maelstrom of abysmal fire,
To be of man beheld on earth no more?
Her loyal children, cheery to the core.
Quailed not, nor blenched, while she, above the ire
Of elemental ragings, dared aspire
On victory's wings resplendently to soar.
What matters all the losses of the years,
Since she can count the subjects as her own
That share her fortunes under every fate;
Who weave their brightest tissues from her tears,
And who, although her best be overthrown,
Resolve to make her and to keep her great.

EDWARD ROKESON TAYLOR,
in _Sunset Magazine._

APRIL 21.

They could hear the roar and crackle of the fire and the crashing of
walls; but even more formidable was that tramping of thousands of
feet, the scraping of trunks and furniture on the tracks and stones. *
* * It was a well and a carefully dressed crowd, for by this time
nearly everyone had recovered from the shock of the earthquake; many
forgotten it, no doubt, in the new horror. * * * They pushed trunks to
which skates had been attached, or pulled them by ropes; they trundled
sewing machines and pieces of small furniture, laden with bundles.
Many carried pillow-cases, into which they had stuffed a favorite
dress and hat, an extra pair of boots and a change of underclothing,
some valuable bibelot or bundle of documents; to say nothing of their
jewels and what food they could lay hands on. Several women wore their
furs, as an easier way of saving them, and children carried their
dolls. Their state of mind was elemental. * * * The refinements of
sentiment and all complexity were forgotten; they indulged in nothing
so futile as complaint, nor even conversation. And the sense of the
common calamity sustained them, no doubt, de-individualized them for
the hour.

GERTRUDE ATHERTON,
in _Ancestors._

APRIL 22.

The sun is dying; space and room.
Serenity, vast sense of rest,
Lie bosomed in the orange west
Of Orient waters. Hear the boom
Of long, strong billows; wave on wave,
Like funeral guns above a grave.

JOAQUIN MILLER,
in _Collected Poems._

APRIL 23.

SAN FRANCISCO.
IN CHRISTMAS TWILIGHT, 1898.

In somber silhouette, against a golden sky,
Francisco's city sits as sunbeams die.
The serrated hills her throne; the ocean laves her feet:
Her jeweled crown the Western zephyrs greet;
Their breath is fragrance, sweet as wreath of bride,
In winter season as at summer tide.

AFTER APRIL 18, 1