906.

Clothed with sack-cloth, strewn with ashes,
Seated on a desolate throne
'Mid the spectral walls of stately domes
And the skeletons of regal homes,
Francisco weeps while westward thrashes
Through the wrecks of mansions, stricken prone
By the rock of earth and sweep of flame
Which, unheralded and unbidden, came
In the greatness of her pride full-blown
And at the zenith of her matchless fame.

TALIESIN EVANS.

APRIL 24.

And let it be remembered that whatever San Francisco, her citizens and
her lovers, do now or neglect to do in this present regeneration will
be felt for good or ill to remotest ages. Let us build and rebuild
accordingly, bearing in mind that the new San Francisco is to stand
forever before the world as the measure of the civic taste and
intelligence of her people.

HUBERT HOWE BANCROFT,
in _Some Cities and San Francisco._

APRIL 25.

SAN FRANCISCO.

Queen regnant she, and so shall be for aye
As long as her still unpolluted sea
Shall wash the borders of her brave and free,
And mother her incomparable Bay.
The pharisees and falsehood-mongers may
Be rashly blatant as they care to be,
She yet with dauntless, old-time liberty
Will hold her own indomitable way.
A Royal One, all love and heart can bear.
The all of strength that human arm can wield.
Are thine devotedly, and ever thine;
And thou wilt use them till thy brow shall wear
A newer crown by high endeavor sealed
With gems emitting brilliances divine.

EDWARD ROBESON TAYLOR,
in _Sunset Magazine._

APRIL 26.

Until a man paints with the hope or with the wish to stir the minds of
his fellows to better thinking and their hearts to better living, or
to make some creature happier or wiser, he has not understood the
meaning of art.

W.L. JUDSON,
in _The Building of a Picture._

CALIFORNIA ON THE PASSING OF TENNYSON.

All silent ... So, he lies in state ...
Our redwoods drip and drip with rain ...
Against our rock-locked Golden Gate
We hear the great, sad, sobbing main.
But silent all ... He passed the stars
That year the whole world turned to Mars.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

APRIL 27 AND 28.

In ended days, a child, I trod thy sands,
The sands unbuilded, rank with brush and brier
And blossom--chased the sea-foam on thy strands,
Young city of my love and my desire!
I saw thy barren