some flash of central fire,
So pure and strong thou wilt not expire
Tho' plunged in ocean's seething main?
Mayest thou not be that sacred flame,
Creative, moulding, purging fire.
Aspiring, abandoning all desire
Shaping perfection from Life's pain?

MARY RUSSELL MILLS,
in _Fellowship Magazine._

MARCH 5.

THE JOY OF THE HILLS.

I ride on the mountain tops, I ride;
I have found my life and am satisfied.

* * * * *

I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget
Life's hoard of regret--
All the terror and pain
Of the chafing chain.
Grind on, O cities, grind;
I leave you a blur behind.

I am lifted elate--the skies expand;
Here the world's heaped gold is a pile of sand.
Let them weary and work in their narrow walls;
I ride with the voices of waterfalls!

I swing on as one in a dream; I swing
Down the airy hollows, I shout, I sing!
The world is gone like an empty word;
My body's a bough in the wind, my heart a bird.

EDWIN MARKHAM,
in _The Man with a Hoe, and Other Poems._

MARCH 6.

We move about these streets of San Francisco in cars propelled by
electric energy created away yonder on the Tuolumne River in the
foothills of the Sierras; we sit at home and read by a light furnished
from the same distant source. How splendid it all is--the swiftly
flowing cascades of the Sierra Nevadas are being harnessed like
beautiful white horses, tireless and ageless, to draw the chariots
of industry around this Bay.

CHARLES REYNOLDS BROWN.

MARCH 7.

BACK, BACK TO NATURE.

Weary! I am weary of the madness of the town,
Deathly weary of all women, and all wine.
Back, back to Nature! I will go and lay me down,
Bleeding lay me down before her shrine.
For the mother-breast the hungry babe must c