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"THE CHILDREN'S STATUE OF THE PIONEER MOTHER' 
 "The only church we knew was 
 around our mother's knees." 
 
 — Stephen M. White. 
 See Page 353 
 Photo by H. E. Poehlman 
 
ELLA STERLING MIGHELS 
 
 The Gatherer of "Literary California. 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 POETRY PROSE and 
 PORTRAITS 
 
 Gathered by 
 
 ELLA STERLING MIGHELS 
 
 Author of the "Story of the Files," "Full Glory of 
 Diantha," "Little Mountain Princess," "Society and 
 Babe Robinson," "Fairy Tale of the White Man." 
 
 Westward the star of empire takes its way: 
 
 The first four acts already past, 
 A fifth shall close the drama with the day: 
 Time's noblest offering is the last. 
 
 — Berkeley. 
 
 HARR WAGNER PUBLISHING CO. 
 
 San Francisco, California 
 
 1918 
 

 Copyright 1918 
 Harr Wagner Publishing Co. 
 
 DEC IS 1918 
 
 rf)CI.A5()8588 
 
 AH / 
 
CONTENTS 7 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Frontispiece 3 
 
 Portrait of the Gatherer 4 
 
 The Children's Statue of the Pioneer Mother 3 
 
 Dedication 17 
 
 California "49" 18 
 
 Introduction 19 
 
 Foreword 32 
 
 For January 
 
 The Spirit of Youth Thomas F. Flynn 33 
 
 My New Year's Guests Rollin Mallory Daggett 34 
 
 Tavernier's Indian Girl , Jerome A. Hart 36 
 
 Old California Joaquin Miller 36 
 
 Galaxy 1 — Poets and Prose-Writers : 37 
 
 Galaxy 2 — Poets and Prose-Writers 38 
 
 Just as the New Year Was Dawning Elizabeth McGrath 39 
 
 California Anna Catherine Markham 39 
 
 The Golden Gate Madge Morris 39 
 
 A SiGNificANT Crisis in the West Chester Rowell 40 
 
 Poetic Art Edward Robeson Taylor 41 
 
 The Death of Poetry James W. Foley 42 
 
 The New Poetry George Douglas 42 
 
 The Poet-Touch Clarence Urmy 43 
 
 Poetry Edwin Markham 43 
 
 The Poet Lorenzo Sosso 43 
 
 Indirection Richard Realf 44 
 
 Mining and Poetry Richard Edward White 45 
 
 Re-Discovering the World Benjamin Ide Wheeler 46 
 
 Sonnet — To Mrs. Hearst The Gatherer 46 
 
 A Tribute to George Hamlin Fitch Charles Mills Gayley 47 
 
 A Literary Light of the Early Days 
 
 Mary V. Tingley Lawrence 48 
 
 A Tribute to Marshall N. J. Bird 50 
 
 What Is Education? Mrs. M. M. Bay 50 
 
 The Little Red School House of the Early Days 
 
 Sarah Connell 50 
 
 A Matter of Importance S. Hartman 52 
 
 A Brief But Ineffectual Radiance Bret Harte 52 
 
 An Editor on Figures of Speech William H. Mills 53 
 
 Sutro Forest The Gatherer 54 
 
 Practicality Versus Romance Adelaide J. Holmes Bausman 54 
 
 The Great Panorama A. E. 55 
 
 The Gray Road of Sorrow John Steven McGroarty 55 
 
 A Toast to Authors Charles Henry Webb 56 
 
 One of the Traditions to Be Handed Down The Gatherer 56 
 
 Rondeau Ella M. Sexton 57 
 
 William Keith Ina Coolbrith 57 
 
 A Word of Praise Kenneth Campbell 58 
 
 Short Histories of Things Thomas Nunan 58 
 
 Old Ballad of the Pioneers — Home Again 59 
 
8 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 For February 
 
 The Phantom Fleet in Panama Lillian H. S. Bailey 60 
 
 Valley Forge — Then and Now Bailey Millard 61 
 
 The Pioneer Henry T. Fee 62 
 
 Abraham Lincoln Joseph Thompson Goodman 63 
 
 The Liberty for Which Washington Stood 
 
 Samuel M. Shortridge 64 
 
 Religious Liberty Nathan Newmark 65 
 
 Benefits of the Midwinter Exposition M. H. DeYoung 66 
 
 February Twentieth, 1915 Edward H. Hamilton 68 
 
 A Chinese Symphony Thomas Nunan 70 
 
 Galaxy 3 — Poets and Prose- Writers 71 
 
 Galaxy 4 — Poets and Prose-Writers 72 
 
 Sonnet to Robert I. Aitken George Sterling 74 
 
 On Hearing Kelley's Music of Macbeth Ina Coolbrith 74 
 
 A Temple of Culture in Sacramento The Gatherer 75 
 
 Mission Dolores George H. Barron 77 
 
 The Naming of the Golden Gate John P. Young 78 
 
 About the Old Golden Era The Gatherer 79 
 
 Lost Treasure Mary Austin 80 
 
 In Memory of Verdi James D. Phelan 80 
 
 A Star in the Chaos Edwin Markham 83 
 
 Matchless Yo Semite Fred Emerson Brooks 84 
 
 The Great Panorama A. E. 84 
 
 Our Fair Southland Eliza A. Otis 85 
 
 A Song of Slavianka.. Honoria R. P. Tuomey 85 
 
 To My Parents Maurice V. Samuels 86 
 
 Couplet Lorenzo Sosso 86 
 
 For March 
 
 How the Clouds Come in Through the Golden Gate 
 
 Edward A. Pollock 87 
 
 Three Little Girls Charles Fayette McGlashan 88 
 
 Tree of Donner Lake Gilbert G. Weigle 
 
 Unveiling of the Donner Lake Monument 
 
 William D. Stephens 91 
 
 What the Donner Lake Monument Stands for 
 
 Clara K. Wittenmyer 90 
 
 The Maiden of Tamalpais Lillian H. S. Bailey 91 
 
 The Hymn of the Wind Howard V. Sutherland 92 
 
 The Father of San Francisco Zoeth S. Eldredge 94 
 
 Room to Turn 'Round In Joaquin Miller 95 
 
 To Joan London Merle Robbins Lampson 95 
 
 Sing Me a Ringing Anthem Daniel O'Connell 96 
 
 Words from a Jewish Rabbi Jacob Voorsanger 97 
 
 The Common-Sense of Childhood Margaret Collier Graham 97 
 
 Words of a Writer in 1885 Kate Waters 97 
 
 The Pioneer Herbert Bashford 98 
 
 How the Spring Comes in the High Sierras 
 
 Ella Sterling Mighels 99 
 
 No Flag But the Starry Banner John J. Barrett 99 
 
 The Exile Berton Braley 100 
 
 A Cycle Millicent Washburn Shinn 101 
 
 How San Francisco Was Named Francisco Palou 102 
 
 Bacchanale Waldemar Young 102 
 
CONTENTS 9 
 
 Let Me Arise and Away Edward Rowland Sill 103 
 
 Has Civilization Bettered the Lot of the Average Man? 
 
 .„ Jack London 103 
 
 Galaxy 5 — Poets and Prose-Writers 105 
 
 Galaxy 6 — Editors, Orators, Authors of Books 106 
 
 The Yo Semite Road Bailey Millard 107 
 
 Charles Warren Stoddard George Sterling 107 
 
 The Law of Antagonism Robert Wilson Murphy 108 
 
 The Great White City June Goodrich 109 
 
 A Beautiful Sight Noah Brooks 110 
 
 The Great Panorama A. E. 110 
 
 Broad Acres Make Up Countries Harry J. W. Dam 111 
 
 Chivalry and Culture in Early California 
 
 Sterling B. F. Clark 111 
 
 The Castle of Storm Lillian H. S. Bailey 112 
 
 For April 
 
 Prize Quatrain — California Lillian H. S. Bailey 113 
 
 Meadow Larks Ina Coolbrith 113 
 
 The Burning of San Francisco Joaquin Miller 114 
 
 The City Hall Statue... Louis J. Stellman 115 
 
 A Song of Spring, San Francisco 1908 Charles K. Field 117 
 
 The Promise of the Sowing Frank Norris 117 
 
 The Avitor William Henry Rhodes 118 
 
 San Francisco Howard V. Sutherland 119 
 
 Two Extracts from a Novel Flora Haines Loughead 119 
 
 A Batchelor's Button P. V. M. 122 
 
 The Great Panorama A. E. 122 
 
 A Ride in the Night Jerome A. Hart 123 
 
 First Meeting of Piutes and Whites 
 
 Sarah Winnemucca Hopkins 125 
 
 Mount Shasta William F. Burbank 125 
 
 California Anna Morrison Reed 125 
 
 California Meadow Larks Ella M. Sexton 126 
 
 An Easter Song Harriet M. Skidmore 126 
 
 Hopkins Institute Ina L. Cook 126 
 
 Word Painting Regarding Bubbs Creek Samuel D. Woods 127 
 
 Presentiment of Loss Merle Robbins Lampson 128 
 
 "Mort Sur Champ D'Honneur" Bartholomew Dowling 129 
 
 Walker of Nicaragua T. Robinson W t arren 129 
 
 Anecdote of the Disaster of 1906 The Gatherer 136 
 
 Sanctuary Helen Dare 131 
 
 Resurgam David Lesser Lezinsky 132 
 
 Her Poppies Fling a Cloth of Gold Eliza D. Keith 132 
 
 For May 
 
 Song of an Absent Son Gabriel Furlong Butler 133 
 
 Vale Richard Realf 134 
 
 Daniel O'Connell Louis Alexander Robertson 135 
 
 The Farewell The Gatherer 136 
 
 Galaxy 7 — Poets and Prose-Writers 137 
 
 Galaxy 8 — Editors and Publishers 138 
 
 The Mission Swallows at Carmel George Sterling 141 
 
 For These Unknown Charles Phillips 142 
 
 Why? P. V. M. 142 
 
 To My Father's Memory Agnes Tobin 143 
 
10 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Richard Edward White Edwin Robeson Taylor 143 
 
 The Voice of the Water in the Mountains 
 
 Charles Elmer Jenney 
 
 Emperor Norton I Fred Emerson Brooks 
 
 A Message from Emperor Norton I The Gatherer 
 
 Where Broderick Sleeps ...Jeremiah Lynch 
 
 Lone Mountain Louis A. Robertson 
 
 JUNIPERO SERRA AT THE GOLDEN GATE ..RlCHARD EDWARD WHITE 
 
 The Lily of Galilee's Water Patrick S. Dorney 
 
 California to the Fleet Daniel S. Richardson 
 
 In the Sierras Charles Warren Stoddard 
 
 Where a Philanthropist Sleeps The Gatherer 
 
 A Tribute to Mrs. Rebecca Lambert The Gatherer 
 
 The Great Panorama A. E. 
 
 The City of the Living Frank Alumbraugh 
 
 Mussel Slough Tragedy William C. Morrow 
 
 The Comet Charles Elmer Jenney 
 
 At Pollock's Grave Edward Robeson Taylor 
 
 Passing Away Charles Grissen 
 
 Angeline of Forest Hill .The Gatherer 
 
 My House in Order The Gatherer 
 
 Cupid in Sausalito David E. W. Williamson 
 
 The Pioneer Sarah B. Cooper 
 
 For June 
 
 When I Am Dead Elizabeth Chamberlain 
 
 Love's Slavery Is Sweet Carrie Stevens Walter 
 
 A Flight of Mark Twain's 
 
 A Sample of California Weather and Climate....Sarah Connell 
 
 Love Story of Concha Arguello John F. Davis 
 
 Early California a Land of Bachelorhood 
 
 Charles B. Turrill 
 
 Love is Dead Ella Sterling Mighels 
 
 An Idyl of Monterey Anna Cowan Sangster 
 
 The Love I Should Forget Richard Edward White 
 
 Love and Nature P. V. M. 
 
 Lines Written in the Tropics During a Voyage to California.. 
 
 Edward A. Pollock 
 
 A Tremendous Moment The Gatherer 
 
 Galaxy 9 — Poets, Prose- Writers and Divines 
 
 Galaxy TO— Orators, Editors and Prose-Writers ., 
 
 Love Anna Newbegin 
 
 Chivalry and Culture in Early California 
 
 Sterling B. F. Clark 
 
 The Harp of Broken Strings John Rollin Ridge 
 
 A Plainsman's Song P. V. M. 
 
 Song Florence Richmond 
 
 A Fierce Affection David Starr Jordan 
 
 I Hear Thy Voice Joseph D. Redding 
 
 The Prairie P. V. M. 
 
 The Twilight Porch John W. Overall 
 
 Amare E. Vivere Holly Dean 
 
 Song of Herrera thp: Raider George Homer Meyer 
 
 Ballad Henry A. Melvin 
 
 Life's Hopes L. A. G. 
 
 Forbidden Richard Lew Dawson 
 
 Sweetheart Ben Field 
 
CONTENTS 11 
 
 A Thought from Lilly O. Reichling Dyer 184 
 
 Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum Wallace Irwin 185 
 
 The Wedding Is Over 185 
 
 Morning John G. Jury 186 
 
 A Red, Red Heart A. E. 186 
 
 A Thought Charles Elmer Jenney 186 
 
 When Love Grows Too Observant Lorenzo Sosso 186 
 
 For July 
 
 Invocation Ambrose Bierce 187 
 
 The Simplicity of Tyranny Adley H. Cummins 189 
 
 The Civic Conscience Theodore Bonnet 191 
 
 Liberty's Bell Madge Morris Wagner 192 
 
 What Is a Republic Stephen M. White 194 
 
 Early California Ballad — The Maid of Monterey Anon 195 
 
 An Experience in the Philippines Albert Sonnichen 195 
 
 A California Sunset Arthur L. Price 197 
 
 The Sight of "Old Glory" to an Exile W. Kimball Briggs 197 
 
 Geographical 199 
 
 Lex Scripta Nathan Kouns 200 
 
 The Way of War Jack London 202 
 
 The Age of Oratory in California Edward F. Cahill 203 
 
 Sword Go Through the Land Clarence Urmy 206 
 
 The Coming of Liberty Adley H. Cummins 206 
 
 A Star Seen at Twilight John Rollin Ridge 210 
 
 What Is Our Country? Newton Booth 211 
 
 Makers of the Flag Franklin K. Lane 211 
 
 Here and There Edward DeWitt Taylor 212 
 
 Dream of a Slacker Sergeant Thomas Kleckner 213 
 
 God Bless Our Boys J. H. Lewin 214 
 
 For Our Soldiers Lawrence Kip 214 
 
 Napoleon's Dying Soldier Agnes S. Taylor 215 
 
 About Swords Lorenzo Sosso 215 
 
 The Great Panorama A. E. 216 
 
 Wars and Wishes George Douglas 216 
 
 The Little Lad Agnes Lee 216 
 
 For August 
 
 A Great Thought Never Dies Calvin B. McDonald 217 
 
 In a Hammock Kate M. Bishop 217 
 
 To Mrs. Jane Lathrop Stanford Alphonzo G. Newcomer 218 
 
 The Sequoias Charles Elmer Jenney 219 
 
 Alloyed Frank Rose Starr 220 
 
 Quail Charles Elmer Jenney 222 
 
 Bare Brown Hills Ella Higginson 221 
 
 Waiting for the Rain Sister Anna Raphael 221 
 
 The Crowning of Miss Coolbrith 222 
 
 Home Influence in Early California 
 
 Zoeth Skinner Eldredge 223 
 
 Pico Daniel S. Richardson 224 
 
 The Nations of the West John D. Barry 225 
 
 Muir of the Mountains Bailey Millard 226 
 
 The Memory of the Pioneers John F. Davis 226 
 
 About Languages .-...George Douglas 226 
 
 Port Townsend Leonard S. Clark 227 
 
 Driving the Last Spike Sarah Pratt Carr 227 
 
12 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 The First Ship to Enter San Francisco Bay 
 
 Zoeth Skinner Eldredge 228 
 
 Chinese Curio The Gatherer 228 
 
 Life in Bodie in 1865 J. Ross Browne 229 
 
 An Early Spanish Scene Gertrude Atherton 229 
 
 The Grand Canyon J. Ross Browne 230 
 
 A Trip to the Top of Mount Tamalpais Harr Wagner 231 
 
 A Tribute to Starr King Flora Haines Loughead 232 
 
 A Thought Upon Lake Tahoe Thomas Starr King 233 
 
 A Picture of the Lake Tahoe Region.. ..George Wharton James 233 
 
 A Tribute to Lake Tahoe Joseph Le Conte 234 
 
 A Sierra Snow Plant Ella Sterling Mighels 236 
 
 Night on Shasta Ralph Bacon 236 
 
 The Great Panorama A. E. 236 
 
 Who Goeth Softly Lorenzo Sosso 236 
 
 For September 
 
 The Miner's Song of Labor John Swett 237 
 
 A Fair Exchange Mark Twain 237 
 
 A Perfect Day Ina Coolbrith 238 
 
 The Spirit of California Rufus Steele 239 
 
 A Song of Work Charles A. Keeler 240 
 
 All Work Is Prayer Lorenzo Sosso 240 
 
 Galaxy 13 — Poets, Prose-Writers and Public Speakers 241 
 
 Galaxy 14 — Historical and Scientific Writers 242 
 
 Science Ambrose G. Bierce 243 
 
 Extract from Early Poem on Mechanic's Art....Edward Pollock 244 
 
 A Message from Adley H. Cummins 244 
 
 Fraternity Sam Booth 244 
 
 Get Leave to Work 247 
 
 The Unsolved Problem Mrs. I. Lowenberg 247 
 
 Two Friends Charles Henry Webb 247 
 
 The Authors' Carnival George Tisdale Bromley 249 
 
 Historical 250 
 
 Note on the Poem "The Man with the Hoe" The Gatherer 252 
 
 "The Man with the Hoe" Edwin Markham 252 
 
 The Last of the Hoodlums The Gatherer 253 
 
 An Autograph on the Hillside Bailey Millard 255 
 
 Coming Home Daniel S. Richardson 255 
 
 To A. E P. V. M. 256 
 
 A Message from the Native Daughters of the Golden West 
 
 Mary E. Brusie 256 
 
 A Message from Stephen M. White 258 
 
 About the Pioneer Mother Phil Francis 258 
 
 An Incident of Hunt's Hili The Gatherer 260 
 
 Elizabeth Saunders Fred Emerson Brooks 261 
 
 The Nights of California Alfred J. Waterhouse 262 
 
 In Praise of the Early California Cattle and Horses 
 
 Jacob Wright Harlan 262 
 
 "Wild Cow-th" — An Incident The Gatherer 264 
 
 To the Ox Edward Robeson Taylor 266 
 
 The Judgments of Labor Gabriel Furlong Butler 267 
 
 The Picture of a Deserted Garden Annie Laurie 268 
 
 A Tribute to Irving M. Scott, The Gatherer 270 
 
 The Wheat of San Joaquin Madge Morris 270 
 
 The Cayote Mark Twain 271 
 
CONTENTS 13 
 
 A Golden Wedding in 1881 The Gatherer 272 
 
 To Santa Niebla. Our Lady of the Fogs Jerome A. Hart 273 
 
 Galaxy 15 — Orators, Divines, Statesmen 275 
 
 Galaxy 16 — Poets and Prose- Writers 276 
 
 The Spell of the Mountains Rife Goodloe 277 
 
 Tolerance Madge Morris Wagner 277 
 
 About the Crickets Of Silverado Robert Louis Stevenson 278 
 
 The Cricket Edwin Markham 278 
 
 The Noblest Life Lorenzo Sosso 278 
 
 The Great Panorama A. E. 279 
 
 On the Presidio Hills Martha T. Tyler 279 
 
 For October 
 
 The Passing of Tennyson Joaquin Miller 280 
 
 Bret Harte Edward Robeson Taylor 281 
 
 The First Rain John E. Richards 281 
 
 Walking Through the Mustard Helen Hunt Jackson 282 
 
 A Tribute to the Author of Ramona Madge Morris 283 
 
 Helen Hunt Jackson Ina Coolbrith 284 
 
 Pioneer and Old Settler's Day The Gatherer 285 
 
 Let This Dream Be True Charles Phillips 286 
 
 Edwin Booth Ina Coolbrith 286 
 
 Edwin Booth, the Expression of Shakespeare 
 
 Mary Therese Austin 287 
 
 The Review of an Enthusiastic Critic.."Our" Walter Anthony 288 
 
 Did the Early Mayans Worship Numbers? 
 
 Joseph Thompson Goodman 289 
 
 Au Revoir P. V. M. 290 
 
 Comfort to Be Found in Good Old Books 
 
 George Hamlin Fitch 291 
 
 The Builders John E. Richards 292 
 
 Along Shore Frank Rose Starr 293 
 
 The Lady of My Delight Edward F. O'Day 295 
 
 The Mantle of Perfect Innocence Flora Haines Loughead 295 
 
 A Tribute to Illustrious Native Sons and Native Daughters 
 
 by an Adopted Son Harr Wagner 296 
 
 Story of Sawyer's Bar Mrs. Mamie Peyton 298 
 
 The Forty-Niner E. H. Clough 299 
 
 The Deserted Cabins of Plumas Etha R. Garlick 300 
 
 Follow! Follow! The Gatherer 301 
 
 The Pioneer's Breed Is Still Here The Gatherer 302 
 
 The Indian Summer P. V. M. 303 
 
 Count That Alone a Perfect Day Agnes M. Manning 304 
 
 October Pictures Marcella A. Fitzgerald 305 
 
 The Bandit's Daughter Ella Sterling Mighels 305 
 
 The Western Pacific Unknown 307 
 
 About Kindness Helen Dare 308 
 
 The Great Panorama A. E. 308 
 
 The Study of Little Pioneer Boy 309 
 
 The Study of Little Pioneer Girl 310 
 
 For November 
 
 Thanksgiving Proclamation Leland Stanford 311 
 
 In Memory of "The Governor" The Gatherer 312 
 
 Days of the Bonanza Kings Sarah Connell 312 
 
 Judah Edward Robeson Taylor 313 
 
14 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 A Message from Virginia Rose The Gatherer 314 
 
 Days of the Railroad Kings Sarah Connell 314 
 
 To Mary The Gatherer 315 
 
 Call of the Golden Port Ethel Talbot 316 
 
 The Pulse of Time P. V. M. 317 
 
 Sons of California Jerome A. Hart 318 
 
 Where Are Those Sleepers Now? 319 
 
 Don Juan Has Ever the Grand Old Air 
 
 Lucius Harwood Foote 319 
 
 Truth in Trinity Joseph Le Conte 320 
 
 Pictures of My Dead Forefathers Janet von Schroeder 321 
 
 It Is November Herbert Bashford 322 
 
 Chorus of Amazons Virna Woods 322 
 
 Dickens in Camp Bret Harte 323 
 
 A Wife of Three Years Carrie Stevens Walter 324 
 
 A New Being E. A. 325 
 
 Loveliness Maria Lacy 325 
 
 Behind Each Thing a Shadow Lies Clark Ashton Smith 326 
 
 Age Tarries Not Lillian H. S. Bailey 326 
 
 Oh My Boy-Rose, Oh My Girl-Rose Ella Sterling Mighels 327 
 
 An Impressive Scene Mrs. I. Lowenberg 327 
 
 A Message from Viva The Gatherer 328 
 
 Move Patiently On, Oh Earth Lyman Goodman 328 
 
 A Beautiful Sight in the East End Jack London 329 
 
 A Rose Clarence Urmy 329 
 
 His Mother Made Him a Little Coat Fannie H. Avery 330 
 
 A Little Pioneer Boy Amidst the Sierras of Esmeralda, 
 
 Nevada The Gatherer 330 
 
 Virgil Williams . Alice Denison Wiley 331 
 
 Pioneer Mother's Sayings to Her Children 332 
 
 Pioneer Father's Sayings 332 
 
 The Children's Song of California Unknown 332 
 
 Life from a Practical Standpoint Rachel Hepburn Haskell 333 
 
 Saints and Martyrs Charles Henry Webb 334 
 
 The Gold-Rocker Cradle The Gatherer 335 
 
 Our Duty to the Young M. S. Levy 336 
 
 Comfort in Good Old Books George Hamlin Fitch 337 
 
 A Tribute to Thomas R. Chapin The Gatherer 338 
 
 Regarding Friendship Sarah M. Williamson 339 
 
 Friendship Ina Coolbrith 339 
 
 Confidence Alice Denison Wiley 339 
 
 Compensation Alice Denison Wiley 340 
 
 The Great Panorama A. E. 340 
 
 Words from a Pen-Woman Josephine Martin 341 
 
 The Breath of Innocence Isidor Meyer 341 
 
 Seek Not All Wisdom in a Well Lorenzo Sosso 341 
 
 Two Ways Robert McKenzie 342 
 
 Gone Is the Old Town Lillian H. S. Bailey 342 
 
 For December 
 
 To California Charles Elmer Jenney 343 
 
 A Daughter of the House of David Calvin B. McDonald 344 
 
 The White Silence Jack London 344 
 
 The Christmas Doll William Bausman 345 
 
 The Christmas Spirit Hugh Hume 346 
 
 The Midnight Mass Richard Edward White 346 
 
CONTENTS 15 
 
 It Was Winter in San Francisco Frances Charles 347 
 
 The Call of the North Mary E. Hart 348 
 
 Forty Mince Pies The Gatherer 348 
 
 The Freshman's Christmas Philip Verrill Mighels 349 
 
 Comfort to Be Found in Good Old Books 
 
 George Hamlin Fitch 352 
 
 The Children's Statue to the Pioneer Mother.... The Gatherer 353 
 
 Christmas Reflections "Our" Peter Robertson 354 
 
 About Jerusalem Jerome A. Hart 355 
 
 How Shall You Destroy the Bible? .Thomas Guard 355 
 
 A Christmas Wish for You W. Kimball Briggs 356 
 
 Faith Annie E. K. Bidwell 357 
 
 A Grain of Wheat John A. B. Fry 358 
 
 After the Exposition Edward Robeson Taylor 359 
 
 The Thread of Life W. H. Platt 359 
 
 Good-bye, Bret Harte Joaquin Miller 360 
 
 A Grain of Mustard Seed Charles S. Green 361 
 
 The Pioneers of the West Ella Higginson 361 
 
 Prodigals Charles A. Murdock 361 
 
 A Picturesque Costume of Early Days The Gatherer 362 
 
 Voices of the Year Lillian H. S. Bailey 363 
 
 A Tribute to Elizabeth Mack 362 
 
 The Sea of Life Anna B. Newbegin 364 
 
 Another Day and Night Ella Sterling Mighels 364 
 
 Beyond Edward Rowland Sill 365 
 
 All Is Best Edward Robeson Taylor 365 
 
 If You Would Address Charles Henry Webb 366 
 
 Ina Coolbrith Herbert Bashford 367 
 
 Sunset Herbert Bashford 367 
 
 The Eloquence of Calvin B. McDonald 367 
 
 A Jewel Song Clarence Urmy 367 
 
 The Vestals of California The Gatherer 368 
 
 Noel Eugenie H. Schroeder 369 
 
 Americanism M. T. Dooling 370 
 
 The Giant Hour Godfrey Barney 371 
 
 The Red Cross Call W. H. Carruth 371 
 
 Vive L'America Millard 372 
 
 About the High Sierras Miriam Michelson 373 
 
 The Messenger George Sterling 374 
 
 Sunset Anna Morrison Reed 375 
 
 The Fairy City The Gatherer 375 
 
 The Great Panorama A. E. 376 
 
 What Is the World's Derision? Lorenzo Sosso 376 
 
 My Place of Dreams Al C. Joy 377 
 
 The Colorado Ednah Aiken 377 
 
 Finis Clark Ashton Smith 381 
 
 Good Night, Dear Heart Fannie H. Avery 378 
 
 Christmas Greeting Martha Trent Tyler 378 
 
 The Promise of Life Howard V. Sutherland 378 
 
 A Heaven on Earth Leonard S. Clark 379 
 
 The City Woke Arthur Price 380 
 
 "It Is Over" 379 
 
 California's Day of Peace Harr Wagner 382 
 
16 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 List of Portraits of California Writers Taken from 
 "The Story of the Files' ' and Additions 
 
 (Alphabetically Arranged) 
 
 Addis, Yda 139 Guard, Thomas 275 Newmark, Nathan 174 
 
 Aiken, Charles S 106 Gates-Tully, Eleanor ...208 Oakes, Emma Henrietta. 173 
 
 Aiken, Ednah 139 Gaily, James W 72 Older, Mrs. Fremont.. 207 
 
 Alemany, Archbishop ...275 George, Henry 37 p ac heco, Mrs. Romualdo.208 
 
 Anthony, James 39 Goodman, Joseph Parkhurst, Emelie T. Y..139 
 
 Atherton, Gertrude 276 Thompson 38 Phelan, James D 275 
 
 Avery, Fannie H 139 Greene, Clay Meredith. .208 pi x i ey , Frank M 38 
 
 Avery, Benjamin P 38 Gunter, Archibald C 208 pittsinger, Eliza 71 
 
 Austin, Mary 208 "Hagar" (Janette Pollock, Edward A.'....! 37 
 
 Amsden, Dora 207 Phelps) 71 p OW ell, Emily Browne. . 173 
 
 Bailey, Lillian H. S 242 Harrison, William P 140 Power, Alice Rose 241 
 
 "Betsy B.," Mrs. Austin. 139 Harte, Bret 37 Pollock, William D 72 
 
 Bierce, Ambrose 37 Hart, Jerome A 106 Poehlman, H. E 174 
 
 Bigelow, Henry Derby.. 140 Hittell, John S 242 Phelph, C. H 140 
 
 Booth, Newton 275 Hittell, Theodore 242 Phillips, Charles 241 
 
 Brooks, Noah 242 Holder, Charles F 106 Realf , Richard 105 
 
 Browne, J. Ross 242 Hutchins, J. M 242 Redding, B. B 72 
 
 Bausman, W 140 Higginson, Ella 276 Reed, Anna Morrison ... 139 
 
 Bashford, Herbert 105 Hopper, James 241 Rhodes, William H. 
 
 Barrett, J. J 72 Hunt, Clarence M 174 (Caxton) 37 
 
 Belasco, David 208 Hume, Hugh 140 Richardson, Daniel S 241 
 
 Bonnet, Theodore F 208 Hart, Mary E 173 Ridge, John Rollin 72 
 
 Bromley, George T 174 Inyi Wallace 2 76 £ ovce > J osi ? h . •• • ■ 242 
 
 Bonner, Geraldine 139 T rw j n ^ill 2 76 Robertson, Louis A 241 
 
 Brooks, Fred Emerson.. 241 James, George " Wharton.' 174 5? d , din ?' J? s ?P h D 208 
 
 Burgess, Gele.tt 276 Jordan, David Starr 268 Rjchards, .John 173 
 
 Bertolo, Mariana 241 Josaphare, Lionel 207 Richmond, Florence 20/ 
 
 Carmany, John H 38 Kahn Julius 208 $ erra > Junipero 275 
 
 Cheney, John Vance.... 207 Reele'r, Charles" '.'. '.'.'.'.'. ^241 Savage, R.H.. 208 
 
 Cooper, Sarah B 71 j^eith Eliza D 139 Seabough, Samuel t . 140 
 
 Cosgrave, J. O'Hara 140 Kellogg Eugenie 173 Shinn, Charles Howard ^ .242 
 
 Crane, Lauren E 140 Kingsbury-Cooley Alice 71 Sil1 ' Edward Rowland... 37 
 
 Cummins Adley H ...275 K]>b Georgiana' Bruce! 71 Somers, Fred I M .38 
 
 Cummms-Mighels, Ella King, Thomas Starr 275 Soneschein, Albert 73 
 
 sterling 1U5 Lawrence Mary V Sosso, Lorenzo 105 
 
 Craig, Mary L. Hoffman. 139 Tin^lev' 105 Stebbins, Horatio 275 
 
 Colburn, Frona E 139 8 / r""u „ Sterling, George 276 
 
 Carleton, S. B 140 Le Conte, Joseph 37 Shermarit Edwin 174 
 
 Coolbrith, Ina 37 Lezmsky, David Lesser 72 Stoddard Charles 
 
 Connell, Sarah 173 Lowenberg, B. (Mrs. I.)241 Warren s7 
 
 Davis, John F 275 London Jack 275 Swift John FrankIin .... 72 
 
 Daggett, John 174 ^/ n ^. h ' Jeremiah 174 Stellman Louis j 174 
 
 Daggett, Rollin M 38 JJartin, Josephine 24 Shortridge? Sarnue l 106 
 
 Davis, S. P 72 MacGowan, Alice ...... 201 T oland, Mary Bertha M. 71 
 
 Dawson, Emma Frances. 105 MacGowan Cooke Grace.202 « T opsy-Turvy," Elizabeth 
 
 Derby, George H. Marriott, Frederick, Sr 38 Chamberlain Wright... 71 
 
 (Phoenix) 37 Manning, Agnes 105 Twain> Mark 3Jr 
 
 Donovan, Ellen 207 ^f 35 ?!"' Stephen M 72 Turrill Charles B 174 
 
 Dowling, Bartholomew.. 72 ^ a ™ ha ™; E ™ lt } • W ' ' *l Taylor, Edward Robeson.276 
 
 Doran, James 207 McDonald, Calvin B.... 38 rj Clarence 241 
 
 de Young, M. H 38 Mc r C - ra ^ n ' J ose Ph»ie Voorsanger, Jacob 173 
 
 Dwinel, I. E 173 Clifford 71 victor, Francis F 71 
 
 Douglas, George 174 McEwen, Arthur 106 Van Orden, C 207 
 
 Eldredge, Zoeth S 242 McGlashan, Charles F...106 Young, John P 242 
 
 Elder, Paul 106 Meyer, George Homer.. 72 Wagner, Harr 106 
 
 Ewer, Ferdinand C 275 Menken, Adah Isaacs... 71 Wagner, Madge Morris.. 105 
 
 Eyster, Nellie Blessing. . .71 Mighels, Henry Rust 140 Walter, Carrie Stevens.. 105 
 
 French, Nora May 207 Millard, Bailey 106 Wasson, Joseph i.140 
 
 Ferguson, Lillian 173 Miller, Joaquin 37 Watson, Henry Clay 140 
 
 Fitch, Anna M 71 Milne, Robert Duncan . . 72 Webb, Louise H 139 
 
 Fitch, George Hamlin... 276 Morrill, Paul 38 White, Stephen Mallory.275 
 
 Fitch, Thomas 275 Muir, John 242 White, Richard Edward. 241 
 
 Foard, J. Macdonough.. 36 Murdock, Charles A 106 Wiggin, Kate Douglass. 276 
 
 Foote, Lucius Harwood..207 Miller, Minnie Myrtle... 71 Wiley, Alice Denison 139 
 
 Foltz, Clara Shortridge. . 174 Murphv, Robert Wilson. 207 Whitaker, Herman 276 
 
 Flynn, Thomas E 106 Nordoff, Charles 242 Williamson, Sarah M 173 
 
 Furlong, Mary De Norris, Frank 276 Wheeler, Benjamin Ide..208 
 
 Lacy M 173 Nunan, Thomas 106 Woods, Virna 105 
 
TO THE NATIVE SONS OF THE GOLDEN 
 WEST AND TO THE NATIVE DAUGHTERS 
 OF THE GOLDEN WEST, I DEDICATE THIS 
 VOLUME AS OUR RICHEST HERITAGE 
 FROM THE GOLDEN AGE OF CALIFORNIA 
 LITERATURE. 
 
From Argonaut. 
 
 Copyright. 
 
 California 
 1849. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Four years' residence in London gave me an excellent 
 insight into the ideas prevailing there in literary circles, regard- 
 ing the California writers. The strongest emotion expressed 
 by the critics in their reviews of the books received from our 
 snores was, undoubtedly — surprise. 
 
 Even after the successes of Joaquin Miller, Bret Harte 
 and Mark Twain, achieved in that great civilized center of the 
 English-speaking world, they still marveled at the later writers. 
 Edward Rowland Sill was known to them and also Charles 
 Warren Stoddard. But I remember a volume of short stories 
 of William C. Morrow's that had arrived in 1898, and a certain 
 delightful reviewer who veiled his identity under the pen-name 
 of "Phoebus," gave it unstinted praise, finally indulging in the 
 query, "How is it that these writers on the shores of the 
 Pacific, in the far off land of California, have achieved an 
 English equal to the very best in the world, free from idiosyn- 
 crasy or peculiarity?" 
 
 A few months thereafter came a volume of poetry, entitled 
 "Songs from the Golden Gate," by Ina Coolbrith, which caused 
 a flutter of posters to adorn all the walls of the underground 
 railway stations, everywhere, announcing the great discovery 
 made by the editor of "The Outlook." It was in the nature 
 of a proclamation to the world, telling that a new star had 
 arisen on the horizon, unknown to them all, and it was shining 
 from the West. You might have thought it was a new gold- 
 diggings that was being thus proclaimed, but that Albert 
 Kinross, the editor, made it clear that it was a new poet 
 instead, and he wanted to share his great discovery with the 
 world so that it might rejoice with him. 
 
 Hardly had Jack London started with his vivid short 
 stories of Alaskan wilds, when the British editors gave him 
 the warm grasp of welcome. The brilliant genius of Ambrose 
 Bierce was given instant acclaim. The novels of Gertrude 
 Atherton and the stories of Kate Douglas Wiggin were 
 promptly published in English editions. Some of the books 
 of Frank Norris were turned into serials for the dailies there. 
 
 Francis Power and Chester Bailey Fernald arrived the same 
 week to give their rival Chinese plays of "The First Born," 
 and "The Cat and the Cherub," to English audiences and dra- 
 matic critics, all of whom made much of them in a whirl of 
 excitement. Edwin Markham was given a stately welcome 
 to the halls of fame for his great poem, "The Man with the 
 
20 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Hoe." English magazines published many stories of Gelett 
 Burgess and P. V. Mighels in the beginning of their careers. 
 Will and Wallace Irwin were given place there also. In later 
 years they are still giving welcome to the writers from this 
 state of ours with meeds of praise to George Sterling, Clark 
 Ashton Smith and Herman Scheffauer, for their poems, and 
 to Herman Whitaker and Mary Austin for their prose. 
 
 During her lifetime, they gave recognition to Virna Woods, 
 who wrote the lyrical drama, "The Amazons," a surpassing 
 performance, full of beauty, and the true Greek spirit. Yet at 
 home she was only a Sacramento school-teacher. It required 
 London to give her work its true valuation. Even the scholars 
 of England accorded a place to Adley H. Cummins for his 
 "Friesic Grammar and Reading-Book" while he yet lived, and 
 made mention of his passing in 1889, in "The Athenaeum," 
 as a great loss to the world of scholarship. The friendship 
 of letters makes a mighty bond between men. 
 
 Certainly the power of the London Press has done much 
 for the California writers, from Joaquin Miller, Bret Harte 
 and Mark Twain, down to the present day, to make them 
 known in their own land. 
 
 Those gallant gentlemen of the press over there across 
 the Atlantic, deserve our thanks for their generosity and fair 
 play in matters literary. 
 
 Yet not the half has been told of the "Mother-Lode" of riches here 
 in the way of narrative, wit, poesy and beauty in the literary outcroppings 
 of our land of California. She has enriched the world's literature and is 
 still growing gold. In preparing this work my chief desire has been more 
 to represent "Literary California" as shown in the vivid columns of the 
 press, where are stories like little paintings of our people, from gifted pens 
 unknown, yet a part of our every-day life, rather than to make this book 
 merely the gatherings from the writers who are well-known, which is a 
 difference with a distinction in favor of atmosphere. "The Farewell; a 
 Theme for a Painting," and the "Golden Wedding in Santa Clara in 
 188/," are samples of letters and beauty and skill not to be surpassed, 
 even though found in the columns of a newspaper, instead of in the pages 
 of a novel. Many a reporter has graduated into author or poet, but more 
 have remained to illumine the daily press with their art. 
 
 Yet amongst the brightest literary stars of our firmament 
 shine the names of those who served their apprenticeship 
 at the shrine of the printing-office requiring copy from them, 
 by means of which they learned how to write. 
 
 While the "Incomparable Three" of our early California 
 literature, Bret Harte, Joaquin Miller and Mark Twain each 
 served his apprenticeship at the beginning of his career by 
 
INTRODUCTION 21 
 
 writing for daily or weekly papers, and then passed out to 
 greatness into the splendid world of letters in fiction and in 
 poetry and prose, yet it was Joaquin Miller who continued both 
 a poet and a journalist throughout his life, writing of his travels 
 as a newspaper-correspondent from whatever corner of the 
 earth he might be in. As a fiction-writer, of a much later 
 era, Jack London did the same, which has made his name a 
 familiar one. from a nearer point of view, in the daily press. 
 Edward F. Townsend (a San Francisco journalist), the creator 
 of "Chimmie Fadden," went to New York and wrote books 
 between his contributions to the daily papers there. 
 
 As to the dearly-beloved Charles Henry Webb, that is a 
 story all by itself. I remember hearing my Pioneer Father 
 reading aloud to the family the "John Paul" letters in the 
 Sacramento Union up in Aurora, Esmeralda County, Nevada, 
 and am convinced that that was where the awkward youth, 
 Sam Clemens, afterward "Mark Twain," got his "first point 
 of view." A year later Webb established "The Californian," 
 a literary journal which preceded the "Overland," and he gath- 
 ered together the writers afterward made famous under the 
 regime of Bret Harte's editorship. W T ebb published books, but 
 was always a journalist to the end, as contributor of editorials 
 and articles to many of the leading papers of New York city. 
 I met him there in 1902, already aware of his published works 
 of wit and humor, and was taken by surprise when he gave 
 me a copy of his poems to remember him by, and it is from 
 this that I have culled, "If You Would Address" — , for this 
 volume which otherwise we should never have known. 
 
 The name of Herbert Bashford, playwright and poet, 
 appears daily in the Evening Bulletin as reviewer of books. 
 For thirty-five years we sat at the feet of George Hamlin 
 Fitch as reviewer for the Sunday Chronicle and some of his 
 intimate talks regarding books of value worth reading having 
 been put into book-form, brought him such renown and such 
 demand for further enlightenment on these themes, that he 
 passed easily into authorship, but always will he retain that 
 intimate relationship with his reader that he gained in his 
 long acquaintance with them through the press. Bailey Millard, 
 poet, writer of books, editor of the Cosmopolitan for years in 
 New York city, has returned after eleven years of absence to 
 the city-of-his-love to editorial duties, while still preparing 
 other material for book-publication. 
 
 The books of Jerome A. Hart, formerly editor of the "Ar- 
 gonaut," whether fiction, as in "The Vigilante Girl", descrip- 
 tive, as in "A Levantine Log-Book" and "Two Argonauts in 
 
22 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Spain", or essays, as in "Sardou and the Sardou Plays", are 
 couched in elegant English and brightened with wit and hu- 
 mor. The same perfection that made the "Argonaut" cele- 
 brated at home and abroad for so many years keeps his pen 
 faithful to the traditions of our California in his published 
 works- 
 
 Thus do I prove my contention that our literary stars 
 arose from being newspaper people, and that our newspaper 
 people are literary artists. 
 
 Another thing which is dear to my heart is to give recog- 
 nition to the children by supplying some selections which are 
 suited to their understanding. To me the unit of social life 
 is not the individual, but is represented by the family — the 
 man, woman and child — made into the oneness of the integer, 
 for what is good for the child is good for all three, and the 
 converse is equally true. 
 
 I always count the children in as they did in the early 
 Pioneer days ; and if Stephen M. White's tribute to the Pioneer 
 Mother appears more than once like a text from Holy Writ in 
 a sermon, bear with it for their dear sakes. Cherish that 
 one saying and apply it, and you will have redeemed the 
 world, even as the Jewish mother, the Catholic mother and 
 the Protestant mother redeemed our California in the Pioneer 
 days. This is the story that has never been told by Bret Harte 
 or any one else, yet it is a vital part of our history. 
 
 And if some of the writers protest that "The Gatherer" 
 has included too many bits of unwritten history under the 
 head of "Life in California," I would admit the fact with the 
 declaration that it is my privilege to preserve these things 
 because of my birthright here. No one now living, probably, 
 knows of these matters which I gleaned in my childhood, and 
 as this book is absolutely mine, I propose to make it part-and- 
 parcel of the past, rather than of the present, although I include 
 much of the present also. So bear with me, Brothers and 
 Sisters of the Pen, I have suffered in the producing of this 
 volume; the tortures of Sisyphus, Tantalus and Ixion have 
 been mine in these long delays and disappointments; illness 
 and years have added their weight. Nothing but my strong 
 immortality has enabled me to survive until this hour, when I 
 am joyfully reading the proofs of the finished work. Let others 
 prepare and present a better book than this — but kindly let this 
 be mine according to the conception that has dominated my 
 mind from the beginning to the end. 
 
 Once you begin the study of "Literary California," you 
 come under a spell. On our shelves are many volumes of 
 
INTRODUCTION 23 
 
 lore most vividly portraying the scenes of long ago; in the 
 bound volumes of past magazines, weeklies, and dailies are 
 multitudinous pages containing sparkling gems of thought 
 from those past and gone. Many a writer has been 
 "Born to blush unseen" 
 
 and die unknown. Yet here and there a mono-poet has 
 appeared, burned star-like, and paled again, leaving an undying 
 radiance behind him. We still speak of such men as Edward 
 A. Pollock, John Rollin Ridge and James Linen, in poetry, 
 and of "Caxton" Rhodes, John Phoenix (Col. George Haskel 
 Derby) and Calvin B. McDonald in prose, as immortals. We 
 are the richer because they lived. The millionaire and the 
 politician may have strutted for a brief hour in our California, 
 but such writers live forever. 
 
 Amongst us still are many singers hardly known here, 
 though their songs are published in the Eastern centers, such as 
 Emma Frances Dawson, author of that celebrated poem, "Old 
 Glory;" others are Clarence Urmy, Herbert Bashford and 
 Lorenzo Sosso, well known on the Atlantic side. Of these 
 Clarence Urmy has the added distinction of being the first 
 native-born upon the horizon as a poet, his first book under 
 the title of "A Rosary of Rhyme" winning him honors in 
 the eighties, while his later works have brought him renown. 
 Also Ella Higginson whose poem, "The Bare Brown Hills of 
 San Francisco Bay," has not been surpassed for feeling and 
 sentiment. The exquisite nature-poems of that shy, dove-eyed 
 woman. Lillian H. S. Bailey 
 
 "Give proof through the night," 
 the long dark night of the trance-slumber of Sentiment, — 
 while Commercialism has flourished fearfully, that Poetry, like 
 Janus' daughter. 
 
 "is not yet dead but only sleepeth." 
 Grace and beauty are to be found in the poems of Agnes Tobin 
 and Ella Sexton. The clarion ring of "Liberty's Bell," by 
 Madge Morris Wagner, assures us of the touch of a master 
 hand. The stirring metres of Daniel S. Richardson and the 
 graceful lines of Lucius Harwood Foote are devoted to themes 
 not touched by our other poets. "Comfort to be Found in Good 
 Old Books," by George Hamlin Fitch, enters into our inner 
 life — we cannot do without it. One obtains an added grace 
 from reading "In a Hammock," by Kate Bishop, and "Spring- 
 time, Is It Springtime?" by Millicent Washburn Shinn. And 
 our own Keeler, Charles Keeler, who sings like a bird on the 
 bough, with heart and soul lifted to heaven, who is there 
 like him? 
 
24 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Each of our poets is a law unto himself, borrowing from 
 no other. Splendid are the lines of Howard Sutherland arid 
 Charles Elmer Jenney, Charles Phillips, John McGroarty, 
 Charles K. Field, Rufus Steele, Richard Edward White, and 
 many others whose names will be found within the covers of 
 this book, who have illuminated the historic page with their 
 brilliant imageries. 
 
 After the issuing of my volume, "Story of the Files; A 
 Review of California Writers and Literature," in 1893, I still 
 continued from force of habit, gathering the fine and splendid 
 things which appeared in the press, like a species of literary 
 flotsam and jetsam. Everything by a brother or a sister 
 writer regarding our land appealed to me, even during the 
 fourteen years I was absent in New York and London. 
 
 "When my play, "Society and Babe Robinson," was 
 reviewed by George Hamlin Fitch in the San Francisco Chron- 
 icle, December 7th, 1914, he urged that a new edition of the 
 "Story of the Files of California," be gotten out by some 
 publisher. This item coming to the notice of John J. New- 
 begin, that gentleman wrote me to know if I would undertake 
 the work. But I took no interest in it; I felt that part was 
 already done. Instead I was thinking of all this new material 
 I had gathered, which was still in a state, amorphous, like the 
 twilight-hour soon entering into the dark night when it would 
 be lost forever. For it seemed no one else even knew of these 
 beautiful things — and if my faded-out copies were not to be 
 preserved it would be the same as if they had never been. 
 
 I spread before Mr. Newbegin these remarkable odds and 
 ends of literary worth, and he saw the possibilities of an orig- 
 inal publication. He saw that it would be a revelation to those 
 abroad as well as to those at home — a book telling of the land- 
 that-lies-far-West-against-the-Pacific, and breathing of its atmos- 
 phere so poignantly that it would draw home again, the exiles 
 from foreign shores, as well as awaken the natives and "adopted 
 ones," to the splendor and glory of their own land. 
 
 "all lands above." 
 
 I have a faithful coterie of friends devoted to the cause of 
 "Literature in California". I called upon them to come to my 
 aid that amongst us all justice might be done to the small as 
 well as to the great writers, the unknown as well as the known. 
 And we have worked to this end, also preparing lists of names 
 of writers to over fourteen-hundred, and seeking to present the 
 best we could find of prose and poetry. This effort of ours 
 resulted in our being confronted with material enough for three 
 large volumes instead of one. But we were restricted to the 
 
INTRODUCTION 25 
 
 limits of pages for just one book. It was not easy to meet this 
 stern decree. For we felt that all this literary riches should 
 be preserved after all our trouble and all our research, trying 
 to find them. It was with a pang at heart that I took out eighty 
 pages at one time and fifty at another, and still another eighty 
 once more, and reduced the sketches to the fewest words in 
 consonance with the need for fewer pages. 
 
 Out of faithfulness to the old writers, I kept them for the 
 last. And everything that related to the atmosphere of Cali- 
 fornia I made paramount. Yet we held that nothing should be 
 lost of all these gatherings, so we have preserved the overflow 
 in a special scrap-book, to be placed in the Capitol State Library 
 in Sacramento for future reference. Acknowledgments must 
 here be expressed for the kindly assistance of the late James 
 L. Gillis of this library, especially for the "Thanksgiving Proc- 
 lamation" of Governor Stanford in 1863, from the Sacramento 
 Union, which is a splendid example of English in California, 
 in the early days. 
 
 It gives me pleasure, here, to express my thanks to Edwin 
 Markham, the poet, for the felicitous title of this work of mine. 
 After the coming out of the previous volume, "Story of the 
 Files," he wondered why I had chosen such an unmeaning title 
 for that book. I told him that I preferred the second title, "A 
 Review of Californian Writers and Literature", but dared not 
 use it, owing to the storm of protest raised by certain women- 
 writers from the East, who were employed on our daily press, 
 who scorned the idea that we had any California writers for the 
 reason that our writers were not born here. So in order to pro- 
 duce my cherished "Review" in book-form and avoid further 
 comment from them, I was compelled to drop the word "Cali- 
 fornia" altogether. That we had a "File" of our publications 
 no one could deny, and so that was the reason I had made use 
 of this "unmeaning" term. 
 
 "But you should have named it 'Literary California'; no 
 one could question that," urged Mr. Markham. "It is too late 
 now," I replied ; "but if ever I get out another volume on this 
 theme, I promise you I will use your title". The day came and 
 I have Edwin Markham to thank for giving me the benefit of 
 his constructive ability in meeting this difficulty. 
 
 My obligations are many to Alexander Robertson, Paul 
 Elder, James D. Blake and others for the use of books by Cali- 
 fornia authors. My thanks are due to Charles B. Turrill for 
 many additional photographs to enrich the contents, particu- 
 larly those of Padre Serra and Archbishop Alemany. Amongst 
 those who have extended a helping hand are Harr Wagner, 
 
26 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 author of "Pacific History Stories," and Robert Ernest Cowan, 
 author of a "Bibliography of the History of California," who 
 has corrected a number of dates. Also I must mention Theo- 
 dore Bonnet and Edward F. O'Day, who have sought to aid us 
 in our efforts to name at least twenty of the best short stories 
 by our writers, by publishing articles on that subject in "Town 
 Talk." 
 
 I must here express my gratitude to H. E. Poehlman of 
 the Grizzly Bear Magazine, and of the Camera Club, a N. S. 
 G. W., for his many kindnesses in helping to make this book 
 possible, particularly the photographing of the "Children's 
 Statue of the Pioneer Mother" from my posing of the young of 
 my neighborhood for this purpose, which grouping appears in 
 this volume. 
 
 A word, here, is due to one who is with us no more, and 
 yet who gave his ardor of heart to seeking for treasures of 
 our Californiana for this volume. The late Richard Edward 
 White, himself a poet, was one who loved other poets. He it 
 was who brought to my notice the "Chaplet of Verse" by Cali- 
 fornia Catholic writers, which has preserved the names of many 
 of our sweet singers, and many beautiful poems from being 
 lost in the daily press, where they first appeared. His own 
 best and finest poem, "Brother Felix", appears in his volume 
 of verse, issued years ago. Another one who would have re- 
 joiced with me in the coming out of this delayed volume is 
 one who but lately departed from our ranks, Zoeth S. Eldredge, 
 the historian, who took particular interest in helping me out 
 with data, and supplying material relating to Anza and the 
 early days. Both of these members of our California Literature 
 Society had youthful hearts and zeal and enthusiasm in their 
 literary work and took pleasure in the work of others. 
 "The Pioneer band is fast passing, 
 
 Yet their spirit will linger for aye, 
 
 The work and foundation they builded 
 
 Was not made to crumble away; 
 
 But will stand as a monument to them, 
 
 And their brave, dauntless spirit of old, 
 
 The true heart, the quick hand, the kindness 
 
 Are to us far dearer than gold." 
 
 Not to be omitted from those who have helped in this 
 labor of love of ours, is the Lowell High School lad of my 
 neighborhood, who came in when but fourteen to join the 
 "Child's Library of the Best Books in the World", and became 
 a devotee of Californiana. Not only has he typed much of the 
 great mass of material from which I have chosen the contents 
 of this book, but also has he taken a pride in helping to select 
 these contents. When I would have taken out "Lex Scripta", 
 
INTRODUCTION 27 
 
 by Nathan Kouns, which is a very long poem, to make place 
 for twenty other poems of briefer measure, because Nathan 
 Kouns was unknown to our people, being dead, and no copies 
 would be sold on his account, while the others were very much 
 alive, he stayed my hand and prevented the sacrilege. "All the 
 more reason for keeping it in," he said, gravely; "it is the 
 greatest poem in the collection, and by keeping it, all of our 
 people will have a chance to get acquainted with it." Also is 
 my debt of gratitude due for further encouragement. For 
 though he is now with Machine Gun Company, Twenty-first 
 Infantry, at San Diego, yet he has written me to send him my 
 copy of Clark Ashton Smith's "Poems" to read to a comrade 
 in the ranks, as the greatest treat imaginable, showing that he 
 has not studied Californiana in vain. Also because he has 
 hunted up Miss Coolbrith's Poems in the library there, to 
 read "The Mariposa Lily" to his comrades in proof of his de- 
 votion to her and to us all. What greater proof is there of love 
 than this, reading the poems of a friend to other friends? 
 
 Full credit must be given Sarah Connell, connected with 
 Town Talk, for her valuable assistance, she being an author- 
 ity on matters historical and literary relating to her native 
 state. To Sarah M. Williamson, also a native, and a journalist 
 of note, my thanks are due for the ardor she put into her work, 
 compiling the classified lists of names of California writers — 
 a list never before attempted. Many of these names were sup- 
 plied by the "Story of the Files of California", but hundreds 
 more have been added belonging to the later days. 
 
 Much information has been obtained from the members of 
 the "California Literature Society", which meets once a month 
 at the home of Ina Coolbrith on Russian Hill. Mention must 
 be made here of the crowning of Miss Coolbrith as California 
 Laureate, June 30th, 1915, during the Authors' Congress, con- 
 nected with the Panama-Pacific International Exposition. 
 
 It was in 1915, during the incumbency of Judge John F. 
 Davis as Grand President of the N. S. G. W. and of Margaret 
 Grote Hill as Grand President of the N. D. G. W., that these 
 grand officers accepted the dedication of this book to their 
 order. 
 
 In dedicating this work to the Native Sons of the Golden West and 
 the Native Daughters of the Golden West, it is with the hope that they 
 may seek to k no1 ® these literary stars of ours that "have not waned or 
 vanished" as an editor proclaimed some time ago, but still shine to our 
 blessing. It is my earnest desire that each parlor of each county of our 
 State, from Del Norte to San Diego, will appoint a reader to choose 
 some poem or extract from this book °f ours » eac/i month, to give forth to 
 
28 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 the brothers and sisters of our order, according to the calendar and to the 
 season. It will be found that this course of reading is an education in 
 itself. 
 
 ****** * * * * % 
 
 It is with regret that I must interpolate at this point, after 
 more than three years of hopes and fears, how, owing to the 
 circumstances of present-day affairs, the book has been delayed. 
 By the kindness of James Wood of the Hotel St Francis, 
 I was enabled to hold, on April 10th, 1918, a reunion of old 
 friends, together with new friends, there to lay these facts be- 
 fore them, and to make an effort to "wrest victory out of de- 
 feat". The response was overwhelming. Members of the press 
 united with personal friends to make the "Evening of Literary 
 California" a complete success. 
 
 Among the numbers read by friends upon this occasion 
 were Joaquin Miller's "Goodbye, Bret Harte, Goodnight, Good- 
 night"; Jack London's "The Way of War", and "The White 
 Silence"; "Yo Semite", written by Wallace Bruce, was given, 
 and other interesting contributions from the book by a class 
 of children. The only live poet to appear on the programme 
 was Edward Robeson Taylor, who gave by request his sonnet, 
 entitled, "The Ox", and a ten-liner, on "Poetic Art". Represent- 
 ing Milton J. Ferguson, State Librarian and successor of the late 
 James Gillis, came Miss Eudora Garoutte all the way from Sac- 
 ramento to attend this meeting and to express her tribute of 
 praise as to the value of the "Story of the Files", and to give 
 greeting to the proposed companion-volume to the same, "Lit- 
 erary California". At the close of the meeting, presided over 
 most gracefully by Charles S. Murdock, the name of Harr 
 Wagner, the editor and publisher, was called. In response he 
 came forward and announced that he would co-operate, with 
 Mr. J. J. Newbegin, for the immediate publication of "Literary 
 California". There will, therefore, be the unique arrangement 
 of two publishers and two editions. Friends of our literature 
 gathered around and offered congratulations, and thus the work 
 was started afresh. Letters were read from Mrs. Phoebe A. 
 Hearst, Mr. and Mrs. Jerome A. Hart, offering to be sponsors 
 for the forthcoming book, and later came letters from Mrs. I. 
 Lowenberg, M. H. De Young and Senator James D. Phelan, to 
 the same effect. 
 
 Senator Phelan's approval of "Literary California", brought 
 it to the notice of the Native Daughters of the Golden West 
 at the assembly of Grand Parlor at Santa Cruz in June, 1918. 
 Dr. Mariana Bertola, seconded by Mrs. Mamie Peyton, pre- 
 sented, in a masterly way, a resolution to the effect that the 
 
INTRODUCTION 29 
 
 Grand Parlor of Native Daughters of the Golden West endorse 
 the publication of "Literary California", which motion was ac- 
 corded an enthusiastic response, the author-and-gatherer of the 
 same being present as a delegate from Hayward Parlor, No. 122. 
 
 Since the publishing of this book at this time is to be a 
 labor of love and not a money-making proposition, many of 
 our own people will seek to have it placed in all our libraries, 
 where they may have easy access to it, and to choose it as a 
 gift-book for the holiday season, that it may be preserved in 
 the home-libraries as well as in the public ones; this they will 
 do to stimulate a study of our own writers and our own litera- 
 ture, once they discover the depth of the riches thus revealed 
 in the Mother-Lode, by means of this book, "Literary Cali- 
 fornia." 
 
 One word more I must speak on a matter which I trust 
 may now be settled definitely, for once and forever; it is to 
 quiet the prosaic contention, "How can a person be a California 
 writer who is not born in California?" 
 
 "What is a California Writer?" "A California Writer is one who 
 is born here, or one who is re-horn here . That is my definition. So 
 let it stand. 
 
 It is quite true, as Ambrose Bierce has said, "That the first 
 comers to California were not of the genius-bearing sex" ; there- 
 fore our literary stars were born elsewhere. It is also a mat- 
 ter equally convincing as Arthur McEwen has urged, "That 
 even Mark Twain got his point-of-view here." That process 
 makes one re-born. Every one is re-born who comes to remain 
 here in California. But there are others who have, as it were, 
 only one foot here. Yet generously we count them in, too. 
 
 For the purpose of making clear these distinctions, we 
 have listed names of these, under different classifications. Cali- 
 fornia has sent forth many brilliant writers to the great world 
 of letters who never wrote before their re-birth here. A num- 
 ber have come here, already having won their laurels elsewhere ; 
 yet their talents flash up the brighter for their baptism anew 
 in this beloved land of ours. 
 
 We must count in all who have partaken of this mysterious essence 
 from this spiritualized demijohn of California fire-water, which inspires 
 them to greater things than they ever did before — we count them all in, 
 native or "adopted ones" as they may be. 
 
 For even our truly-born ones, native of the soil, cradled in 
 gold-rockers or champagne-baskets, or little wash-tubs, owing 
 to the exigencies of the early times — even they must leave this 
 beautiful land of ours to win recognition elsewhere before our 
 
30 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 own people will grant them a place in their hearts, or in their 
 halls of fame. 
 
 I appeal to you, Brothers of the Golden West, and Sisters 
 of the Golden West. I entreat of you to take an interest in 
 our own writers. Let us start this revival of letters in Cali- 
 fornia, and make ready for the return of our boys from France, 
 who will be coming back to us with a thousand tales to tell, 
 trembling on their lips. Let us make it possible for them to 
 take up the profession of letters and to write the stories and 
 the poems that in their souls arise at this most remarkable era 
 of the world's history, and a new golden age of literature 
 shall be ours. 
 
 There is many a thing that money cannot buy; health, 
 happiness and a faithful heart cannot be had for silver and 
 gold, nor yet those joys of the mind which remain when all else 
 has departed, to give us INWARD RESOURCES when we 
 have reached the place, 
 
 "Where the sunset glories lie." * 
 
 And there is going to be "a new heaven and a new earth," 
 when our boys come home. Nothing is going to be quite the 
 same then, for they must earn their bread in new ways — that is 
 quite certain. Yet "we cannot live by bread alone", nor by gold 
 alone. We must also have POETRY and TALES. 
 
 George Douglas in the Chronicle says this: "The names of Cali- 
 fornian writers are £non>n all over the globe. The efforts of our authors 
 need not to be published, but it is Well that the world should £non> 
 WHAT A CRADLE OF NATIONAL LITERATURE THIS 
 STATE HAS BEEN AND IS." 
 
 Gold, Wheat and Letters, besides Art and Music, are ours. 
 But the Art of Letters is the most lasting, for it preserves our 
 history. As Edward Robeson Taylor says in "Poetic Art", 
 
 The cities vanish; one by one 
 The glories fade that paled the sun; 
 At Time's continuous, fateful call 
 The temples and the palaces all fall; 
 While heroes do their deeds and then 
 Sink down to earth as other men. 
 Yet let the poet's mind and heart 
 But touch them with the wand of art 
 And lo! they rise and shine once more 
 In greater splendor than before. 
 
 Would you have these glories for yours? Then seek the 
 books, the files and the scattered riches of our own writers. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 31 
 
 And amongst other things demand a new edition of "Wander 
 Songs*' by McGroarty, "California Sunshine" by Lillian H. S. 
 Bailey, and other poems by other poets, and talk of them, 
 and start a new thrill all along the line in this dear delight 
 of finding treasures in our Californiana. Do not let the 
 gallant gentlemen of the press in London do all the work 
 of discovering our Ina Coolbriths, our Edward Rowland Sills, 
 our Jack Londons, our Clark Ashton Smiths, our George Ster- 
 lings. 
 
 I give you, for your own, Gabriel Furlong Butler, who has 
 voiced for all of us our own emotion in the "Song of An Ab- 
 sent Son". Let this unknown poet be placed in your hearts 
 if not in the hall of fame, for that one song of affection and 
 loyalty to our beloved state. 
 
 This is the wish of your Sister-in-California, 
 
 THE GATHERER, 
 
 Ella Sterling Mighels. 
 
32 
 
 Foreword 
 
 "How shall I so artfully arrange 
 my cautious words/' that you may 
 hear, listen, and be drawn to enter into 
 this temple of beauty in response to my 
 "Call to Prayer?" Here you may find 
 many treasures of the mind and the 
 heart to the refreshment of your soul 
 and your faith and your youth, all 
 flashing with literary iridescence, as 
 stained-glass windows to illumine the 
 months of the year. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF YOUTH 
 
 Youth is not a time of life; it is a state of mind. It is 
 the same here in San Francisco or in Lima, Peru. It is not a 
 matter of ripe cheeks, red lips and supple knees ; it is a temper 
 of will, a quality of the imagination, a vigor of the emotions. 
 It is freshness of the deep springs of life. 
 
 Youth means a temperamental predominance of courage 
 over timidity, of the appetite for adventure over the life of ease. 
 This often exists in a man of fifty more than in a boy of twenty. 
 Nobody grows old by merely living a number of years. People 
 grow old by deserting their ideals. 
 
 Years wrinkle the skin ; but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles 
 the soul. Worry, self-distrust, fear and despair — these are the 
 long, long years that bow the hearts and turn the greening- 
 spirit back to dust. Whether sixty or sixteen, there is in every 
 human-being's heart the lure of wonder, the sweet amazement 
 at the stars and at starlike things and thoughts, the undaunted 
 challenge of events, the unfailing childlike appetite for what- 
 next, and the joy of the game of living. You are as young as 
 your faith, as old as your doubt; as young as your confidence, 
 as old as your fear; as young as your hope, as old as your 
 despair. 
 
 In the central part of your heart is an evergreen tree ; its 
 name is Love. So long as it flourishes you are young. When 
 it dies, you are old. In the central part of your heart there is 
 a wireless station. So long as it receives messages of beauty, 
 hope, cheer, grandeur, courage and power from the earth, from 
 men, and from the Infinite, so long are you young. When the 
 wires are down and all the central place of your heart is covered 
 with the snows of cynicism and the ice of pessimism, then you 
 are grown old, even at twenty, and may God have mercy on 
 your soul ! 
 
 Thomas E. Flynn. 
 From San Francisco Wasp, 
 September, 1914. 
 
34 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 MY NEW YEAR'S GUESTS 
 
 Scene: A chamber in Virginia City, one of the pictures on the wall 
 being the reduced photographs of over ftve-hundred California Pioneers 
 of J 849. 
 
 Time: Midnight, December 31 , 1881 . 
 
 The winds come cold from the southward, with incense of fir and pine, 
 And the flying clouds grow darker as they halt and fall in line. 
 The valleys that reach the deserts, mountains that greet the clouds, 
 Lie bare in the arms of winter, which the prudish night enshrouds. 
 The leafless sage on the hillside, the willows low down the stream, 
 And the sentry rocks above us, have faded all as a dream. 
 The fall of the stamp grows fainter, the voices of night sink low; 
 And spelled from labor, the miner toils home through the drifting snow. 
 
 As I sit alone in my chamber this last of the dying year, 
 
 Dim shadows of the past surround me, and faint through the storm I 
 
 hear 
 Old tales of the castles builded, under shelving rock and pine, 
 Of the bearded men and stalwart I greeted in forty-nine. 
 
 The giants with hopes audacious, the giants with iron limb; 
 
 The giants who journeyed westward when the trails were new and dim; 
 
 The giants who felled the forests, made pathways over the snows, 
 
 And planted the vine and fig-tree where the manzanita grows; 
 
 Who swept down the mountain gorges, and painted their endless night 
 
 With their cabins, rudely fashioned, and their camp-fires' ruddy light; 
 
 Who builded great towns and cities, who swung back the Golden Gate, 
 
 And hewed from the mighty ashlar the form of a sovereign State; 
 
 Who came like a flood of waters to a thirsty desert plain, 
 
 And where there had been no reapers grew valleys of golden grain. 
 
 Nor wonder that this strange music sweeps in from the silent past, 
 And comes with the storm this evening, and blends its strains with the 
 
 blast, 
 Nor wonder that through the darkness should enter a spectral throng, 
 And gather around my table with the old-time smile and song; 
 For there on the wall before me, in a frame of gilt and brown, 
 With a chain of years suspended, old faces are looking down; 
 Five hundred all grouped together — five hundred old Pioneers — 
 Now list as I raise the taper and trace the steps of the years; 
 
 Behold this face near the center; we met ere his locks were gray; 
 His purse like his heart was open; he struggles for bread today. 
 
 To this one the fates were cruel; but he bore his burden well, 
 And the willow bends in sorrow by the wayside where he fell. 
 
 Great losses and grief crazed this one; great riches turned this one's 
 
 head; 
 And a faithless wife wrecked this one — he lives but were better dead. 
 
 Now closer the light on this face; 'twas wrinkled when we were young; 
 His torch drew our footsteps westward; his name is on every tongue. 
 
JANUARY 35 
 
 Rich was he in lands and kindness, but the human deluge came 
 And left him at last with nothing but death and a deathless fame. 
 
 'Twas a kindly hand that grouped them — these faces of other years — 
 
 The rich and the poor together — the hopes, and the smiles, and the tears 
 
 Of some of the fearless hundreds, who went like knights of old, 
 
 The banner of empire bearing to the land of blue and gold. 
 
 For years have I watched these shadows, as others I know have done; 
 
 As death touched their lips with silence, I have draped them one by one, 
 
 Till, seen where the dark-plumed Angel has mingled them here and 
 
 there, 
 The brows I have flecked with sable, the living cloud everywhere. 
 
 Darker and darker and darker these shadows will yearly grow, 
 As, changing, the seasons bring us the bud and the falling snow, 
 And soon — let us not invoke it! — the final prayer will be said, 
 And strangers will write the record, "The last of the group is dead." 
 
 And then — but why stand here gazing? A gathering storm in my eyes 
 Is mocking the weeping tempest that billows the midnight skies; 
 And, stranger still — is it fancy? are my senses dazed and weak? — 
 The shadowy lips are moving as if they would ope and speak; 
 And I seem to hear low whispers, and catch the echo of strains 
 That rose from the golden gulches and followed the moving trains. 
 
 The scent of the sage and desert, the path o'er the rocky height. 
 The shallow graves by the roadside — all, all have come back tonight; 
 And the mildewed years, like stubble, I trample under my feet, 
 And drink again at the fountain when the wine of life was sweet; 
 
 And I stand once more exalted where the white pine frets the skies, 
 And dream in the winding canyon where early the twilight dies. 
 Now the eyes look down in sadness. The pulse of the year beats low; 
 The storm has been awed to silence; the muffled hands of the snow, 
 Like the noiseless feet of mourners, are spreading a pallid sheet 
 On the breast of dead December and glazing the shroud with sleet. 
 
 Hark! the bells are chiming midnight; the storm bends its listening ear, 
 While the moon looks through the cloud-rifts and blesses the new-born 
 year. 
 
 And now the faces are smiling. What augury can it be? 
 
 No matter; the hours in passing will fashion the years for me. 
 
 Bar closely the curtained windows; shut the light from every pane, 
 
 While, free from the world's intrusion and curious eyes profane, 
 
 I take from its leathern casket, a dinted old cup of tin, 
 
 More precious to me than silver, and blessing the draught within, 
 
 I drink alone in silence to the "Builders of the West" — 
 
 "Long life to the hearts still beating, and peace to the hearts at rest." 
 
 Rollin Mallory Daggett. 
 From "Story of the Fi7es," 
 San Francisco, 1893. 
 
36 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 TAVERNIER'S INDIAN GIRL 
 
 The Indian maiden gazing in wonder at a ship entering the 
 Golden Gate was the work of Jules Tavernier. One of the 
 children of his fertile brain, it was drawn for the title-page of 
 the Christmas "Argonaut" for 1878. It would have been used 
 as a cover page every week, but mechanical difficulties in the 
 press-room caused the fine block to be laid aside except for 
 Christmas editions. 
 
 In Tavernier's immense atelier, a favorite rendezvous for 
 the Bohemian painters and writers of San Francisco, there were 
 many sketches which gave evidence of his fertility and origi- 
 nality in design. He was abounding in ideas. The Indian girl 
 figured in not a few of his sketches. His was a versatile gen- 
 ius — he could paint in oils, in water-color, in pastel, in distem- 
 per; he was a wizard with chalk and charcoal. Photo-zincog- 
 raphy was just coming in, and Tavernier, Joseph Strong and 
 Julian Rix did work for some of the earlier numbers of the 
 "Argonaut" in this new medium. But Tavernier's unique and 
 beautiful design of the Indian maiden gazing out upon the Gol- 
 den Gate is all that is remembered of the "Argonaut" illustra- 
 tions of those vanished years. 
 
 ri/ ... , Jerome A. Hart. 
 
 Written for 
 
 "Literary California." 
 
 OLD CALIFORNIA 
 
 'Tis a land so far that you wonder whether 
 E'en God would know it should you fall down dead; 
 'Tis a land so far through the wilds and weather, 
 That the sun falls weary and flushed and red, — 
 That the sea and the sky seem coming together, 
 Seem closing together as a book that is read: 
 
 Oh! the nude, weird West, where an unnamed river 
 
 Rolls restless in bed of bright silver and gold; 
 
 Where restless flashing mountains flow rivers of silver 
 
 As a rock of the desert flowed fountains of gold 
 
 By a dark wooded river that calls to the dawn, 
 
 And makes mouths at the sea with his dolorous swan: 
 
 Oh! the land of the wonderful sun and weather, 
 With green under foot and with gold over head, 
 Where the sun takes flame and you wonder whether 
 Tis an isle of fire in his foamy bed: 
 
 Where the ends of the earth they are welding together 
 In rough-hewn fashion, in a forge-flame red. 
 
 Joaquin Miller. 
 
GALAXY 1.— POETS, PROSE-WRITERS, HUMORISTS 
 
 Mark Twain 
 Henry George 
 
 Bret Harte 
 Joaquin Miller 
 
 Joseph Le Conte 
 
 John Phoenix 
 Ambrose Bierce 
 'Caxton" Rhodes 
 
 Edward Rowland Sill 
 
 Edward A. Pollock 
 
 Charles WarrenStoddard 
 
 Ina Coolbrith 
 
 37 
 
GALAXY 2.— EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS 
 
 Frank Pixley 
 
 James Anthony 
 
 Benjamin P. Avery 
 
 Frederick Marriott, Sr. 
 
 Calvin B. McDonald M. H. de Young 
 
 J. Macdonough Foard Rollin M. Daggett 
 
 Fred Somers Joseph T.Goodman 
 John H. Carmany Paul Morrill 
 
 38 
 
JANUARY 39 
 
 JUST AS THE NEW YEAR WAS DAWNING 
 
 Just as the new year was dawning 
 His mind wandered back to the past, 
 Friends of his youth passed before him, — 
 Would that those visions might last. 
 
 Tired and calm he lay resting, 
 
 And quietly soon fell asleep, 
 
 And thus as we watched by the bedside 
 
 He silently passed o'er the deep. 
 
 The Pioneer band is fast passing, 
 Yet their spirit will linger for aye, — 
 The work and foundation they builded 
 Was not made to crumble away; 
 
 But will stand as a monument to them, 
 And their brave, dauntless spirit of old. 
 The true heart, the quick hand, the kindness 
 Are to us, far dearer than gold. 
 
 From "Grizzly, Bear Magazine"; Elizabeth McCrath. 
 
 written in Memory of Baruch Pride, 
 
 an old Forty-niner who passed away, January, 1916, 
 
 in his 87th year, beloved by all. 
 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 O California, just the old dear sound — 
 
 Again that one word can the whole world bound! 
 
 Thank God for that Sierran world, a king 
 
 Might go his way, long envying. 
 
 Among illimitable peaks high-hung 
 
 With forests, dateless, deathless, ever young — 
 
 The child-world bright with faith and hope. 
 
 Anna Catherine Marfyham. 
 From "Current Poetry,* 1 
 February 5th, 1916. 
 
 THE GOLDEN GATE 
 
 Down by the side of the Golden Gate 
 
 The city stands; 
 Grimly, and solemn, and silent, wait 
 
 The walls of the land, 
 Guarding its door, as a treasure fond; 
 And none may pass to the sea beyond, 
 But they who trust to the king of fate, 
 And pass through the Golden Gate. 
 The ships go out through its narrow door, 
 White-sailed, and laden with precious store — 
 White-sailed, and laden with precious freight, 
 
40 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 The ships come back through the Golden Gate. 
 The sun comes up o'er the Eastern crest, 
 The sun goes down in the golden West, 
 And the East is West, and the West is East, 
 And the sun from his toil of day released, 
 f Shines back through the Golden Gate. 
 
 Down by the side of the Golden Gate — 
 
 The door of life, — 
 Are resting our cities, sea-embowered, 
 White-walled, and templed, and marble-towered — 
 
 The end of strife. 
 The ships have sailed from the silent walls, 
 And over their sailing the darkness falls. 
 O, the sea is so dark, and so deep, and wide! 
 Will the ships come back from the further side? 
 "Nay; but there is no further side," 
 A voice is whispering across the tide, — 
 "Time, itself, is a circle vast, 
 Building the future out of the past; 
 For the new is old, and the old is new, 
 And the true is false, and the false is true, 
 And West is East, and the East is West, 
 And the sun that rose o'er the Eastern crest, 
 Gone down in the West of his circling track, 
 Forever, and ever, is shining back 
 
 Through the Golden Gate of life." 
 O Soul! thy city is standing down 
 
 By its Golden Gate; 
 Over it hangs the menacing frown 
 
 Of the king of fate. 
 The sea of knowledge so near its door, 
 Is rolling away to the further shore — 
 
 The orient side, — 
 And the ocean is dark, and deep, and wide! 
 But thy harbor, O, Soul! is filled with sails, 
 Freighted with messages, wonder tales, 
 From the lands that swing in the sapphire sky, 
 Where the gardens of God in the ether lie. 
 If only thy blinded eyes could see, 
 If only thy deaf-mute heart could hear, 
 The ocean of knowledge is open to thee, 
 And its Golden Gate is near! 
 For the dead are the living — the living the dead, 
 And out of the darkness the light is shed; 
 And the East is West, and the West is East, 
 And the sun from his toil of day released, 
 Shines back through the Golden Gate. 
 
 From "Golden Cater Mad § e Morris. 
 
 1885. 
 
 A SIGNIFICANT CRISIS IN THE WEST 
 
 Do the American people realize that they are now facing 
 on our Pacific frontier what may easily become the most sig- 
 nificant crisis which the Western world has confronted since 
 
JANUARY 41 
 
 Thermopylae — a question not of policy or prosperity or of 
 progress, but of existence? Nothing can keep our Pacific coast 
 essentially a white man's country except our continued deter- 
 mination to keep it so. 
 
 Nothing can preserve the essentially American social text- 
 ures of the states bordering the Pacific except the preservation 
 of the racial integrity of their population. And if that is not 
 guarded nothing can prevent the caste system and the wreck 
 of free institutions from spreading backward over the moun- 
 tains and across the plans absolutely without limit until the 
 white man at last takes another stand and establishes a new 
 frontier at the Rockies, the Mississippi or the Atlantic, with 
 all the west of the new line outside the precincts of the white 
 man's world. 
 
 It is a question on which a blunder once made can never 
 be rectified. The frontier of the white man's world must be 
 established some day, some where. Unless this generation es- 
 tablishes it at the Pacific coast no future generation will ever 
 have the chance to establish it so far west, or to maintain it 
 anywhere except by war and permanent lines of garrisoned 
 fortresses. 
 
 The problem is ours in the next few years in California, 
 Washington and Oregon, and in the Capital and White House. 
 The consequences are the whole world's, everywhere, forever. 
 
 Chester Rorvell. 
 From "Collier 's Weekly" 
 1909. 
 
 POETIC ART 
 
 The cities vanish ; one by one 
 The glories fade that paled the sun ; 
 At Time's continuous, fateful call 
 The temples and palaces fall; 
 While heroes do their deeds and then 
 Sink down to earth as other men. 
 Yet, let the Poet's mind and heart 
 But touch them with the wand of art, 
 And lo ! they rise and shine once more 
 In greater splendor than before. 
 
 Edward Robeson Taylor. 
 From "Into the Light" 
 Sherman, French and Company, 
 Boston, 1912. 
 
42 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE DEATH OF POETRY 
 
 There is no demand for poetry, according to one of the greatest of 
 international publishers. — Daily Paper, 1909. 
 
 Lay her and her muted lyre By vagrant stream and eerie wood 
 
 Here together on this pyre. She wandered with the merry Hood. 
 
 And the laurels she has won Piped her pastoral lays oft were 
 
 Lay them, lay them, one by one With Goldsmith as interpreter. 
 
 As a pillow for her head And Whitman knew her dreamy days 
 
 Who lies here forlorn and dead. And went with her up mountain ways. 
 
 None to mourn her, none to praise, When gloomy Poe her favor sued, 
 
 Homer loved her in his days; She listened and she understood. 
 
 Sappho struck the lyre of her, Holmes claimed her joyous presence oft, 
 
 Petrarch was her worshipper. And Bryant knew her in her soft 
 
 Virgil, Dante, all are mute, And gracious whiles, and Whittier 
 
 Hers a split and silenced lute. In green fields would walk with her. 
 
 Burns, her erring child and poor, A minister to grief she moved 
 
 Byron wooed her, and did Moore By many wooed, yet few she loved, 
 
 From her happiest moods beguile And those she best beloved, she lent 
 
 Sweetness in a word or smile, Her grandeur of the firmament, 
 
 And where subtle Shelley slept Of seas and skies and subtle arts 
 
 She caused once an hour — and wept. Of love and grief and human hearts. 
 
 Regal, beautiful, she stood Here upon the funeral pyre 
 
 In her glorious goddesshood, Lay her and her muted lyre. 
 
 Bade Shakespeare, her child to be Know ye, mourners at the bier, 
 
 By right of her divinity. 'Tis a goddess that lies here. 
 
 Half godlike, and where'er she trod And above thee all as far 
 
 She hallowed man and worshipped God. As the weeping angels are. 
 
 James W. Foley. 
 From 4 Wen> York Times** 
 1905. 
 
 THE NEW POETRY 
 
 America is the happy hunting-ground for those who are 
 
 producing the new poetry, say the British critics, utterly at a 
 
 loss to understand why the book-publishing industry in this 
 
 country is issuing so many volumes of verse. 
 
 ****** 
 
 America more than any other nation buys and actually 
 
 reads not only the spring poet, but also the summer, winter 
 
 and fall varieties. In no other country are there published so 
 
 many volumes of verse or is there so much space devoted to 
 
 poetry in newspapers and periodicals. Not content with the 
 
 domestic supply, we import cargoes of foreign verse, some of 
 
 the British bards admitting that but for the American market 
 
 their industry would not be profitable. 
 
 * " * * * * * 
 
 It is perfectly natural and in line with almost universal 
 experience that a comparatively young nation should be fruit- 
 ful in the poetic idea. 
 
 ****** 
 
 In poetry, greatness is seldom fully recognized in its day. 
 Nearly all the immortals were not acknowledged as such until 
 
JANUARY 43 
 
 it became necessary to find out just where they were born and 
 buried. 
 
 The best of American poetry is genuinely new, and not 
 because of its tendency to novel form, but because, like all 
 great poetries, it is steeped to the chin in the life of its time. 
 Economists, politicians and historians may show how much that 
 is old, is in the supposedly new, but there is something new 
 in every nation, in every day, in every life, and the true poet 
 is he who sees it and gives it permanent expression. 
 
 George Douglas. 
 From the "San Francisco Chronicle" 19 14; 
 this is given in reply to Foley's poem, 
 published nine years before, showing that Poetry 
 Was "not dead but only sleeping" 
 
 THE POET-TOUCH 
 
 What is the poet-touch? Ah me, that every bard might gain it 
 And having once attained the prize, forever might retain it; 
 To touch no thing that's vile, unless to teach the world to scorn it, 
 To touch no thing that's beautiful save only to adorn it! 
 
 Clarence Urmy. 
 
 From "A California Troubadour," 
 
 A. M. Robertson, San Francisco, 1912. 
 
 POETRY 
 
 She comes like the husht beauty of the night, 
 
 And sees too deep for laughter; 
 Her touch is a vibration and a light 
 From worlds before and after. 
 
 Edwin Markham. 
 From "Story of the Files of California," 
 San Francisco, 1893. 
 
 THE POET 
 
 To preach the wisdom of the ages, 
 To glorify those seers and sages 
 
 Who taught that life is but transition; 
 To seek denial in endeavor, 
 To sing to men God's truths forever, 
 
 This is the poet's holy mission. 
 
 To give a voice to spirits voiceless, 
 To make rejoice the heart rejoiceless, 
 
 To worship Love and Faith and Beauty; 
 To learn Life's everlasting meaning, 
 Which Nature seems forever screening, 
 
 This is the poet's glorious duty. 
 
44 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 To be the symbol of creation, 
 
 The warrior of his land and nation, 
 
 Whatever dangers may surround her; 
 To see her glory not diminished, 
 To see her mighty race is finished, 
 
 When Liberty divine has crowned her. 
 
 And when men's deeds of valor dwindle, 
 To reawaken and enkindle 
 
 Within their souls a higher splendor; 
 To be amidst the van forbearing, 
 To be the first of freemen daring, 
 
 The last of mortals to surrender. 
 
 To lead where none may seem to follow 
 Along the pathway of Apollo, 
 
 Where Powers Eternal seem to set him, 
 This should the poet do forever, 
 Though myriads laugh at his endeavor, 
 
 Though men remember or forget him. 
 
 From the Lorenzo Sosso. 
 
 "Story of the Files of California" 
 
 1893. 
 
 INDIRECTION 
 
 A POEM OF GREAT BEAUTY 
 
 Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is 
 
 fairer; 
 Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is rarer; 
 Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is sweeter; 
 And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning out-mastered the metre. 
 
 Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the growing; 
 Never a river that flows, but a majesty scepters the flowing; 
 Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than he did enfold him; 
 Nor never a prophet foretells, but a mightier seer hath foretold him. 
 
 Back of the canvas that throbs, the painter is hinted and hidden; 
 Into the statue that breathes, the soul of the sculptor is bidden; 
 Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite issues of feeling; 
 Crowning the glory revealed is the glory that crowns the revealing. 
 
 Great are the symbols of being, but that which is symboled is greater; 
 Vast the created and beheld, but vaster the inward creator; 
 Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift stands the giving; 
 Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves of receiving. 
 
 Space is nothing to spirit, the deed is outdone by the doing; 
 
 The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of the wooing; 
 
 And up from the pits where these shiver, and up from the heights 
 
 where those shine, 
 Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the essence of life is 
 
 divine. 
 From "Readings from the California Poets; 9 f^chard Realf. 
 
 by Edmund Russell Doxey, Publisher, 
 San Francisco, 1893. 
 
JANUARY 45 
 
 MINING AND POETRY 
 
 The shaft some thousand fathoms I descended, 
 
 To where stout miners worked 'mid endless night, 
 
 The walls reflected back my taper's light 
 As through these catacombs of gold I wended, 
 I saw the rocks from where God placed them rended 
 
 By patient stroke of pick and muscle's might, 
 
 And then I saw the metal fair and bright 
 Cleared of the dross with which 'twas whilom blended 
 I thought, while watching them the quartz refine, 
 
 The poet with these toilers is akin: 
 
 Although a different meed he seeks to win, 
 For he, instructed by a power divine, 
 
 Selects from thoughts ignoble, mean, and poor, 
 
 The golden ones that ever must endure. 
 
 Richard Edward White. 
 
 RE-DISCOVERING THE WORLD BY RE-THINKING IT 
 
 In spite of the conflicting cries which arise here and there 
 from the market-place, it would seem there are some plain 
 things of simple observation concerning which those who sit 
 in the porch might be esteemed to be reasonably agreed. First, 
 there is the importance of learning some one thing well. The 
 achievement of units bears a very lax relation to getting an 
 education. A congeries of two and three-hour courses selected 
 because of their convenient time, their pleasant name and their 
 charitable basis of credit, may yield a degree, but will not, 
 however numerous, make MIND, any more than many moulds 
 of jelly will build a wall. 
 
 * * * In doing one thing well, the student will learn 
 more or less about other things. Through one field mastered 
 he gets the lay of the land all about him. It is the one way 
 known among men. * * * The subject of study a man 
 chooses is of far less importance than the attitude he learns 
 to assume toward the truth. * * * It is not a man's out- 
 ward equipment that counts, but his character. The subject 
 of study is to be regarded as little more than a certain healthy 
 food for a growing mental organism. Feed well, keep clean, 
 and let nature do the rest. 
 
 Of more importance still than subject or training is the 
 competence to transmute the form of learning into the form 
 of discovery. Toward stimulating this competency, in short 
 range or in great, all higher training must strive. * * * 
 Fresh thinking is the very breath of life to a university. A 
 man who has once, in small or great, exhausted all that is 
 
46 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 known on a given matter, and, having proceeded alone beyond 
 the outer picket line of the advance, has gained glimpses of new- 
 lands in new relation to the old, has become thereby a changed 
 man for all his life. A new fever is in his blood. It is no 
 longer worth his while to borrow. He has now discovered. 
 
 Man rises to the highest there is in him when he shakes 
 himself free from imitation, superstition and convention; and 
 setting free MIND above the ruts of matter, re-discovers his 
 world by re-thinking it. * * * 
 
 A university is a place where men living together in the 
 sharing of outlook and tasks may shape their lives to social 
 need by learning to understand one province where human 
 thought has leveled roads, and by helping, find the further way. 
 
 If our walls are to bear but one inscription, let these five 
 words standing at the entering in of its gates tell what the uni- 
 versity is for: "To Help Find the Way." 
 
 Benjamin Ide Wheeler. 
 
 From an address given at Stanford University 
 on Founder s Day, Friday, March 10, 1916, 
 by President Wheeler of the University of California. 
 
 TO MRS. PHOEBE A. HEARST 
 
 AS REGENT AND PATRON OF THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 The children cannot "live by bread alone," 
 For some have gifts of Art and Song, 
 And some to Science fair belong 
 
 As e'en the very stars have known 
 
 The while they grind at Earth and Stone. 
 And so it seems from out the throng 
 Comes one with fairy step and strong 
 
 Bright wand as from another zone 
 
 To give them benison at fateful hour, 
 
 And more than this! — She e'en bestows 
 
 Herself like guardian angel from the wood, 
 
 Upon that youthful brood to give them power — 
 
 Preserving pattern thus, to each who knows 
 
 The sweetness of her gracious ladyhood. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 
JANUARY 47 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO GEORGE HAMLIN FITCH 
 
 George Hamlin Fitch — critic, lover and maker of literature, 
 teacher of life! 
 
 I have, Sir, for many years followed your career as a liter- 
 ary critic, and have been thankful that so wise a guide has been 
 vouchsafed to that large public in California whose reading is 
 almost altogether confined to the daily newspaper, and to that 
 other public which knows you through the essays that have 
 been gathered within the covers of your books. You have been 
 a teacher of doctrine that is vital, an admirer and a maker of 
 the beauty that is art. Your doctrine of life — your philosophy 
 of what is worth while — I venture to reconstruct from your 
 criticism of the masters of English prose. 
 
 You teach that "the spiritual life is far more important than 
 the material life"; that "spiritual fervor and moral force" drive 
 the wheel of progress; that of literature the supreme test is 
 "spiritual potency"; that "the spiritual life is the greatest thing 
 in this world", and that in it alone we find abiding "strength 
 and comfort". You teach that "work is worship and that the 
 night soon cometh when no man can work"; that it is by 
 struggle alone that we approach "that culture of the mind and 
 soul which is the more precious the harder the fight to secure it." 
 
 You teach that in work is happiness — "in good, honest 
 work done with all a man's heart and soul, the only enduring 
 happiness". You teach that in faith is inspiration ; in faith, 
 enthusiasm. For child and man these words of yours are a 
 timely warning and a tonic". It seems to me that the saddest 
 thing in this world is to lose one's youthful enthusiasms. When 
 you can keep these fresh and strong, after years of contact with 
 a selfish world, age cannot touch you". 
 
 You, Sir, like the chief among your prophets and masters, 
 Thomas Carlyle, have sounded a bugle-call to youth and age 
 "to lift them through the fight", to breathe into them "the in- 
 domitable spirit which makes life look good even to the man 
 who feels the pinch of poverty and whose outlook is dreary". 
 You teach that which is most worthy of homage in the prophets 
 and makers of our English prose ; and what you teach we find 
 in your motive and service, too. 
 
 You admire the visions of verity and righteousness in art; 
 the sublimity and the humor and the pathos, the terror and the 
 beauty, of imaginative and emotional appeal in literature ; the 
 music of impassioned prose, the harmony and thunder of the 
 organ-tone, the rhapsody of the harp, the voice of the flute; 
 the grandeur and the sweetness, the riches and the simplicity. 
 
48 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 What you have taught others to admire, you have yourself 
 made, in your quiet and unassuming way, in the art of literary 
 criticism. And what you have created is but the image of the 
 heart of the maker. Admiring the image, we admire most the 
 heart of you. 
 
 Charles Mills Galley. 
 From "Hayrvard Journal" 
 October 6, 1916. 
 
 (Delivered at Elder's Gallery September 2, 1916, on the occasion of "An Afternoon 
 with George Hamlin Fitch's Works;" the author being in London at the time. Other 
 speakers who thus joined in honoring their fellow-companion who has added to the 
 riches of "Literary California," in many ways, were the following: George Douglas, 
 William Herbert Carruth, Zoeth S. Eldredge, Robert Rea, Charles B. Field, Bailey 
 Millard, Richard Edward White, Ina Coolbrith and Ella Sterling Mighels.) 
 
 A LITERARY LIGHT OF THE EARLY DAYS 
 
 The "Shirley Letters", written by Mrs. Louise Clappe in 
 1851 and 1852, and published in the "Pioneer Magazine" of 
 1854 and 1855, will always have a unique and unchallenged 
 place as the background of typical California literature. Here 
 was the Pioneer pen that blazed the trail to western romance 
 for all the brilliant early California writers. 
 
 To her knowledge of art, science and history, she added 
 personal charm and a sympathy and enthusiasm in the interests 
 and endeavors of her fellowmen, so that from her arrival with 
 her husband, Dr. Clappe, in San Francisco in 1849, she made a 
 decided and far-reaching impress upon the community during 
 the formative period of the new state. 
 
 Early in 1851, Dr. and Mrs. Clappe went to the enticing 
 mines, and located at Rich bar on the North Fork of the Feather 
 river. There, amid the frenzied struggle for earthly wealth, she 
 built on the higher foundation of "cabin-home" influence and 
 womanly ministration, at the same time recognizing the virgin 
 soil, the unprecedented, unheard-of opportunity for her facile 
 pen; and she transcribed the wonderful scenes of trail and 
 camp, and the pathetic and the humorous dramas being enacted 
 about her. She portrayed the excited, picturesque types of hu- 
 manity, the glamor, the thrilling incidents of adventure, of 
 gambling with nature for gold or for destruction — the spirit of 
 which she immortalized in those spontaneous, fascinating epis- 
 tles which were intended only for the family "at home". But 
 Ferdinand C. Ewer, the gifted editor of the "Pioneer Magazine", 
 rescued them from obscurity. 
 
 The "Letters" were hailed in the east as a wonderful "find", 
 and among those here who were captivated by their charm was 
 Bret Harte, then called Frank Bret Harte. His story of "The 
 Outcasts of Poker Flat" (which did not appear until many 
 
JANUARY 49 
 
 years later) had its foundation in a graphic picture she gives 
 in one of the "Letters" of the fallen women being driven out 
 of the camp. He enjoyed her brilliant wit and conversation ; 
 and she opened his vision to the mountain possibilities for the 
 pen — of treasures of history to be yielded up where she felt 
 she had but done "placer work". 
 
 Upon the death of her husband, Mrs. Clappe became a 
 teacher in the San Francisco public schools, notably in the high 
 school, where she exercised a beneficial and lasting influence. 
 She enriched every life that she intimately touched. Nothing 
 missed her discerning spirit. Quick to discover anything espe- 
 cially promising in a pupil, she stimulated him or her to de- 
 velop the gift. Some of her students have achieved reputation 
 as writers and in other fields of high endeavor. 
 
 Among her discoveries was Charles Warren Stoddard, the 
 poet, who adored her. To him she was "Ariel" with magic 
 wand. In addition to her school-duties, she, by request, estab- 
 lished classes in elocution, art and literature which were largely 
 attended by ladies of society. She held her salon, bringing to- 
 gether the most cultivated and distinguished men and women 
 of California, and from the east. Such men as Ralph Waldo 
 Emerson and Agassiz were her guests. Here such spirits as 
 John Muir often sought her company. She was the first one 
 to give parlor recitals and to promote amateur theatricals in 
 San Francisco. 
 
 Before she left the city to make her final home in the 
 east, a grand musicale was given to do her honor, and in loving 
 reverential recognition of her worth. A resultant purse of some 
 $2000, born of the California spirit of those days, was humbly 
 and gratefully put into her hand. But a deeper expression that 
 thousands of us former pupils added was evidenced in tears 
 and an ache of heart as we saw her depart. 
 
 In New York city that noble woman came "into her own", 
 enjoying her adored niece, Genevieve Stebbins, the accomplished 
 family of her old friend, Dr. Ferdinand C. Ewer, of the "Pioneer 
 Magazine" (then a celebrated clergyman of fashionable New 
 York), and the many gifted friends she drew about her by the 
 graces of her spirit. As a crowning glory, a member of the dis- 
 tinguished Field family took her all over Europe, where she 
 especially sought the old art-galleries with which she had famil- 
 iarized herself and hosts of others, but had scarce hoped to see. 
 
 Her summers were spent in New Jersey in the happy sub- 
 urban home of some members of Bret Harte's family, and it 
 was from there she passed "over the divide". Rich Bar, the 
 mining camp, with its flash and flame and its material gold, is 
 
50 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 long since forgotten; but the wealth of herself that she gave 
 there, and gave so liberally all through her illuminating life, 
 endures, and has its part in the establishment of the Kingdom 
 of Good. 
 
 Mary V. Tingle^ Lawrence. 
 
 A tribute from one early writer to another, 
 written for "Literary California" 191 5. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO MARSHALL, THE DISCOVERER OF 
 GOLD IN CALIFORNIA 
 
 We build in bronze our memory of the immortal Marshall, 
 not for the paltry piece of gold he picked up from the American 
 river, January 24th, 1848, but for the Pioneer in the man that 
 made possible the accident of discovery. The greatest great- 
 ness on earth is to be made the chosen instrument of God in 
 making possible the highest happiness of humanity. And this 
 was the part of Marshall and the early men of that time. 
 
 They were the messengers of Jehovah, the prophets of the 
 highest, the John the Baptists of geography, crying in the wil- 
 derness, "Prepare ye the way! make His paths straight for the 
 highest civilization, and for the mightiest commerce of the 
 world" ! That piece of gold was merely the beginning of greater 
 riches to come when the seed was to be planted in the sands, 
 and to put forth a thousandfold more in bountiful harvests for 
 future generations. 
 
 N. J. Bird. 
 From an address given in the 
 California Building, Columbian Exposition, 
 Chicago, 1893. 
 
 WHAT IS EDUCATION? 
 
 "Education is a systematic training of the natural faculties." 
 
 Mrs. M. M. Bay. 
 Silver Hill, Haywards, 
 1907. 
 
 THE LITTLE RED SCHOOL-HOUSES OF EARLY DAYS 
 
 I have some vivid memories of those old schools and school- 
 houses, which, like all Pioneer institutions, were rough and 
 ready and demanded adaptability from those who essayed to 
 preside over them. In the absence of clocks one learned to 
 
JANUARY 51 
 
 judge time by the sun, and with but the scantiest of equipment, 
 and that usually home-made, it devolved upon the teacher to 
 devise both means and methods. One district I particularly 
 remember for the variety of its incidental excitement. Myste- 
 rious Valley was in a lost corner less than a hundred miles 
 from San Francisco, as the crow flies. It was at the end of 
 ten miles of bad road beyond the terminus of a twenty-mile 
 stage line. The schoolhouse, built of green pine lumber in the 
 rough, was designed for summer use only, the available funds 
 being sufficient for six months, or, to be accurate, one hundred 
 and twenty days of schooling in the year. Accordingly, there 
 was no provision for heating, and when an untimely spell of 
 cold weather fell upon us in mid-April and chattering teeth and 
 blue and shivering limbs protested, some of the older boys vol- 
 unteered to build a fire out in the open, to which teacher and 
 pupils alike adjourned and danced about the cheerful flames 
 until circulation was restored. In less than a month's time 
 the warm weather had set in and the unceiled roof wept pitchy 
 tears on desk and floor, while every now and then a sharp 
 crack, a gleam of sunshine, and a metallic "ping" advised us 
 that another shake had warped off. Our schoolhouse would 
 have proved an ideal place for the study of "nature", had that 
 fad been on the official register in the sixties, seventies and 
 eighties of the nineteenth century. Birds in variety flew in 
 under the eaves, and, perching upon the rafters, sang so lustily 
 that it was often necessary to modify the daily programme and 
 defer oral recitations until quiet was restored. Jack rabbits 
 and Molly-cottontails hopped cheerfully up to the doorstep to 
 investigate, and in the evening, after the door was locked, squir- 
 rels and wood-rats would appropriate or make havoc of every 
 scrap of paper, or any book carelessly left within their reach. 
 Lizards we heeded not at all, but snakes, though probably 
 harmless, were never welcomed visitors. One day I found one 
 of the reptiles stretched along the rod at the bottom of a map, 
 leisurely exploring the United States, and on another occasion, 
 when some of the smallest pupils, after wriggling and squirm- 
 ing in their seats, began to climb upon the benches, an inquiry 
 into the cause of the excitement brought out the reply that 
 "there's a big sna-ik a-comin' up", and sure enough, something 
 like a yard of the reptile had already emerged through a knot- 
 hole in the floor, with more to come. 
 
 Sarah Connell. 
 From "Life in California.* 1 
 
52 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 A MATTER OF IMPORTANCE 
 
 I desire to remind you that the schoolhouse is the garden- 
 spot in which great minds are developed and cultivated. The 
 schoolhouse is the sign-post of civilization, education and en- 
 lightenment. When a new schoolhouse is erected it shows the 
 desire of that community to benefit the tender young who are 
 to follow in our wake. * * * 
 
 While we are fortunate to live in this great, prosperous 
 land, which is universally admired for its inexhaustible re- 
 sources, prolific soil, and its many grand virtues that bring pros- 
 perity to its inhabitants, I beg to remind you that it is not the 
 natural wealth with its bountiful resources alone that has de- 
 veloped the wonderful prosperity which challenges the admira- 
 tion of the dwellers of the old world, but it is the bright intel- 
 lect and superior education of the many great men it has pro- 
 duced. Compared with the old world, America is in its infancy, 
 yet it has developed men of remarkable minds in all walks of 
 life — men of the keenest powers of conception for designing and 
 of wonderful ability for execution — men who have, in a few 
 generations, transformed a savage land into a civilization, a 
 wilderness into admirable cultivation, and a continent filled 
 with nomadic wild tribes, with whom law and order were an 
 unknown quantity, into one of the greatest civilized nations 
 known to ancient or to modern history. 
 
 Education welded with that real unadulterated liberty en- 
 joyed by all in this blessed country is the great secret of this 
 wonderful success and achievement, and the schoolhouse is the 
 first step for the young to enable them to obtain that funda- 
 mental training to fit them for their life's career. It is there- 
 fore meet, and a sacred duty, for every community to provide 
 liberally for this start in life for them, by building comfortable 
 and sanitary schoolhouses, and by selecting able and competent 
 school-teachers to lead them to civilization, education and en- 
 lightenment. 
 
 From an address delivered at the S - Har ^ m ^ 
 
 opening of a new school-house in Merced, 
 on Arbor Day, March 26, 1909. 
 
 a 
 
 A BRIEF BUT INEFFECTUAL RADIANCE" 
 
 "Go forth, young man, into the wilderness." 
 The young man bowed his head, and urged his horse for- 
 ward in the bleak and barren plain. In half an hour every 
 vestige of the camp and its unwholesome surroundings was lost 
 
JANUARY 53 
 
 in the distance. It was as if the strong, desiccating wind, which 
 seemed to spring up at his horse's feet, had cleanly erased the 
 flimsy structures from the face of the plain, swept away the 
 lighter breath of praise and plaint, and dried up the easy flow- 
 ing tears. The air was harsh but pure; the grim economy of 
 form and shade and color in the level plain was coarse but not 
 vulgar; the sky above him was cold and distant but not re- 
 pellent; the moisture that had been denied his eyes at the 
 prayer-meeting overflowed them here; the words that had 
 choked his utterance an hour ago now rose to his lips. He 
 threw himself from his horse, and kneeling in the withered 
 grass — a mere atom in the boundless plain — lifted his pale face 
 against the irresponsive blue and prayed. 
 
 He prayed that the unselfish dream of his bitter boyhood, 
 his disappointed youth, might come to pass. He prayed that 
 he might in higher hands become the humble instrument of 
 good to his fellow man. He prayed that the deficiencies of his 
 scant education, his self-taught learning, his hopeless isolation, 
 and his inexperience might be overlooked or reinforced by grace. 
 He prayed that the Infinite Compassion might enlighten his 
 ignorance and solitude with a manifestation of the Spirit; in 
 his very weakness he prayed for some special revelation, some 
 sign or token, some visitation or gracious unbending from that 
 coldly lifting sky. The low sun burned the black edge of the 
 distant tules with dull eating fires as he prayed, lit the dwarfed 
 hills with a brief but ineffectual radiance, and then died out. 
 The lingering trade winds fired a few volleys over its grave* 
 and then lapsed into a chilly silence. The young man staggered 
 to his feet; it was quite dark now, but the coming night had 
 advanced a few starry vedettes so near the plain they looked 
 like human watchfires. For an instant he could not remember 
 where he was. Then a light trembled far down at the entrance 
 of the valley. Brother Gideon recognized it. It was in the 
 lonely farmhouse of the widow of the last Circuit preacher. 
 
 Bret Harte. 
 From "An Apostle of the Tules" 
 
 WHY DO EDITORS DISCOURAGE YOUNG WRITERS 
 FROM INDULGING IN FIGURES OF SPEECH? 
 
 "It is because the ornate is more liable to abuse than the 
 sober; ornament construction and do not construct ornamenta- 
 tion. A house must have walls. Simplicity of construction 
 would be four walls with partitions. Angles are made for the 
 purpose of relieving monotony — clouds break up the monotony 
 
54 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 of the sky. The stars give brilliancy, light and ornamentation 
 to the midnight firmament. It is night that gives light and joy 
 to day. Thought intensifies emotions ; the emotion which comes 
 from intensity of thought is true emotion. Emotion unsupported 
 by thought is merely the wings without the bird, the soul with- 
 out the personality, spirit that was not evolved from matter. 
 The earth must have warmth but not melting fervor. There is 
 a grandeur in eloquence when it lifts the mind to a lofty sum- 
 mit, but the summit on which it stands must be somber and 
 substantial. The difference between thoughtful work and 
 merely poetic fancy is the difference between a fire in the house 
 and a house on fire." 
 
 William H. Mills. 
 From "Story of the Files of California," 
 San Francisco, 1893. 
 
 SUTRO FOREST 
 
 Trees and the Man, I sing, for here behold ! 
 The white sand once a sweep of dunes and hills 
 The fervent wish and will of him fulfils, 
 Transformed to forests green and bold 
 Against the blue horizon and the sunset's gold. 
 And here is music from the trees, in trills 
 And pipings sweet, while fragrant breath distills 
 To electrify the atmosphere. I hold 
 That all the golden stores of Sutro's wealth 
 Bestowed on Art and Letters though they be 
 As fair as shines above the Northern Crown, 
 Yet greater is the joy that comes with health 
 Restored by blessed trees by this decree, 
 Planted by his order to redeem the town. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 
 PRACTICALITY VERSUS ROMANCE 
 
 Practicality comes from good, hard reasoning, but it pays 
 when it does come. It will bury your dead and dry your tears. 
 It will enable you to go hungry with very little murmuring. 
 It will ease your thirst and make your old clothes look respect- 
 able. It will show you how to live, how to make what money 
 there is to be made, how to stand rain, cold or heat. It will 
 help you to part from all you love best on earth, and, better 
 still, will enable you to live with disagreeable people. Will 
 romance do this? Will day-dreams mend your stockings? 
 
FEBRUARY 55 
 
 Will wishing and longing for the unattainable bring it to you? 
 It will paint the cloud sometimes and put music into the wind. 
 It will tinge the seasons with beauty, and often will beautify 
 even age itself, but it is not a profitable reality in the long run. 
 
 Adelaide J. Holmes Bailsman. 
 From the "Seattle Spectator," 
 1893. 
 
 THE GREAT PANORAMA 
 
 In January is seen the beginning of the great panorama of 
 Growing Things in California. The life-impulse starts suddenly 
 in the trees first of all. What a wonderful sight is the orange- 
 tree with its glossy green leaves, with three stages of growth 
 going on at one and the same time, the golden fruitage hiding 
 in the leaves, the green and gold half ripe on the way to per- 
 fection, and crowning all, the orange-blossoms in their pure 
 whiteness to serve for the bridal of Nature and her regal lord, 
 the Sun. 
 
 A. E. 
 
 THE GRAY ROAD OF SORROW 
 
 The world has many a road for the feet of you and me, 
 They cross the winding hills where the winds are blowing free, 
 They dip down the valleys and through many a place they're cast, 
 And the gray road of sorrow, oh, we come to it at last. 
 
 We come to it at last in the mists and sighing rain, 
 
 And though we leave it oft the whiles, we come to it again; 
 
 We come to it again with the sighing rains that fall 
 
 On the gray road of sorrow that loves and lures us all. 
 
 Once I thought to never walk that gray road hedged with yew, 
 Nor ever did you think to come, if I can read you true — 
 'Twas then that life and love were young, our blood with youth aflame, 
 Yet I found you on the gray road when first to it I came. 
 
 I found you in the sighing rain, beside the hedge of yew, 
 With the trouble dim upon your eyes that once were dancing blue, 
 With the trouble in the eyes of you, the hot tears on your cheek, 
 And the lips of you a-tremble with the word you could not speak. 
 
 i 
 And yet, oh, heart of me, as we wander down the years, 
 We fear it less and love it more, that gray road of tears — 
 The gray road of sorrow with its whispering yew and rain, 
 Its heartaches of memory, its trouble and its pain. 
 
 For, trod we ne'er the gray road, but always laughed along 
 
 The paths of the primrose and the sunlit trails of song — 
 
 Had we walked but where the happy throngs of mirth and pleasure go, 
 
 The throb of the gray road we had not learned to know. 
 
56 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 And 'tis not when the laughter and lilt of joy and song 
 Rings down the way of roses, where the gay and happy throng, 
 That life has most to give us, but it is when falls the rain 
 On the gray road of sorrow with its heart-break and pain. 
 
 So, here's my glass to yours, and I'll quaff with you the wine, 
 And I'll give you back another song for that you gave for mine, 
 But when God calls us near him, with souls and hearts laid bare, 
 The gray road of sorrow is the road that we must fare. 
 
 John Steven McGroarty. 
 
 A TOAST TO AUTHORS 
 
 Hither, minions, bear a cup, 
 
 I know not what it be; 
 But since it has a Scotchy smell, 
 
 We'll call it "barley bree." 
 
 And this good cup I empty now, 
 
 And will refill the same 
 To all who authors really are 
 
 And all who have the name. 
 
 To those who gather up the fruit, 
 
 To those who shake the tree, 
 To those who think that art is Art, 
 
 And those who disagree. 
 
 So, stand and hold your glasses high, 
 
 And turn the lights down low, 
 And chant to speed the going ghost 
 
 The dirge of Long Ago. 
 
 And if a twelvemonth hence we meet 
 
 To swaddle the New Year 
 And shroud the dying one, God grant — 
 
 God send we all be here! 
 
 Charles Henry Webb. 
 From "Watch Night at the Authors Club" in 
 "With Lead and Line" Cambridge, 
 Houghton and Mifflin, 1901. 
 
 ONE OF THE TRADITIONS TO BE HANDED DOWN 
 
 One day I was in the editorial office of the "San Fran- 
 ciscan", which ran for a year, from 1885 to 1886. The two 
 editors, Joseph Goodman and Arthur McEwen, were philoso- 
 phizing regarding the attitude held by a young man when he 
 first starts out in life. Said McEwen, "His first idea is to RE- 
 FORM the world." "Yes," agreed Goodman, "but after he has 
 
FEBRUARY 57 
 
 been knocking around a while, he finds it to be much more 
 pleasant to CONFORM to the world." 
 
 This amused me very much, and I went down to the Gol- 
 den Era office, where I was assistant-editor at that time, and 
 repeated these sayings to the proprietor and editor, Harr Wag- 
 ner. Mr. Wagner smiled and added, "And after another ten 
 years or so, he makes up his mind to PERFORM and do some- 
 thing for the world." 
 
 A quarter of a century later, these brilliant bon mots being 
 told to a young lad named Bram Nossen, a student at the Low- 
 ell High school, he also smiled and gave another to add to the 
 list. "And after another ten years or so he either INFORMS 
 or DEFORMS the world." 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From 
 "Life in California." 
 
 RONDEAU 
 
 This New Year's Eve the fire burns low 
 And midnight draweth slowly near; 
 Pale phantoms from the past appear 
 
 To mock me as the moments go 
 
 And memory's bitter floods o'erflow; 
 
 "Too late, too late," they gibe and jeer, 
 "Too late," my heart re-echoes, dear; 
 
 To ashes gray fades Hope's last glow 
 This New Year's Eve! 
 
 Yet list ! Exultant, silver-clear 
 
 The chimes ring in a glad new year! 
 What lies within its fateful clasp 
 We dare not guess, we may not grasp, 
 
 But sudden leaps Hope's flame, my dear, 
 This New Year's Eve ! 
 
 Ella M. Sexton. 
 
 WILLIAM KEITH 
 
 We read that under the far Indian skies 
 The dusk magician with his magic wand 
 Calls from the arid and unseeded sand, 
 
 Whereon the shadowless sun's hot fervor lies, 
 
 A perfect tree, before our wondering eyes. 
 First a green shoot uplifts a tender hand, 
 Then trunk and spreading foilage expand 
 
 To flower and fruit; — and then it droops and dies. 
 
58 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 But he — our wizard of the tinted brush — 
 In God's diviner necromancy skilled, 
 
 Gives to our vision earth, in grandeur free! 
 Rose-gold of dawn, and evening's purple hush, 
 The Druid-woods with nature's worship filled, 
 The mountains and the everlasting sea. 
 
 Ina Coolbrith. 
 
 A WORD OF PRAISE 
 
 A little bit of praising now and then 
 
 Is sweet as any comb of nectared honey; 
 It often gives a man the strength of ten, 
 
 And really makes the worst of weather sunny. 
 It soothes the sore heart and is a balm 
 
 For bruises that a chap is given daily; 
 A scented oil to lay the waters calm, 
 
 Whereon is skimming every shallop gaily! 
 
 There's music in a word or two of praise, 
 
 Such as the rose is singing in the dawning; 
 Or philharmonic zephyr-organ plays 
 
 When larks and linnets linger on the lawning! 
 It heals the aching ear of all its woe, 
 
 Of testy temper discords that assail it; 
 When from the heart its lyric fountains flow 
 
 And find another heart but to regale it! 
 
 Despondency will scatter as a mist 
 
 Before the sunbeam of a bit of praise, 
 Or as canker in a wild rose kissed 
 
 By some dew-lipped fairy of the moony ways. 
 So when a little poisoned dart is fired 
 
 By some one from a quiver filled with malice, 
 May some gentle spirit, with an art inspired, 
 
 Heal all the pain with dew from Praise's chalice! 
 
 Kenneth Campbell. 
 "Sacramento Bee.*' 
 
 SHORT HISTORIES OF THINGS 
 
 For Use in the Schools Profusely Illustrated 
 
 By THOMAS NUNAN 
 
 The History of Creation 
 
 The world was created just as we found it — 
 Water and land, with air right around it. 
 
FEBRUARY 59 
 
 That's about all that we ever can know, 
 The whole thing was done such a long time ago. 
 ♦Probably the shortest complete history of this important incident. 
 
 HOME AGAIN 
 
 Home again, home again, from a foreign shore, 
 
 And oh! it fills my soul with joy 
 
 To meet with friends once more. 
 
 Here I dropped the parting tear 
 
 To cross the ocean's foam, 
 
 But now I'm once again with those 
 
 Who fondly greet me home. 
 
 Music sweet, music soft, lingers 'round the place, 
 
 And oh, I feel the childhood charm 
 
 That Time cannot efface. 
 
 Then give me but my homestead roof, 
 
 I'll ask no palace dome, for I can live a happy life 
 
 With those I love at home. 
 
 Chorus — Home again, etc. 
 
 Ballad Sung by the Pioneers. 
 
THE PHANTOM FLEET IN PANAMA 
 
 All shimmering in the morning's glow, 
 Strange ships appear off Cuba's shore 
 
 And linger in a brooding wind — 
 Such craft no living men have seen before ; 
 As if from centuries long ago 
 
 Brave voyagers came to seek once more 
 The way to Ind. 
 
 Their royal colors catch the light, 
 Till tropic showers dim the day, 
 
 And wrapped in billowy mists of white, 
 They drift as phantoms gray. 
 
 Perchance Magellan haunts the blue, 
 Or Cortez seeks for conquests new, 
 
 And wraiths pursue the fabled way 
 To India and old Bombay. 
 
 Those were the bravest days of time 
 When frail ships dared the chartless seas — 
 
 Bright pictures of romance and rime, 
 King's pennants in the breeze. 
 
 The "Pass to India," unknown, 
 
 Bewildering led, now here, now there, 
 
 And "Seven Golden Cities" shone, 
 But magic of the air. 
 
 A hundred years of fearless quest 
 From Palos to the Golden Gate ; 
 
 They saw the long shores of the West, 
 But not the Sunset Strait. 
 
 They gained Columbia's wide land — 
 The shores the earnest Pilgrim trod, 
 
 Where Washington gave high command, 
 And Lincoln spoke with God. 
 
 And now earth-men with heaven conspire; 
 
 The mountain from its place have hurled, 
 And slain the dragon in the mire, 
 
 To give a pathway to the world. 
 
 With Panama's wall of rock cut through 
 They flow as one, the oceans vast ; 
 
 The world awakes, the dream is true 
 That moved the splendid past. 
 
 From 
 
 "Youth's Companion." 
 
 The phantom ships no longer wait, 
 
 The fleet of dreams salutes the breeze; 
 
 All sails are set to ride the strait 
 That joins the mighty seas. 
 
 The trade-wind answers far, and now 
 The admiral's bark comes sailing fast, 
 
 Columbus, Balboa, at the prow ; 
 The way appears at last ! 
 
 The phantom ships float wavering, free, 
 From arctic's white and silent spell, 
 
 From vales of wrecks beneath the sea — 
 Quaint bark and caravel. 
 
 All shadowless on waves of glass, _ 
 They skirt old island shores again ; 
 
 Enveiled in silv'ry showers, they pass 
 To Pearly Darien. 
 
 Where signal-lights gleam from the tower 
 They gather in the harbor foam ; 
 
 As wide-winged birds at day's last hour 
 With one accord sweep home. 
 
 With flutt'ring flags of many lands, 
 With lifted cross, or low mass said, 
 With laden spoils, or golden sands, 
 Armadas of the dead. 
 
 As banking clouds the heavens compel, 
 They pass unbarred from sea to sea — 
 
 Quaint bark and galley, caravel, 
 Through locks and lake made free. 
 
 "The quest is done, let flags be furled !" 
 
 (Voices pulsing in the air.) 
 "Oh, not in vain we scaled the world, 
 
 Dei gratia, haste to prayer." 
 
 And anchored in the sunset's gold, 
 
 The ships are ranked in proud array, 
 
 As in the gorgeous pomp of old 
 They dedicate the way. 
 
 Lillian H. S. Bailey. 
 
FEBRUARY 61 
 
 VALLEY FORGE— THEN AND NOW 
 
 The snow is sifting silently down through the stark limbs 
 of the trees on the hill above Valley Forge — "the cold, bleak 
 hill" of which Washington wrote in his pitiful letter to Con- 
 gress, the forlorn, forbidding hill on which the embattled farm- 
 ers labored in the trenches or lay "under frost and snow with- 
 out clothes or blankets". 
 
 The Valley Forge of the winter of 1906 is not so different 
 from the Valley Forge of the winter of 1778, but that, standing 
 here alone in the snow, I can easily visualize the whole scene 
 of that century-old season which, to me, more strongly typifies 
 the patience and endurance of our precious patriots than any 
 other in the pages of their glorious history. * * * It is easy 
 to look back a little further, to see the poor soldiers marching 
 to these winter quarters ; it is easy to trace their route through 
 the snow by the blood that oozes from their bare, frost-bit- 
 ten feet. 
 
 Why have these men come here in such straits? They 
 have come because Sir William Howe has established himself 
 in Philadelphia, only twenty-four miles down the Schuylkill — 
 they have come here to suffer and to wait rather than to give 
 up the country to the ravages of the enemy. 
 
 The story of their desperate shifts and cheerless straits is 
 true — as true as that the solemn river flows below the hill and 
 that the sorrowful cedar stands over there against the gray 
 sky. One believes what one sees, * * * and I know that 
 the glorious tale is true. Have I not just come up from the 
 little stone house in the valley below where Pater Patriae 
 made his headquarters. 
 
 Here I see grim-faced men who, for want of blankets, sit 
 up all night by fires ; I see thousands of sick men crowding 
 hospitals that are for the most part log-huts or frail wigwams 
 of twisted boughs. I see them dying for want of straw to put 
 between themselves and the frozen ground on which to lie. 
 * * * As I look down among these splendid rebels — these 
 men so glorious in their rags that the meanest of them would 
 put to shame the proudest plutocrat who ever bought a jury 
 or a legislature — I dream anew with them of the democracy 
 for which they fought, and worse than fought, here in the 
 cold and snow. 
 
 And while I dream I wonder. I wonder with what pa- 
 tience, with what fortitude, they would have suffered all this 
 had they known that the most of what they were to gain for 
 their sons and daughters by their Homeric, their Promethean 
 
62 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 trials, would in a brief cycle of time be wrested from them by 
 a handful of self-appointed, and consciously iniquitous men, 
 sitting at the receipt of custom, their shadows brooding darkly 
 over all the land. 
 
 What were the ideals of these men of Valley Forge? * * * 
 Down from the "cold bleak hill" I look. I see them now — 
 how could I fail to see them? — these martyrs, moving from 
 hut to cheerless hut, trailing their red blood through the camp, 
 and over there, a little apart, proud Pater Patriae, on his knees, 
 praying — praying for what? 
 
 Among the trees the darkness is falling with the snow. 
 Night is closing down. The wintry bitterness is deepening. 
 Now the barefoot men light their camp-fires anew, and huddle 
 about them, turning first their breasts and then their half-clad 
 backs to the feeble flames. 
 
 But over there, apart, alone, Pater Patriae is still pray- 
 ing in the snow. 
 
 Bailey Millard. 
 
 A very beautiful bas-relief by James E. Kelly, entitled "Washington Praying at 
 Valley Forge," was placed with fitting ceremonies in 1908 to commemorate the spot. 
 Inspired by the theme, Mr. Millard the same year visited the historic scene and pre- 
 pared an article for the "Cosmopolitan," from which the above is condensed. 
 
 THE PIONEER 
 
 Somewhere, O earth, thy tangled woods 
 
 O'ertop the lonely plain. 
 Somewhere, amid dim solitudes, 
 
 Thy mists of silence reign. 
 Yet he shall come with purpose high 
 
 Deep in his valiant heart, 
 And where thy purple vistas lie 
 
 Shall stand the pulsing mart. 
 
 Somewhere primeval echo dies 
 
 Across the wastes untrod, 
 And wild and far and lone there lies 
 
 The wilderness of God. 
 But he shall come uncouth and plain, 
 
 His burning soul adream, 
 And where thy virgin waste hath lain 
 
 The fragrant farmstead gleam. 
 
 Tho' far and high thy treasures lie, 
 
 Enwrapt with hazard, still 
 Before thy face he shall defy 
 
 Thy might to balk his will. 
 
FEBRUARY 63 
 
 For he shall come as morning light, 
 
 And earth rock-ribbed and sere 
 Shall yield the largess of its might 
 To him, the Pioneer. 
 
 Harry T. Fee. 
 From "Sunset" 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
 
 A nation lay at rest. The mighty storm 
 That threatened their good ship with direful harm, 
 Had spent its fury; and the tired and worn 
 Sank in sweet slumber, as the spring-time morn 
 Dawned with a promise that the strife should cease; 
 And war's grim face smiled in a dream of peace. 
 O! doubly sweet the sleep when tranquil light 
 Breaks on the dangers of the fearful night, 
 And full of trust, we seek the dreamy realm 
 Conscious a faithful pilot holds the helm, 
 Whose steady purpose and untiring hand, 
 With God's grace will bring us safe to land. 
 
 And so the Nation rested, worn and weak, 
 From long exertion — 
 
 God! What a shriek 
 Was that which pierced to farthest earth and sky 
 As though all Nature uttered a death cry! 
 Awake ! Arouse ! yet sleeping warders, ho ! 
 Be sure this augurs some colossal woe; 
 Some dire calamity has passed o'erhead — 
 A world is shattered or a god is dead! 
 
 What ! the globe unchanged ! The sky still flecked 
 With stars? Time is? The universe not wrecked? 
 Then look ye to the pillars of the State ! 
 How fares it with the Nation's good and great? 
 Since that wild shriek told no unnatural birth 
 Some mighty soul has shaken hands with earth. 
 
 Lo! murder hath been done. Its purpose foul 
 Hath stained the marble of the Capitol 
 Where sat one yesterday without a peer ! 
 Still rests he peerless, but upon his bier. 
 
64 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Ah, faithful heart, so silent now — alack! 
 And did the Nation fondly call thee back, 
 And hail thee truest, bravest of the land, 
 To bare the breast to the assassin's hand? 
 
 And yet we know if that extinguished voice 
 Could be rekindled and pronounce its choice 
 Between this awful fate of thine, and one — 
 Retreat from what thou didst or wouldst have done, 
 In thine own sense of duty, it would choose 
 This doom — the least a noble soul could lose. 
 
 There is a time when the assassin's knife 
 Kills not, but stabs into eternal life; 
 And this was such an one. Thy homely name 
 Was wed to that of Freedom, and thy fame 
 Hung rich and clustering in its lusty prime; 
 The God of Heroes saw the harvest time, 
 And smote the noble structure at the root 
 That it might bear no less immortal fruit. 
 
 Sleep ! honored by the Nation and mankind ! 
 Thy name in History's brightest page is shrined, 
 Adorned by virtues only, and shall exist 
 Bright and adorned on Freedom's martyr list. 
 
 The time shall come when on the Alps shall dwell, 
 No memory of their own immortal Tell; 
 Rome shall forget her Caesars, and decay 
 Waste the Eternal City's self away; 
 And in the lapse of countless ages, Fame 
 Shall one by one forget each cherished name; 
 But thine shalt live through time, until there be 
 No soul on earth but glories to be free. 
 
 Joseph Thompson Goodman. 
 From 
 
 "Virginia Enterprise" 
 1865. 
 
 THE LIBERTY FOR WHICH WASHINGTON STOOD 
 
 The nation's power and glory do not altogether depend 
 upon the triumph of its arms; they rest upon the righteous- 
 ness of its people and the quality of justice which it metes 
 out to all men. The liberty for which Washington stood was 
 
FEBRUARY 65 
 
 the liberty of equality — absolute equality of public burdens, 
 absolute equality of public duties. He believed in a republic 
 of law, a government of order, wherein and whereunder all 
 men should be protected, and secure in "life, liberty, and the 
 pursuit of happiness." 
 
 Samuel M. Shortridge. 
 "Washington; Liberty Under Law," 
 an address delivered February 22, 1891 , 
 at the banquet of the 
 
 California Sons of the American Revolution. 
 From "Notable Speeches by Notable Speakers 
 of the Great West," Harr Wagner; 
 San Francisco: Whitaker and Ray Co., 1902. 
 
 RELIGIOUS LIBERTY 
 
 Before there can be a common religion, even though it be 
 based on the highest ethical grounds, there must be that har- 
 monious recognition of each person's right to his own religious 
 belief through which alone unity can be wrought out of diver- 
 sity. Religious liberty, in the fullest sense, must therefore be 
 our first goal on the road to any universal religion on this 
 earth. Fortunately, in this country, the founders and friends 
 of our Republic have from the start proclaimed and expounded 
 the doctrine of religious liberty. * * * 
 
 Little that is new can be said about Washington. We 
 all know that he embodied that rarest of combinations, a union 
 of goodness with greatness. * * * A characteristic of Wash- 
 ington which is perhaps less known than his other traits was 
 his devotion to religious liberty. Once, before the Revolution, 
 when directing the manager of his plantation to obtain a ser- 
 vant, he wrote that the man selected must be competent and 
 reliable, but that it did not matter what his religious belief 
 was, whether he were Christian, Jew, Mohammedan or Pagan. 
 On another occasion he pointed out that it would be absurd 
 for those who were fighting for liberty to interfere with liberty 
 of conscience. Especially notable in this direction were his 
 letters to the Jewish and the Catholic congregations in answer 
 to addresses of congratulation on his accession to the Presidency. 
 
 Particularly touching in his letter to the historic Jewish 
 congregation at Newport, then of commercial prominence and 
 promise, was his reference to the Jew as having been forced 
 to wander over the earth, but as finding in this country an 
 asylum and a refuge, where in the words of the prophet he 
 
66 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 could sit under his own vine and fig-tree, and there should be 
 none to make him afraid. 
 
 Nathan NeWmarl?. 
 
 From address delivered before Golden Gate Lodge 
 of the B'nai B'rith Order, which erected EzekieVs 
 famous statue of "Religious Liberty" in 
 Fairmount Park, Philadelphia. 
 Published in "The Hebrew" 
 San Francisco, March 15, 1918. 
 
 BENEFITS OF THE MIDWINTER EXPOSITION 
 
 Now that the California Midwinter International Exposi- 
 tion has been successfully launched, it is far more interesting 
 to speculate upon its probable effects than to discuss what led 
 to the conception of the idea. No doubt the observation of the 
 fact that a large collection of fine exhibits from all countries 
 of the globe was ready to be drawn upon gave the primary im- 
 pulse to the thought that California might have an exposition; 
 but I am inclined to think that the consideration that an im- 
 perative necessity existed that something should be done to 
 rescue San Francisco from a commercial collapse was the con- 
 trolling motive. 
 
 It is not difficult to recall the condition of affairs that ex- 
 isted in this city in June last. Distrust and apprehension filled 
 the public mind. In common with the rest of the country, 
 we were on the verge of a financial panic. Now that we have 
 safely weathered the storm we may refer to facts which were 
 not openly spoken of at the time, although they were recog- 
 nized by those who felt the business pulse of the city. Well- 
 informed men clearly saw that unless something was done to 
 divert the public mind from the contemplation of an impending 
 trouble, a panic must ensue which might sweep away the sound- 
 est financial and business concerns. 
 
 I think it was a clear apprehension of the existing state 
 of affairs that caused the suggestion to hold a Midwinter Ex- 
 position in San Francisco to be taken up and pushed with 
 energy. Had the idea been thrown out at another time — for 
 instance, while the city was enjoying the fullest degree of 
 prosperity — the argument that it would be idle to attempt to 
 get up a great fair immediately upon the closing of Chicago's 
 wonderful exposition might have proved too much for the sug- 
 gestion. But when men are keenly in earnest to arrest a real 
 or fancied danger, ridicule or fear of failure has few terrors. 
 To all dissuading arguments the answer was promptly made 
 
FEBRUARY 67 
 
 that it could not injure California to make the attempt to hold 
 an exposition, and that the fruits of success would be all the 
 more appreciated because of the obstacles overcome. 
 
 This was the proper spirit to display, and it explains why 
 so great an undertaking has been successfully carried out in 
 so brief a period. It must not be lost sight of that in exactly 
 five months from the day of breaking ground in Golden Gate 
 park the executive committee of the California Midwinter Ex- 
 position was enabled to formally open a fair which many com- 
 petent critics pronounce second only to those of Chicago and 
 Paris, and fully abreast of the Centennial Exposition of 1876, 
 back of which was the national credit and all the patriotic feel- 
 ing of the United States. 
 
 It is not only the brief period in which this great work 
 was accomplished that is striking; the manner of its accom- 
 plishment is equally impressive. The beautiful buildings and 
 gardens that now adorn the Midwinter Exposition grounds were 
 called into existence without the gift of a single dollar from 
 the nation, state, or municipality. All the money expended has 
 been derived from voluntary subscriptions or from the letting 
 of concessions, the presence of which contributes to the suc- 
 cess of the enterprise. 
 
 Californians may not appreciate the magnitude of this feat. 
 Those who daily observe the growth of a thing are very apt to 
 underestimate its importance. There is nothing truer than the 
 adage that "familiarity breeds contempt", and a too intimate 
 acquaintance with an object often makes us overlook its beauty 
 and underrate its value. But while we may take the creation 
 of a city of one hundred beautiful buildings in five months as 
 a simple thing, the outside world does not do so. In the east 
 and in other parts of the world the performance is commented 
 upon as something wonderful; and while Congress, with a 
 timidity that was something amusing, feared to do anything 
 for the California Midwinter Exposition, lest its action might 
 be construed into giving the enterprise a national character, dis- 
 tinguished Americans and prominent journalists are now felic- 
 itating themselves that they live in a country so great and with 
 such vast resources that the holding of two World's fairs within 
 a twelvemonth of each other is possible. 
 
 I think I may say, with safety, that no achievement of re- 
 cent days will give so much satisfaction to the patriotic Amer- 
 ican as the successful promotion of the Midwinter Exposition. 
 It will enable the orator to point to the striking fact that the 
 United States is the only country in the world that could vent- 
 ure upon running two expositions in a year and to emphasize 
 
68 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 the vastness of his country by calling attention to the fact that 
 in less than three months after the greatest fair of modern times 
 closed its gates in Chicago another great fair was opened in 
 San Francisco, twenty-three hundred miles distant. 
 
 That eulogies of this kind will reflect glory upon California 
 and redound to the benefit of her people goes without saying. 
 It will be impossible for the friendly critic to praise the achieve- 
 ment without, at the same time, acknowledging the fact that 
 only an enterprising and progressive people could have accom- 
 plished such results. And with this will come the further reflec- 
 tion that even the most energetic and enterprising of peoples 
 would be powerless to accomplish great things unless they had 
 the material means with which to bring them about. And this 
 reflection had already produced gratifying fruit, as any one may 
 discern who has any acquaintance with the eastern press. The 
 journals of that section are now teeming with articles describing 
 our enormous and varied resources, and the prediction is being 
 made that, having all the elements within our boundaries to 
 make an empire, we may expect in the near future to contest 
 supremacy with the state that now bears the proud title of 
 the Empire state of the Union. 
 
 That the outcome of favorable comments such as these I 
 have referred to must be a largely increased immigration to 
 California of home-seekers is inevitable. The ancient Hebrews, 
 whose poets sang of the lands flowing with milk and honey, 
 filled their hearers with the yearning to occupy them — and in 
 like manner will the readers of the effusions of the eastern 
 editors inspire the people of that section to escape to a land 
 where the conditions of life are less harsh and the promises of 
 reward greater than in the older and more crowded parts of 
 the Union. 
 
 M. H. de Young. 
 From "The Calif ornian," 
 March, J 894. 
 
 FEBRUARY TWENTIETH, 1915 
 
 Lift up thy gates, oh city of the world's delight; and be 
 ye lifted up, ye pleasure-inviting doors! At last the people of 
 California, the great-hearted endeavorers of San Francisco have 
 come into their own. * * * The achievement is a lesson to 
 the worldi from a people undaunted, unshaken, unafraid. 
 * * * The unparalleled crowd that over flooded the great 
 gates, braving an uncertain morning sky, is the pledge of the 
 people that they are worthy of the triumph and will give to 
 it unexampled support. 
 
FEBRUARY 69 
 
 The oratory of the occasion was nobly adequate. And 
 how we of the far-flung West love the play of emotions ! 
 Eyes strained and faces grew tense over the raptured sentences 
 of Lane and Rolph and Johnson, and in a hand-turn we were 
 a-shout over a cynical cajolery of Will Crocker. * * * Then, 
 too, we of California know how to sing. Some of the legions 
 of the morning's parade boomed their songs in inspiring meas- 
 ures ; and the ceremonial chorus rang out in deep-throated reso- 
 nances, true and glad and free. * * * Then came the touch 
 of the chained lightning that leaped from a President's finger 
 in far-away Washington to open, with the might of a giant, 
 but with the ease of a child, those heavy doors in palaces where 
 the magicians of machinery and art have told their tales of 
 power and woven their mystic spells. I saw the gates of the 
 Palace of Art swing on the touch of twelve as if opened by 
 fingers from the realm of aerie. 
 
 * * * I had watched through the waiting years and 
 had beheld those massive wondrous buildings lift from what 
 was a morass their glories toward the sun. I had seen Creation 
 step steadily and confidently from the void. And I had thought 
 there was no thrill that architecture can give or that color can 
 excite that my heart had not already known. But the com- 
 pleted work seems more than the eye can yearn for or than the 
 soul could keep. And if words falter at the glories of the day, 
 who, since the Prophets of old, could begin to tell the wonders 
 of the night. No eyes have ever seen such illumination, for 
 not till now was it upon land or sea. "The Northern Lights 
 came down o' the nights'' to mingle with the blazonry that 
 leaped from tower and spire and dome. * * * Wholesome 
 fun has its full place in the pageant. * * * Between two 
 breaths there is the opportunity to turn from the nobility of 
 the student to the antics of the clown. 
 
 The gull is to be the bird-emblem of the Exposition and 
 not the hand-feeding pigeon or the embarrassed dove — the 
 gull that sails and poises, flings and darts on untired wing — 
 the gull whose courage dares the sea. He is the bird, of the 
 untrammeled air, master of the elements, eager, confident and 
 his own. His ease, his daring and his grace are typical of the 
 Exposition's seaside home, and of the attributes of the men and 
 women who made of that Exposition a fact-crystallized dream. 
 
 And the day itself was an epitome of the Exposition's 
 story. It began in question and doubt and darkness. It 
 struggled through the hours of travail and endeavor. And 
 then it came out resplendent, perfect and serene. The twin 
 questions, "Will it be a success?" and "Will it storm?" were 
 
70 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 both answered in convincing fullness by the same controlling 
 Power; and by the night's bedside we all could kneel with 
 grateful hearts to say : "All glory be to God !" 
 
 Edward H. Hamilton. 
 From San Francisco Examiner" ; relating to the 
 opening of the "Panama-Pacific International Exposition " ; 
 February 20, 1915. 
 
 FEAST OF LILIES AND NIGHT OF LANTERNS 
 
 A CHINESE SYMPHONY 
 
 Poor old Ah Jim half crouching stood, 
 
 While fell the drizzling rain, 
 His store of New Year wares to sell — 
 The lilies that he loved so well, 
 
 Some sticks of sugar-cane, 
 Queer candies tasting much like wood, 
 
 And painted cakes or plain. 
 
 The lanterns in the alley shone 
 With silken red and) green, 
 Their colors blending in the night 
 And making there as gay a sight 
 As man has often seen. 
 Such festive nights Ah Jim had known 
 In faraway Nankeen. 
 
 The while he crouched before his wares, 
 His dreams went o'er the sea; 
 Again a merry boy he strayed, 
 To music that the tom-tom made — 
 Though weak and old was he. 
 Forgotten all were Ah Jim's cares 
 In New Year reverie. 
 
 That's all the tale : Alone he stood, 
 While fell the drizzling rain. 
 His store of New Year wares to sell — 
 The lilies that he loved so well, 
 Some sticks of sugar-cane, 
 Queer candies tasting much like wood, 
 And painted cakes or plain. 
 Last night was New Year's Eve in Chinatown. Rain 
 subdued the sounds of the celebration but only heightened 
 the color. Spectators were few. 
 
GALAXY 
 Anna M. Fitch 
 "Hagar" Janette Phelps 
 
 Georgiana Bruce Kirby 
 Adah Isaacs Menken 
 
 3.— POETS AND PROSE-WRITERS 
 Minnie Myrtle Miller Frances F. Victor 
 
 Bertha M. B. Toland Elizabeth Chamberlain Wright 
 "Topsy Turvy" 
 Nellie B. Eyster Josephine Clifford McCrackin 
 Eliza Pittsinger Sarah B.Cooper 
 
 71 
 
GALAXY 4.— POETS AND PROSE-WRITERS 
 
 John Rollin Ridge 
 
 George Homer Meyer 
 
 Robert Duncan Milne 
 
 John Vance Cheney 
 
 StephenMassett 
 
 B. B. Redding 
 
 J. J. Barrett 
 
 S. P. Davis 
 
 Bartholomew Dowling 
 
 David Lesser Lezinsky 
 
 James W. Gaily 
 
 William D. Pollock 
 
 72 
 
FEBRUARY 73 
 
 Dupont street, as usual, was the central market-way for 
 the sidewalk merchants and the peddlers who were there in 
 hundreds with booths, portable stands, wagons and baskets, 
 and pretentious white awnings stretched to protect some of 
 the larger booths added a feature to the picturesque scene of 
 this annual street fair of the artistic Orientals. 
 
 "A happy Chinese New Year to you, and many of them," 
 was the sentiment of the night, and all the residents of the 
 district seemed to turn out in peace and good fellowship. 
 
 The red and green lanterns adorned all the streets and 
 alleys, and on some of the larger buildings there were exten- 
 sive and beautiful displays. Orchestras, stationed at the 
 theatres and prominent association homes, gave sound that 
 was fitting accompaniment of the color. 
 
 Did you ever hear a Chinese orchestra? Listen! A clang, 
 two squeaks and a disturbance of the peace, all done musically 
 and repeated at proper intervals. 
 
 The booths were beautiful with the lilies that are so dear 
 to the Chinese. There were thousands of these plants in 
 blossom, and this year's stock is exceptionally large. Almond 
 branches just beginning to shoot out their buds were almost 
 as common, and there were chrysanthemums and other flowers, 
 including some very fragrant specimens that had been brought 
 from China and here command high prices. The queerly colored 
 cakes and the rubber-like candies were everywhere on sale, and 
 standing against nearly every telephone pole were the long 
 sticks of sugar-cane. Dozens of wagons stood loaded with 
 oranges, which white men cried in Chinese and: Chinamen 
 cried in English. 
 
 Most of the actual shouting in the streets was done by 
 white peddlers. This year the Caucasian invasion seemed more 
 marked than ever, and even an ordinary street fakir was there 
 with his show and all his spieling clamor. 
 
 Yet, in spite of the white men's interference it was a feast 
 of the lilies and a night of the lanterns ; streets and alleys 
 being filled with beauty for the painter. 
 
 Night softened the harshness and the lights gave emphasis 
 to the picturesqueness. 
 
 The New Year began at midnight and the celebration will 
 be continued today. 
 
 Thomas Nunan. 
 From "San Francisco Examiner'. 
 
74 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 SONNET TO ROBERT I. AITKEN 
 
 The abiding marble shadows forth thy dream; 
 But in what quarries of infinity- 
 Must spirit strive with formlessness to free 
 
 The Vision? Lo! upon the mind's extreme 
 
 It bursts from darkness like a dawn supreme — 
 The rainbow of an undiscovered sea, 
 A blossom of that vine of mystery 
 
 Whose roots touch night, whose flowers in morning gleam. 
 
 We are but thoughts. With music or the pen 
 We tell what silences about us brood, 
 And limn with masteries of hue or stone, 
 Set for a little in the sight of men, 
 The visions of that mighty solitude 
 
 From which we come, to which we pass, alone! 
 
 George Sterling. 
 
 ON HEARING KELLEY'S MUSIC OF MACBETH 
 
 O Melody, what children strange are these 
 From thy most vast, illimitable realm? 
 These sounds that seize upon and overwhelm 
 The soul with shuddering ecstacy ! Lo ! here 
 The night is, and the deeds that make night fear; 
 Wild winds and waters, and the sough of trees 
 Tossed in the tempest; wail of spirits banned, 
 Wandering, unhoused of clay, in the dim land; 
 The incantations of the Sisters Three, 
 
 Nameless of deed and name — the mystic chords 
 ;, Nameless repetitions of the mystic words; 
 
 The mad, remorseful terrors of the Thane, 
 And bloody hands, which bloody must remain, 
 Last, the wild march; the battle, hand to hand 
 Of clashing arms, in awful harmony, 
 
 Sublimely grand, and terrible as grand! 
 The clan-cries; the barbaric trumpetry; 
 
 And the one fateful note, that, throughout all 
 Lead's, follows, calls, compels, and holds in thrall. 
 
 Ina Coolbrith. 
 From "Songs From the Golden Gate" ; 
 Boston and New York: 
 Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1895. 
 
FEBRUARY 75 
 
 A TEMPLE OF CULTURE IN EARLY DAYS IN 
 SACRAMENTO 
 
 We are well acquainted with the legends of early Spanish 
 culture in the days of the padres, as extended to the native 
 Indian tribes, but no word is ever spoken of the civilizing 
 influences brought into California by the pastors of many 
 churches of a later era, to overcome the lawlessness of worse 
 than Indians, overrunning the land. When the Pioneer women 
 came across the plains or by sea to make homes for them- 
 selves whether from Europe or the eastern shores of the 
 United States, they brought with them their traditions. As 
 Stephen Mallory White says, "The only church we knew was 
 around our mother's knees". But with that church firmly 
 fixed, it was not long until the cross, the spire and the meeting- 
 house followed. 
 
 Of many of these centres of culture, taking root and ex- 
 panding everywhere in the hamlets, the towns and the cities, 
 there were few so catholic, so broad, so universal in its minis- 
 trations to the community at large as the one I remember in 
 Sacramento, presided over by the Rev. I. E. Dwinell from 
 1863 to 1883. Himself a Vermonter, he brought the finest and 
 the best in taste and manners from Boston to the west, and 
 for a period of twenty years established and carried on this 
 temple of culture which prevailed over crudeness and rawness 
 and sloth and ignorance. 
 
 No matter to what church one belonged, it was there that 
 social life crystallized into form and beauty. Not only did 
 the wives and families of the railroad kings and other aristo- 
 crats of that time occupy pews there, but there was a lyceum- 
 course provided that brought the finest and the best lecturers, 
 artists, scientists, singers, famous men and women from the 
 world's centres into our midst. I remember the temperance 
 orator, Gough, who told us that a maiden was like a camellia, 
 you could not even breathe upon it without leaving a mar, it 
 was so precious and so exquisite, and the same with a maiden 
 as with the flower. Came there Agassiz, the great, to tell us of 
 the marvels being discovered in the field of science. The 
 famous Ole Bull touched his magic violin and gave us an in- 
 sight to realms beyond. Mrs. Marriner and Walter Campbell 
 sang for us in the days of their youth. Governor Newton 
 Booth, the orator, told us of "Swedenborg". General W. H. L. 
 Barnes addressed us on the theme, "What shall we do with 
 our boys?" And presently from every lip came the irresistible 
 reply, "Marry them off to our girls, of course !" 
 
76 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Under the leadership of Charles Prodger, one of the most 
 charming of men, so brotherly and so paternal in his pro- 
 tective guardianship over the younger ones, were held the 
 most remarkable of social evenings I have ever known, and it 
 has been my good fortune to know the best in San Francisco, 
 Chicago, New York and London. The wit and humor, the 
 good taste and the elegance that prevailed there fitted one 
 for court-circles. Wonderful games were inaugurated, that 
 sharpened the wits, and brought all together in a brotherly and 
 sisterly way, as if in a family-group. What beautiful girls 
 and manly boys were there, growing up together in that place, 
 according to the traditions that made for the preserving of 
 future generations ! The half of the story can never be told, 
 yet today, the descendants of these are the ones who are hold- 
 ing our California together for the days that are still before 
 us. Here was created the leaven that hath leavened the lump 
 r social life down to the present hour. 
 
 Among those to be remembered as units in the congrega- 
 tion were Mrs. A. N. Towne with her little girl like a picture in 
 their place in the church; Mrs. Mark Hopkins and her two 
 nephews; Mrs. Charles Crocker with her daughter and sons 
 in their budding childhood; Mrs. Leland Stanford and her 
 sister, Miss Lathrop; John W. Pew and his handsome bride; 
 never to be forgotten for her grace of heart and exquisite 
 taste. Here also were the wives and children of the celebrated 
 James Anthony and Paul Morrill, editors of the "Sacramento 
 Union". It was an education to the young to grow up in the 
 midst of such scenes and such people. 
 
 The same type of man as was Longfellow was the dearly 
 beloved pastor of this flock. In the earlier days of his pastorate, 
 it is told "there were very few gray heads in his congrega- 
 tion. Both men and women were in the full vigor of prime 
 youth. It was an active, restless community, surging like the 
 sea, some coming and going and returning again, now to San 
 Francisco, then to a newly discovered mining-region, then to 
 a daring business venture. There were others passing through 
 the city as if borne on the current of the river, and lingering 
 for a little time, like a fruitful branch that would stay, held 
 back by the eddy, yet that would rush onward at length swept 
 away to the great ocean beyond. One of these transients, the 
 most celebrated of them all, was George Kennan who had 
 united with this church in the spring of 1865, just previous 
 to his departure for northeastern Siberia on his way to Russia." 
 
 Kennan's appreciation of the championship of the pastor 
 
 George Kennan was a writer for the Century and published books on Russia. 
 
FEBRUARY 77 
 
 who drew so many fine spirits into that temple of culture is 
 thus expressed : "Many times while sitting by the lonely camp- 
 fire watching out the long hours of the Arctic night, on some 
 desolate steppe, I have thought of you andj of the friends in 
 Sacramento, and cherished the hope that I might in God's 
 time, see you all again." 
 
 In his farewell to his people, held together thus till 1883, 
 Mr. Dwinell referred to the close relationship that had existed 
 between them. His felicitous style is well shown in the fol- 
 lowing: "I have been with you also on memorable occasions 
 of domestic joy. If I should call together the persons I have 
 married during these twenty years, that I might preach to them 
 on the duties of married life, and they should: come, there would 
 be enough white-veiled brides, and kid-gloved grooms to fill 
 this church and have an overflow meeting that would nearly 
 fill the lecture-room besides, for there would be one thousand 
 and sixty persons present." 
 
 From "Life in California \ by the Gatherer. 
 
 Quotations made from "Memoir of Israel Edson Drvinell", 
 
 Henry E. JeWett; Oakland. Cal. 
 
 W. B. Hardy, publisher, 1892. 
 
 1776— MISSION DOLORES 
 
 Oft have we gazed in wonder 
 
 At the rude but stately pile 
 Of Dolores fast decaying 
 
 'Neath its somber rustic tile. 
 
 This quaint adobe structure 
 With its arched door and bell 
 
 If they alone could utter 
 What storied verse they'd tell. 
 
 Of the days when bold vaquero 
 Filled the air with shout and song 
 
 As through the fertile fields and pasture 
 They drove their herds along; 
 
 And of the days now far removed 
 
 Along Time's lengthened way 
 When the rustic natives heard its chime, 
 
 And hastened there to pray. 
 As we pass its sacred portal 
 
 A distant taper greets the eye, 
 Like a lonely star in heaven 
 
 When the sun has left the sky. 
 
78 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Dim light from small high windows 
 
 Shrouds in gloom the outlines where 
 Stood the rude constructed altar 
 
 Where were offered Mass and prayer. 
 
 But now, alas; no chime we hear, 
 
 No choir of voices sweet, 
 Whose music wafted heavenward, 
 
 In unison to meet. 
 
 And now around its crumbling form 
 
 The green-leaved ivy creeps, 
 While 'neath the shadow of its walls 
 
 In peace the Padre sleeps. 
 
 From "The Scoop"; San Francisco. Ceorge H ~ Barron - 
 
 THE NAMING OF THE GOLDEN GATE 
 
 The name given to the entrance of the bay of San Fran- 
 cisco was not suggested, as is sometimes assumed, by the 
 discovery of gold in California, although its bestowal occurred 
 nearly concurrently with that event. 
 
 So far as written records are concerned, they are silent on 
 the subject of naming the entrance, and it is probable that 
 no one took the trouble to apply a particular designation to 
 it, although the islands and points about the bay were promptly 
 supplied with names. De Ayala is credited with giving to what 
 we call Angel Island the name of Isla de los Angeles, but 
 he forgot to christen the opening which gave access to it 
 from the Pacific. 
 
 To John C. Fremont belongs the honor of conferring the 
 appellation Golden Gate, but curiously enough, in accordance 
 with the tendency which had not yet run its course, he called 
 it "Chyrsopolae". This designation appears on the map of 
 Oregon and California which accompanied the geographical 
 memoirs published by him in 1848. 
 
 These memoirs were written before the discovery of gold 
 at Sutter's mill, which was made in the same year, and in them 
 Fremont took pains to make clear why he had selected the 
 Greek title. Like all the discerning Pioneers, he was pro- 
 foundly impressed with the belief that the harbor would one 
 day bear a great commerce on its waters, and that it would 
 outrival Chrysoceros, the Golden Horn of Byzantium. 
 
 The Pioneers accepted the name, but promptly converted 
 it into English, and doubtless many of them who had no 
 acquaintance with the geographical memoir of Fremont imag- 
 ined that it was the steady stream of gold passing through the 
 portal which suggested the happy title. 
 
 From "San Francisco Chronicle'; June 7, 1914. 
 
FEBRUARY 79 
 
 ABOUT THE GOLDEN ERA 
 
 "Oh, yes ! the Golden Era was a great paper, and if the 
 same policy had been continued, it would be a great paper 
 today," said its old editor and founder, J. Macdonough Foard, 
 when I interviewed him on the subject in 1885. 
 
 I wonder if the present generation can appreciate the 
 pathos of the old miners still living in the great past rather 
 than in the present. Not long ago the Examiner said in its 
 review column : ''The Golden Era has come to hand. While 
 it is rather crude, yet there is a delightful crispness and flavor 
 to it, unlike any other publication". 
 
 And this review, with almost singular fitness, might be 
 said of every issue in those good old times. For I saw that 
 ancient product once with my own eyes — a great pile of 
 rusty, dusty tomes, breathing of the "velvet bloom of time", 
 in a dark little room near the corner of Clay and Montgomery 
 streets. The story of "Literary California" began in the early 
 fifties with the publishing of the Golden Era bearing the 
 device, "Westward the star of empire takes its way". 
 
 While it was never wonderful or great, yet it is the mem- 
 ories stirred by every line and every advertisement, bringing 
 up vivid pictures of the past, that make it always hallowed 
 and fondly remembered. Here are many names heralded in the 
 very largest of type — names and names — but it is only those 
 who were unannounced andf unsung that have made any 
 impress whatever on the later years. The most interesting 
 things, indeed, are the mere fragments of these slowly evolving 
 writers of our own soil who found their viewpoint here in the 
 days of their youth. 
 
 Here is a scrap of art-criticism from Mark Twain, which 
 certainly is crisp enough to belong to him. The great picture 
 of "Samson and Delilah" (exhibited later, in 1884, in the 
 Mechanic's Institute) had just arrived from Europe and was 
 hanging in a well-known saloon. Says Mark, confidently, in his 
 role of art-critic : "Now what is the first thing you see in 
 looking at this picture down at the Bank Exchange? Is it the 
 gleaming eyes and fine face of Samson? or the muscular Philis- 
 tine gazing furtively at lovely Delilah? or is it the rich drapery, 
 or the truth to nature in that pretty foot? No, sir. The first 
 thing that catches the eyes is the scissors on the floor at her 
 feet. Them scissors is too modern — there warn't no scissors 
 like them in them days, by a darned sight" ! 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 
80 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOST TREASURE 
 
 The palpable sense of mystery in the desert air breeds 
 fables, chiefly of lost treasure. Somewhere within its stark 
 borders, if one believes report, is a hill strewn with nuggets; 
 one seamed with virgin silver; and old clayey water-bed where 
 Indians scooped up earth to make cooking pots and shaped 
 them reeking with grains of pure gold. Old miners drifting 
 about the desert edges, weathered into the semblance of the 
 tawny hills, will tell you tales like these convincingly. After 
 a little sojourn in that land you will believe them on their 
 own account. It is a question whether it is not better to be 
 bitten by the little horned snake of, the desert that goes side- 
 wise and strikes without coiling, than by the tradition of a 
 lost mine. 
 
 For all the toil the desert takes of a man it gives compen- 
 sations, deep breaths, deep sleep, and the communion of the 
 stars. It comes upon one with new force in the pauses of the 
 night that the Chaldeans were a desert bred people. It is hard 
 to escape the sense of mystery as the stars move in the wide, 
 clear heavens to risings and settings unobscured. They look 
 large and near and palpitant, as if they moved on some 
 stately service not needful to declare. Wheeling to their 
 stations in the sky, they make the poor world-fret of no account. 
 Of no account you who lie out there watching, nor the lean 
 coyote that stands off in the scrub from you and howls and 
 howls. 
 
 Mary Austin. 
 From "The Land of Little Rain* ; New York-' 
 Houghton, Mifflin and Co. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF VERDI 
 
 Here in California, we are a cosmopolitan people. Every 
 land has made a contribution to our citizenship and each is 
 proud of a particular ancestry. How proud are the Italians of 
 their Verdi ! They call us here today, and we gladly respond, 
 to pay our debt of gratitude to the greatest musical composer 
 of the century. There are tongues which we do not under- 
 stand, but music is the common language of the world,, and 
 when Verdi speaks to us, our emotions — sensitive to his art — 
 hearken to the voice of the master. We understand him ; we 
 answer to his passionate appeals; we rejoice in his triumph; 
 we bend to his reproof. He sings of the life of man in the 
 
FEBRUARY 81 
 
 exalted cadences of the lyric muse, stirring to action the slum- 
 bering soul or faltering heart. His is the sublimation of 
 eloquence. 
 
 As the faculties of man are God-given, he who employs 
 them in their highest perfection must best be serving God. 
 The genius who creates is like unto divinity. The power which 
 can awaken love and fear, pity and remorse, by the varying 
 strains of his music, mysteriously persuasive, resembles the 
 voice of conscience and suggests the spirit which dominates 
 the universe. That is the pinnacle of human attainment. That 
 is the consummation of art. It is not the wealth of a Croesus 
 nor the despotic sway of a Caesar that excites our real wonder 
 or admiration, it is the triumph of thought; it is the assertion 
 of the mastery of the mind. It is not the mere pomp of power 
 or the luxury of wealth — it is the influence of the true and 
 the beautiful that betokens the progress of civilization. There 
 is no compulsion of tyrants in our appreciation of Verdi's art. 
 It is the allegiance of love. 
 
 Who was this Italian boy who lived to rank in his sphere 
 with the greatest of mankind? He was born eighty-six years 
 ago (February 24, 1801) in the Dutchy of Parmo, of poor 
 parents, who kept a village store. He enjoyed no adventitious 
 advantages, yet rose rapidly in a profession, in which he was 
 encouraged by musical friends, and again seriously discouraged 
 in his nineteenth year by his rejection at the Conservatory of 
 Milan. But perseverance kindled his native talents — in fact it 
 has been saidl that genius is nothing but hard work — untU he 
 was able to refuse the highest decoration proffered by his King. 
 He was singularly independent and sought only the approval 
 of the people; hence it is safe to say that his music will live 
 because it is the expression of human nature. He did not, like 
 others, endeavor to create a taste by which he would be 
 enjoyed. 
 
 He gave poetry to life and lifted it from sordid ways to 
 hopefulness and enthusiasm, and the people rose to their 
 leader. His first operas were introduced with difficulty, which 
 all beginners experience; but the Italian ear long trained in 
 musical composition and with inherited taste from old, accepted 
 Verdi as a master. When once known he was thereafter loved. 
 He is classed by the critics as the head of the Italian romantic 
 school. It is claimed for Rossini, his distinguished country- 
 man, that he was more of the classical, as his operas, with 
 which we are familiar, will testify— "The Barber of Seville" 
 and "William Tell". Another countryman and also a contem- 
 porary, perhaps influenced the more— Donizetti, whose "Lucia 
 
82 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 di Lammermoor," "La Favorita" and "Don Pasquale" have 
 
 entertained us so often, even in this modest temple. (The 
 
 old Tivoli.) 
 
 ****** **** 
 
 As Ford and Massinger and Beaumont and Fletcher pre- 
 ceded Shakespeare, so Rossini, Donizetti and Bellini heralded 
 the coming of Verdi, who was to surpass them all. It has 
 been alleged that Wagner also influenced Verdi's later work, 
 but eminent critics dispute this. Wagner is mainly dramatic. 
 * * * When one is mad and tempestuous in love, jealousy 
 or anger, he may go to Wagner and storm like the gods in 
 their wrath. Wagner wrote of an age half barbaric; Verdi of 
 cultivated and civilized life; but in Aida he showed his Wag- 
 nerian capacity for the treatment of strong and fearful natures 
 that characterize the untamed spirit of the old Egyptians. 
 What versatility! What capacity! Of Verdi's thirty operas 
 his Shakespearean "FalstarT" (which many assert is his great- 
 est composition) was written by him at the age of eighty-one. 
 The critics say that in form, harmonization and orchestration 
 it is his masterpiece. 
 
 The first period of his work is illustrated! by "Nubuco", 
 "I. Lombardi" and "Ernani" ; the second by "Rigoletto", "La 
 Traviata" and "II Trovatore", and the third and greatest pe- 
 riod, showing his full development, by the operas "Aida", 
 "Otello" and "FalstafT". Whatever may be the judgment of 
 mere critics, who after all compose but a small portion of an 
 audience, the melodies of "Rigoletto", "La Traviata" and "II 
 Trovatore" will, as now, reach the popular heart of succeed- 
 ing generations ; and from St. Petersburg to San Francisco 
 the music will be sung as long as love lasts. * * * And 
 after life is fled, the strains of the master, still true to human 
 nature, it is said, will linger somewhere between the angels 
 and the demons and will possess, even then, powers to mollify 
 the pangs of perdition. Does not Owen Meredith sing 
 
 Of all the operas that Verdi wrote 
 
 The best to my taste is "II Trovatore", 
 And Mario can soothe with a tenor note 
 
 The souls in Purgatory. 
 
 But death will not silence his voice. * * * After a re- 
 markable life, during which he raised high the standard of art, 
 created music which is chanted and applauded by the world, 
 patriotically championing his country's cause, and benevolently 
 giving his vast fortune for the care of the old musicians whose 
 inspired instruments had given voice and expression to the chil- 
 dren of his soul, he died at the age of fourscore years and six, 
 honored and beloved not alone by his countrymen, but by mil- 
 lions of men and women who were and are still the daily recip- 
 
FEBRUARY 83 
 
 ients of his sublime messages, written in undying melody. That 
 is immortality on this earth — to live in one's creative works ; 
 and it is the state wherein mortals most resemble the gods. 
 
 Our Italian-American citizens of California perform a 
 worthy service by commemorating their great names. * * * 
 There is much in the mountains andj valleys, sky and sea of 
 beautiful Italy to inspire genius; and perhaps the physical 
 joy of life in that favored land had much to do with the glory 
 of her sons. In all physical respects California resembles Italy. 
 Our skies, our mountains, our valleys, are not less fair. May 
 we not hope to emulate in Art and Science the older land, 
 whose sons have done so much for the progress of the world 
 and whose unfading beauty has self-conferred an immortality 
 all its own. 
 
 James D. Phelan. 
 
 From an address given at the Tivoli Opera House, San Francisco, February 24, 
 1901 ; on the occasion of the "Verdi Memorial Exercises". 
 
 A STAR IN THE CHAOS 
 
 There are many men and women who feel hampered by the 
 shackles of conventional life ; these, many of them, got a new 
 inspiration in the free spaces of the new land (California) — 
 they had reached a ground where they could take a firmer hold 
 upon their dreams. This liberation of course had its dangers; 
 it liberated some to a new freedom, while it liberated others 
 to a new license. * * * "There was little law (as one of the 
 Pioneer men confessed in later years), but a large amount of 
 good order; there were no churches, but a great deal of re- 
 ligion ; no politics, but a large number of politicians. Crime 
 was rare, for punishment was certain. I think I never before 
 saw justice administered with so little loss of time and at 
 less expense." In long-established societies men and women 
 build up false standards, create false distinctions, form into 
 classes, into exclusive sets and coteries. * * * 
 
 But there was a touch of divine magic upon those early 
 mining days. The consciousness of brotherhood spread over 
 all the men of '49. Men were getting acquainted with one an- 
 other's cults and customs, and were finding out * * * that 
 all men are one. * * * All this was an enlarging experi- 
 ence to them, a spiritual revolution. Thus the old artificial lines 
 of cleavage among men were disappearing. * * * In the 
 dance, at the funeral, at the Fourth of July celebration, as well 
 as in the comradery of the gold gulches, men were uniting 
 according to the gravitations of character; artificial class lines, 
 church lines, race lines — all were passing away from the 
 
84 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 thoughts of men. We find then that there was something 
 original in the way men met one another in that new theater 
 of struggle. A man was accepted on his face value. * * * 
 
 Nor did a man's comrades ever ask him about his creed or 
 station. They seemed to feel that a man's creed is only a 
 shell in which he thinks he lives; that he really lives in his 
 daily deed. Hence we see in this mining life something unique 
 and noble; there was no question as to past or pedigree. A 
 man was accepted for what he was at the moment; he was 
 measured by the way he did the day's work. This fine custom 
 was the basis for a widespread comradery; friendship was 
 almost universal. Here was a star in the chaos. 
 
 In a degree at least the men of that time touched upon a 
 great principle; they faced squarely the issue of throwing off 
 humbug and conventionality and to prefer the vital fact of 
 things. There was something fine in this phase of their life; 
 there was a hint in it of that divine world of prophecy of 
 which it is written, "Behold, I make all things new." 
 
 Edwin Markham. 
 From "California the Wonderful" ; 
 New York: Hearst, 1914. 
 
 MATCHLESS YO SEMITE 
 
 High on Cloud's Rest, behind the misty screen, 
 Thy Genius sits! The secrets of thy birth 
 Within its bosom locked ! What power can rend 
 The veil, and bid it speak — that spirit dumb, 
 Between two worlds, enthroned upon a Sphinx? 
 Guard well thine own, thou mystic spirit! Let 
 One place remain where Husbandry shall fear 
 To tread ! One spot on earth inviolate, 
 As it was fashioned in eternity! 
 
 Fred Emerson Brooks. 
 From "Old Abe and Other Poems". 
 
 THE GREAT PANORAMA 
 
 In February the land is a mass of beauty and loveliness with the 
 bursting into bloom of the almond trees — a sheer delight to the eye 
 and inner senses. No one can remain insensible to the grace and 
 charm that come with this evanescent glory, covering all the dry places 
 from sight and breathing of unseen forces only half guessed. For the 
 Portuguese tell fairy tales of the almond time and say that new life 
 comes to those who linger around these bursting blooms, turning from 
 white to pink ere they pass away. 
 
 A. E. 
 
MARCH 85 
 
 OUR FAIR SOUTHLAND 
 
 Behold this Southland, 'neath as perfect skies 
 As ever sun shines on, or stars arise : 
 Laughing in beauty, redolent with bloom. 
 In Winter fair as is a Summer's noon. 
 
 Luminous days are set 
 Colorful like the fire-opal, and yet 
 Filled full of balm is the Midwinter's heart — 
 Days in which storms have never any part. 
 
 The still noons 
 Golden with light, are full of happy dreams 
 Akin to summer's brightest; running streams 
 Syllable in music the dreams they hold 
 Of ripening harvest gleaming in the gold 
 Of yellow wheat and corn and orange spheres 
 And amber wines ; and, ever listening, hears 
 The passing hour, the swift advancing tread 
 Of Ceres coming, by Pomona led. 
 The hum of bees December bends to hear, 
 Poured in soft murmurs to the waiting ear; 
 In greenest meadows the sleek cattle feed 
 'Neath the lush grasses ; note they not nor heed 
 Midwinter's presence. No mad moods has he 
 Of storms or cold or elementary revelry; 
 Sandaled with blossoms, lo! he passes here, 
 Suncrowned and fruitful, monarch of the year. 
 
 From "California Where Sets the Sun" ; Eliza A. Otis. 
 
 Los Angeles, Cal. 
 
 A SONG OF SLAVIANKA 
 
 A thousand cattle feed upon the hills 
 
 Above the Russian's ancient redwood fort, 
 And busy craft go freighted from the hills 
 
 Where once the Kodiak Indian made his port. 
 The wooded canyons echo back the sound 
 
 Of rushing engines where the deer once sped, 
 And waving grain grows lush upon the ground 
 
 Where long the red men laid away their dead. 
 Along the ocean's line of dazzling hue 
 
 The smoke of commerce e'er is trailing low, 
 Where glides the Russian River's winding blue 
 
 To meet the glad Pacific's ebb and flow. 
 
 Honoria R. P. Tuomey. 
 
86 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 TO MY PARENTS 
 
 In those dark periods of self-distrust, 
 
 When Inspiration, sleeping, seems away, 
 And Night refuses promise of the Day; 
 
 If then we toil, 'tis only that we must, 
 
 And because we know that All is just, 
 
 Or that the struggling Self is more than clay, 
 Ill-fitted and faint-hearted for the fray 
 
 Which offers, tho' we conquer, but Life's crust. 
 
 What then recalls the courage that we miss? 
 
 What holds our Faith alive andj gives us power 
 To trample thicket and to wing abyss? 
 
 'Tis that eternal, never wasting dower: 
 The trust of those who love us. It is this 
 
 That turns our empty time to fruitful hour. 
 
 Maurice V. Samuels. 
 From "The Florentines" ; 
 New York: Brentanos, 1904. 
 
 BETTER TO SPEAK A PLATITUDE 
 
 Better to speak a platitude 
 Than not express your gratitude. 
 
 Lorenzo Sosso. 
 From "Wisdom for the Wise". 
 
HOW THE CLOUDS COME IN THROUGH THE 
 GOLDEN GATE 
 
 The air is chill and the hour grows late, 
 
 And the clouds come in through the Golden Gate, 
 
 Phantom fleets they seem to me, 
 
 From a shoreless and unsounded sea; 
 
 Their shadowy spars and misty sails, 
 
 Unshattered haye weathered a thousand gales — 
 
 Slow wheeling, lo, in squadrons gray, 
 
 They part and hasten across the Bay, 
 
 Each to its anchorage finding way. 
 
 Where the hills of Sausalito swell, 
 
 Many in gloom may shelter well; 
 
 And others — behold ! — unchallenged pass 
 
 By the silent guns of Alcatraz; 
 
 No greetings of thunder and flame exchange 
 
 The armed isle and the cruisers strange. 
 
 Their meteor flags, so widely flown, 
 Were blazoned in a world unknown ; 
 So, charmed from war, or wind, or tide, 
 Along the quiet wave they glide. 
 
 What bear these ships? What news? What freight 
 Do they bring- us through the Golden Gate? 
 Sad echoes to words in gladness spoken, 
 And withered hopes to the poor heart-broken. 
 , Oh, how many a venture we 
 
 Have rashly sent to the shoreless sea ! 
 
 ******* 
 
 The air is chill and the hour grows late, 
 
 And the clouds come in through the Golden Gate, 
 
 Freighted with sorrow, chilled with woe; — 
 
88 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 But these shapes that cluster, dark and low, 
 Tomorrow shall be all aglow ! 
 In the blaze of the coming morn these mists, 
 Whose weight my heart in vain resists, 
 Will brighten and shine and soar to Heaven 
 In thin white robes, like souls forgiven ; 
 
 For Heaven is kind, and everything, 
 
 As well as a winter, has a SPRING. 
 
 So praise to God ! who brings the day 
 
 That shines our regrets and fears away; 
 
 For the blessed morn I can watch and wait, 
 
 While the clouds come in through the Golden Gate. 
 
 Edward A. Pollock. 
 From "Poems" ; 
 Philadelphia: Lippincott, J 876. 
 
 THREE LITTLE GIRLS 
 
 A PROSE BIT RELATIVE TO THE DONNER PARTY. 
 
 When the June sunshine gladdened the Sacramento valley, 
 three little barefooted girls walked here and there among the 
 houses and tents of Sutter's fort. They were scantily clothed, 
 and one carried a thin blanket. At night they said their pray- 
 ers, lay down in whatever tent they happened to be, and fold- 
 ing the blanket about them, fell asleep in each other's arms. 
 When they were hungry they asked food of whomsoever they 
 met. If any one inquired who they were, they answered, as 
 their mother had taught them: "We are the children of Mr. 
 and Mrs. George Donner." But they added something which 
 they had learned since. It was : "And our parents are dead." 
 
 Charles Fayette McClashan. 
 From "The History of the Donner Party; 
 A Tragedy of the Sierras". 
 
 Today the same hills tower about the lake. The gaunt, 
 tall trees that broke the force of the icy blasts when the little 
 children of the Donner party sought to keep warm in the sun 
 while their elders fought to find a way out over yonder snow 
 barriers to California beyond, still stand. 
 
 What stories they could tell if they could but talk, those 
 trees ! They saw the brave men of the party go forth with 
 stout determination, and they saw them return with the light 
 gone out of their eyes and grim despair writ on their wan lips, 
 
MARCH 89 
 
 that had smiled hope into the hearts of their dear ones when 
 they left. And they saw them go and return, and then go and 
 never return again. If they could talk, those tall, silent trees, 
 they might tell what became of those brave men. And if they 
 could talk they might relate to us the child prattle of those 
 brave men's little famished children as they sat awaiting fa- 
 thers' return with the food they were never to taste. 
 
 If they could talk, those tall, gaunt trees might tell us 
 where lies the bravest woman of all that party, who kissed her 
 two little babes good-bye and remained behind to perish of star- 
 vation with her injured husband, because she thought her duty 
 of wife called her to die with him, with whom she had lived 
 so happily in their happier days. 
 
 But those trees, bowed down with their weight of snow ; 
 those hills, blanketed deep with their load of winter white; 
 those crags, hoary and high, the ashen, cold sky above, the 
 snowflakes that have come each winter since that cruel win- 
 ter, tell no story that we can understand. 
 
 Only the zero wind, as it sobs over the wastes, seems to 
 bring the cries of little children. It is silent but for that, this 
 place where the Donner party perished. It is silent, this snow 
 waste at the elbow of Truckee, gay "Land of Winter Sports." 
 
 Editorial Department, San Francisco Examiner; W eigLe. 
 
 Lecturer in Journalism, University of California, 
 Extension Division. 
 
 THE UNVEILING OF THE DONNER LAKE 
 MONUMENT 
 
 We are gathered here today to commemorate an historical 
 incident in the early history of the Western land — an incident 
 replete with deeds of heroism, of suffering and of sacrifice. 
 
 But in a broader sense we are here to dedicate a monu- 
 ment to the courage, the valor and the unconquerable spirit of 
 California Pioneers, the men and women who braved the burn- 
 ing desert and the snowbound summits to help build on these 
 far Pacific slopes a free and enlightened commonwealth. 
 
 Westward the course of empire was taking its way and 
 those early Pioneers saw in this glorious Western land of sun- 
 shine the home of their dreams. As we look back over the 
 brief period that has elapsed since the Donner party set out 
 on their long pilgrimage, we cannot but marvel at the trans- 
 formation that has taken place. 
 
 What was then an almost unknown and an almost un- 
 peopled region is today a rich empire, studded with thriving 
 
90 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 cities and towns; a land of limitless wealth; a commonwealth 
 second to none in refining influences of art and science and 
 culture; the home of three million loyal and devoted American 
 men and women. 
 
 As we contemplate the hardships endured and the sublime 
 courage displayed by that group of sturdy Pioneers, we realize 
 that we of this generation are face to face with a situation that 
 calls for the same spirit of resolute devotion to duty and the 
 same willingness to endure, if need be, the extreme of per- 
 sonal sacrifice. 
 
 At this moment the eyes of the world are focused upon the 
 conflict that is raging on Europe's battle-scarred fields, anx- 
 iously awaiting the issue that means so much to the peace 
 and safety of the whole world. 
 
 California's sons are there, doing their part heroically, 
 grandly. They are there to fight for the preservation of the 
 liberty of the whole world. And they are there to fight to win. 
 
 In conclusion, permit me on behalf of the State to ex- 
 press to the Native Sons and to the Native Daughters of the 
 Golden West, two organizations that are so loved and respected 
 in this great commonwealth, the gratitude and appreciation we 
 all feel for the splendid services being rendered by your organ- 
 izations in taking the leadership in this great work of preserv- 
 ing California's history. Through your foresight much already 
 has been done, and today's dedication adds another to your 
 already long list of public services. Donner lake now becomes 
 a landmark inseparably associated with the history and tra- 
 ditions of our glorious state. 
 
 William D. Stephens. 
 Governor of California; 
 From "Address on This Occasion", 
 June 6, 1918. 
 
 WHAT THE DONNER LAKE MONUMENT 
 STANDS FOR 
 
 WORDS BY A NATIVE DAUGHTER 
 
 Sculptor John McQuarrie, through this statue that tells 
 of the coming of the Pioneer, has exercised his ability to put 
 into permanency "thoughts that breathe." 
 
 The Pioneer Father, led hither by the lure of the West, 
 with its possibilities for stalwart manhood, unflinchingly faces 
 the future of his journey, the goal of which is to receive and 
 hold all that life for him claims as most dear. The Pioneer 
 Mother, his wife beside him, is as full of courage as he. In 
 
MARCH 91 
 
 her tender helpfulness we can almost hear her whisper, "We 
 have 'tackled the dread' and thus far have overcome all obsta- 
 cles, than which none surely can be worse; the light is ahead; 
 together, side by side, heart with heart, we'll follow its gleam." 
 The little daughter, kneeling by her father, touching yet not 
 hindering him, is sufficiently appalled by the mystery and un- 
 certainty of it all as to show by her reverential attitude that 
 their father's God is their God and their trust is in Him. It 
 is truly a happy idea as well as a beautiful inspiration of the 
 artist to show the Christian faith of the parents through the 
 attitude of their little child. Yet the group were incomplete 
 but for that other one — the babe in his mother's arms ! The 
 baby boy to signify beyond what can be expressed in words, 
 the perpetuity of the manhood of the Pioneer. 
 
 Clara K. W ittenmyer . 
 Author of the Susan L. Mills 
 Memory Book, 1915. 
 
 THE MAIDEN OF TAMALPAIS 
 
 Long ago in the mythical ages 
 
 Y\ nen the daughters of Eve were fair, 
 
 A maiden came down from the valley 
 To the bay and the misty cool air. 
 
 She called to her lover, fruit-laden, 
 She flung wide her tresses so free, 
 
 And fleet-footed ran through the rushes 
 To the billowy, white-capped sea. 
 
 She joyed in the long waves rolling, 
 Laughed when they broke into snow, 
 
 Till the strong Tide-King embraced her, 
 Kissed her and bore her low. 
 
 Then Tremblor, the shaper of ridges, 
 
 Lifted her up from the deep, 
 And laid her to rest on the mountain. 
 
 Forever in beauty to sleep. 
 
 The maiden on Tamalpais lying, 
 Waits for the voice and the hand 
 
 Of the Faultless, the Chosen, the Kingly, 
 She loved in the barlev-white land. 
 
92 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 By the Bay of St. Francis she's sleeping, 
 In the wind on the edge of the sky, 
 
 Where the redwoods stay her mantle 
 And the sunset glories lie. 
 
 Lillian H. S. Bailey. 
 From "San Francisco Call"; 1910. 
 
 The female profile outlined by the ridge of Mt. Tamalpais is a 
 remarkable natural curiosity which is best seen from the deck of a ferry- 
 boat on San Francisco Bay. 
 
 THE HYMN OF THE WIND 
 
 I am the Wind, whom none can ever conquer; 
 I am the Wind, whom none may ever bind. 
 
 The One who fashion'd ye, 
 
 He, too, has fashion'd me — 
 He gave to me dominion o'er the air. 
 Go where ye will, and ever shall ye find 
 
 Me singing, ever free, 
 
 Over land and over sea, 
 From the fire-belted Tropics to the Poles. 
 I am the Wind. I sing the glad Spring's coming; 
 
 I bid the leaves burst forth and greet the sun. 
 
 I lure the modest bloom 
 
 From out the soil-sweet gloom; 
 I bid the wild-bird leave the drowsy South. 
 My loves are violets. By my pure kisses won, 
 
 They spring from earth, and smile, 
 
 All-innocent, the while 
 I woo them in the aisles of pensive woods. 
 
 I am the Wind. From dew-pearl'd heights of wonder 
 I fall like music on the listening wheat. 
 
 My hands disturb its calm 
 
 Till, like a joyous psalm, 
 Its swaying benediction greets the sky. 
 I kiss the pines that brood where seldom falls 
 
 The solace of the light, 
 
 And the hush'd voice of Night 
 Soothes the awed mountains in their sombre dreams. 
 
 I am the Wind. I whip the roaring waters 
 Until their breasts are white with angry foam; 
 
 Until the mad waves strain 
 
 Like molten hills in pain, 
 And hurl themselves to death upon the shore. 
 The sea-birds scream, and gather to their home 
 
 When I fly before the Hand 
 
 That drives me to the land, 
 And with me, too, the oceans and the clouds. 
 
MARCH 93 
 
 I am the Wind. I sing amid the silence 
 That shrouds the solemn Arctic in its night. 
 
 I drive the stinging snow, 
 
 The iceberg and the floe — 
 My breath can doom the white bear to its lair. 
 I chant the hymns when summer comes, and light 
 
 Awakens the frozen seas., 
 
 The hills and sleeping trees, 
 And all the land looks fondly to the sun. 
 
 I am the Wind. I was ere ye awaken'd. 
 Before ye were, my cry had startled space. 
 
 From flaming star to star 
 
 I wander'd, and afar 
 I sang the songs of Promise and of Hope. 
 I was the first to see God's awful Face, 
 
 And nightly I intone 
 
 Such Hymns as He alone 
 May hear where He is brooding, over all. 
 
 I am the Wind. I sweep the breathless places 
 Wherein the stars through countless aeons roll. 
 
 I hear from many climes 
 
 Man's praise arise, like chimes, 
 And filter through the ether up to God. 
 Upon my wings each liberated soul 
 
 Whom Death accords new birth 
 
 Is borne aloft from earth 
 To higher worlds of which ye only dream. 
 
 I am the Wind. I see enorme creations 
 Starring the vault above ye, and below. 
 
 Where bide the Seraphim 
 
 In silent places dim 
 I pass, and tell your coming in the end. 
 Omniscient I, eternal; and I know 
 
 The gleaming destiny 
 
 That waits ye, being free, 
 When ye have pass'd the border-line of Death. 
 
 I am the wind — the Lord God's faithful servant; 
 'Twixt earth and sky I wander, and I know 
 
 His Sign is ever found 
 
 The blue-veil'd earth around, 
 As on the furthest spheres that whirl in space. 
 All things are His; and all things slowly go 
 
 Through manifold degrees 
 
 Of marvelous mysteries, 
 From life to highest life, from highest life to Him. 
 
 I am the Wind. I know that all is tending 
 
 To that bright end; and ye, through years of toil, 
 
 Shall reach at last the height 
 
 Where Freedom is, and Light; 
 And ye shall find new paths that still lead up. 
 
94 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Be free as I; be patient and have faith; 
 
 And when your scroll is writ 
 
 And God shall pass on it, 
 Ye need not fear to face Him — He is Love. 
 
 Howard V. Sutherland. 
 From "San Francisco News Letter"; 
 February 15, 1913. 
 
 THE FATHER OF SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 In September, 1775, Lieutenant-Colonel Juan Bautista de 
 Anza began his second journey to California, bringing with 
 him the soldiers and settlers for the foundation of San Fran- 
 cisco. Since the retreat of the ten thousand Greeks under 
 Zenophon in the year 400 B. C, there has been no march to 
 equal this journey. Xenophon had an army of disciplined 
 troops, the best soldiers in Europe, and his line of march from 
 Cunaxa to the Euxine was about seven hundred miles. 
 
 Anza led an expedition of two hundred and forty souls, 
 of which one hundred and sixty were women and children. 
 He crossed deserts far more deadly than those traversed by 
 Xenophon, higher mountain ranges, and broader rivers. His 
 line of march from San Miguel Horessitos to Monterey was 
 three hundred and eighty-six leagues — one thousand and three 
 miles — and the time consumed in the journey was four months. 
 He had no doctor or other medical assistance, and while eight 
 children were born on the road, he saved them all, losing but 
 one mother in child-birth. The country traversed by him was 
 rilled with warring tribes and Indians, but wherever he went 
 he caused wars to cease and converted the tribesmen into 
 friends, not only with the Spaniards but also with each other. 
 From the Colorado river, Anza notified the viceroy that with 
 the Yumas as friends the passage of the river was safe but 
 that if the contrary were the case, it could not be crossed by 
 the Spaniards. 
 
 After reaching Monterey, Anza, leaving the expedition 
 in camp, proceeded: to the peninsula of San Francisco and 
 selected sites for the presidio and mission, and then returning 
 to Monterey, he turned the expedition over to his lieutenant 
 and prepared for his return journey to Sonora. As he mounted 
 his horse on the plaza the people of the expedition thronged 
 about him, dissolved in tears, and with embraces and wishes 
 for his happiness bade him farewell, "giving me praises," says 
 the simple soldier, "which I do not deserve". They wept, he 
 
MARCH 95 
 
 says in his diary, not so much because they had left home and 
 friends to come to this far country, but because they should see 
 his face no more. 
 
 Anza's character may be read in the pages of his diary. 
 He was by nature, simple and kindly, responsive to the call 
 of duty, and true to the chivalrous traditions of heroic Spain. 
 It is not easy to estimate the value of the services of this 
 gallant soldier, and the monument erected in San Francisco 
 to the "Pioneers of California" is incomplete without his name. 
 
 Zoeth S. Eldredge. 
 From "The Beginnings of San Francisco" ; 19/2. 
 
 ROOM TO TURN AROUND IN 
 
 Room! Room to turn round in, to breathe, and be free 
 
 And to grow to be giant, to sail as at sea, 
 
 With the speed of the wind, on a steed with his mane 
 
 To the wind, without pathway, or route, or a rein! 
 
 Room! Room to be free where the white-bordered sea 
 
 Blows a kiss to a brother as boundless as he; 
 
 And to east and to west, to the north and the sun, 
 
 Blue skies and brown grasses are welded as one, 
 
 And the buffalo came like a cloud on the plain, 
 
 Pouring on like the tide of a storm-driven main, 
 
 And the lodge of the hunter to friend or to foe 
 
 Offers rest, and unquestioned you come or you go, 
 
 My plains of America! Seas of wild lands! 
 
 From a land in the seas in a raiment of foam, 
 
 That has reached to a stranger the Welcome of home, 
 
 I turn to you, lean to you, lift you my hands! 
 
 Joaquin Miller. 
 
 TO JOAN LONDON 
 
 ON HER SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Oh, maid, whose lips and eyes so lightly smiled 
 
 But yesterday, where has your girlhood flown? 
 What charm is this that falls upon the child, 
 
 And claims her lovely being for its own? 
 My memory sees the lost, my eyes the new; 
 
 Each is complete; I cannot choose the fairer, 
 But since for youth time gives a perfect due, 
 
 Why grieve when what I now behold is rarer? 
 
96 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 And you, sweet maiden, do you sometimes sigh 
 At losing girlhood's glad and joyous mirth? 
 
 Cease yearning, for a greater charm mounts high, 
 Which like a flower sprung from the earth, 
 
 Now stands revealed, though far from understood— 
 A thing of truth and glory, womanhood. 
 
 Merle Robbins Lampson. 
 From Unpublished Poems by Author of 
 "On Reaching Sixteen and Other Verses. 1 * 
 Geyserville, California: 1916. 
 
 SING ME A RINGING ANTHEM 
 
 Sing me a ringing anthem 
 
 Of the deeds of the buried past, 
 When the Norsemen brave dared the treacherous wave 
 
 And laughed at the icy blast. 
 
 And fill me a brimming beaker 
 
 Of the rich Burgundian wine, 
 That the chill of years with its chain of tears 
 
 May unbind from this breast of mine. 
 
 For working and watching and waiting 
 
 Make the blood run sluggish and cold, 
 And I long for the fire and the fierce desire 
 
 That burned in the hearts of old. 
 I can dream of the fountains plashing, 
 
 In the soft, still summer's night, 
 And of smothered sighs and of woman's eyes, 
 
 And the ripe ruddy lips and bright. 
 
 But better the tempest's fury 
 
 With its thunders and howling wind, 
 And better to dare what the future may bear, 
 
 Than to muse on what lies behind. 
 
 Then chant me no tender love-song, 
 
 With its sweet and low refrain, 
 But sing of the men of the sword and the pen, 
 Whose deeds may be done again. 
 
 Daniel O'Connell. 
 From "Story of the Files' ; 
 San Francisco: 1893. 
 
MARCH 97 
 
 THE COMMON SENSE OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 Children, if they have any sense at all, have usually a very 
 plain, unvarnished kind of common sense. We who are older 
 may indulge in imaginative flights and emotional orgies and 
 deceive ourselves and each other with half-truths, but to them 
 in their helplessness we owe the best we have acquired, and 
 we owe it to them unadulterated with speculation and uncol- 
 ored with fancy. 
 
 Margaret Collier Graham. 
 From "A Matter of Conscience," in "Do They 
 Really Respect Us? and Other Essays" ; 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, 1912. 
 
 WORDS FROM A JEWISH RABBI 
 
 It is a matter of note not to be overlooked that religion 
 and culture commenced their struggle for control in San 
 Francisco and all throughout California with the first rush 
 of the gold-seekers ; which tends to prove that the gambling, 
 the drinking, the speculating, the rioting — in short the excesses 
 of a people that has ventured much, and therefore cares little 
 for the future, were but ephemeral, to become dissipated by 
 the forces of law and order which prevailed from that time on. 
 
 In 1849, the Mission Dolores was the old landmark of 
 the zeal and the devotion of the Roman Catholic missionaries. 
 Early in that year the Protestant denominations began to 
 erect their chapels, and simultaneously the Pioneers of the 
 ancient confraternity of Israel, as is their wont all over the 
 world, gave signs that they, too, had not left their religion 
 behind in the homes whence they had come. 
 
 Jacob Voorsanger. 
 
 WORDS OF A WRITER IN 1885 
 
 Let those who would benefit our youth remember that 
 "innocence is the virtue of childhood" ; and whoso would make 
 a war on adult sin, let him so conduct the campaign that this 
 citadel shall not be invaded. Xafc Waters. 
 
 "Franccsa" ; from "San Franciscan" ', August, 1885. 
 
 Ishi, the Indian, roamed through the woods, lived on berries, stole 
 an occasional calf, and had a prospect of happy years ahead. But he 
 didn't know what money was. He was captured, brought down to civ- 
 ilization, accumulated $369.90 — and died of tuberculosis. Dig out your 
 own moral. 
 
98 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE PIONEER 
 
 Oh, staunch pathfinder! grizzled Pioneer! 
 
 Your brown, thick-furrowed face has known the heat 
 
 Of sun-scorched plain, and felt the stinging sleet 
 On mountain peaks. Yet ever of good cheer 
 You toiled, though lean, pale Hunger came so near 
 
 You heard the tread of his approaching feet; 
 
 Dark-browed Despair you sometimes downward beat 
 And stood above the prostrate form of Fear. 
 
 I count you as a soldier brave and true ; 
 A hero loved of heroes, whose strong hand 
 Upheld the flag of Progress to the skies ; 
 Who suffered patiently, and never knew 
 Defeat, and who within a wild weird land 
 
 Did strike the blow that bade a new world rise. 
 
 Herbert Bashford. 
 From "At the Shrine of Song" ; 
 San Francisco: Harr Wagner Pub. Co., 1909. 
 
 HOW THE SPRING COMES IN THE HIGH SIERRAS 
 
 Dead and cold the sweet world lay 
 
 Beneath her shroud of snow, 
 And my brother and I we mourned the day, 
 
 For O we loved her so. 
 
 We wandered forth 'neath the gloomy sky 
 
 Her sad death-wail to sing, 
 And my brother he cried with weeping eyes, 
 
 "God has forgot the Spring". 
 
 Brown and bare on the bank near by 
 
 Stood the willow-branches, dead, 
 And I wept to think of the Summer skies 
 
 And the glories, past and fled. 
 
 When lo! a marvel met mine eye 
 
 In all that frozen scene, 
 There in the willow-branches, dead and dry, 
 
 Were the bursting buds of green. 
 
 And O we laughed, my brother and I, 
 
 And straightway 'gan to sing; 
 We sang for joy 'neath the gloomy sky, 
 
 He'd not forgot the Spring. 
 
MARCH 99 
 
 "Sweet world, awake, arise! 
 
 Put off thy shroud of snow, 
 And greet with joy this glad surprise, 
 
 Thou are but sleeping, this we know. 
 
 "Sweet world, awake, arise ! 
 Beneath this awful gloom ; 
 The kiss of Spring is on thine eyes, 
 The willow is in bloom." 
 
 Ella Sterling Mighels. 
 From the "Cosmopolitan Magazine", March 1888. 
 
 NO FLAG BUT THE STARRY BANNER 
 
 Oh, land of Heaven-born freedom, "sweet land of liberty"; 
 land of our birth or our adoption, mistress of our hearts and 
 queen of our affections, land rescued to independence by the 
 splendid aid of our Irish forefathers, land redeemed from disso- 
 lution by the sterling help of our Irish kinsmen; benevolent 
 empire, spreading out the domain of your free institutions by 
 the generous help of our brothers and sons; sacred land, hal- 
 lowed by the blood of the Irish race on your every field of 
 battle; land consecrated with the graves of our loved ones who 
 lived and died beneath your sheltering shield; land dear to us 
 by the benefactions you have flung at the feet of every Irish 
 exile who has come within your gates; land good to us and 
 ours and all, beyond the goodness of all the other nations of 
 the world to men since time began; land of our first fealty 
 and our best love, of our sworn allegiance and our undivided 
 loyalty; land of the free, beloved America — in this day of 
 difficulty, as in all your troubled days that have gone before, 
 the Irishmen and sons of Irishmen within your borders will 
 ask no questions but of your best interests, will shrink from 
 aught that might embarrass or embroil you, and will know no 
 flag but yours. 
 
 John J. Barrett. 
 From oration delivered in Festival Hall, Exposition; 
 St. Patrick's Day, March 17, 1915. 
 
100 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE EXILE 
 
 I want to go, want to go, want to go West again, 
 Out where the men are the truest and best again, 
 Out where my life will have savor and zest again, 
 
 Lord, but I'm sick for it, sick for it all! 
 Sick to be back where my heart is unbound; again, 
 Somehow I'm lost and I want to be found again 
 Where I belong, on my natural ground again, 
 
 Out where the men and the mountains are tall. 
 
 I want to go, want to go, want to go West again, 
 Feel the brisk air in my throat and my chest again, 
 Wing myself back like a bird to the nest again, 
 
 Up where it's roomy and open and grand. 
 Up where the sunshine is golden and glorious, 
 Manners as bluff and bracing as Boreas, 
 Nobody distant — and no one censorious, 
 
 Comradeship sure of the deep Western brand. 
 
 I want to go, want to go, want to go West again, 
 Hear the old gang with its quip and its jest again, 
 Ride a good horse and be decently dressed again — 
 
 Corduroys, stetson and old flannel shirt. 
 Flowers and trees — I have suffered a blight of them, 
 Give me the peaks with the gray and the white of them, 
 Granite and snow — I am sick for the sight of them — 
 
 Blessed old memories — yet how they hurt. 
 
 I want to go, want to go, want to go West again, 
 Up near the top of the mountainous crest again — 
 Gulches and gorges and cliffs and the rest again, 
 
 Heaving themselves in their grandeur to view. 
 Let me just feel the old thrill in my breast again. 
 Know old cam'raderie mutely expressed again. 
 Gee, but I want to go, want to go West again, 
 
 Back to the mountains, old girl — and to you! 
 
 Berton Braky. 
 
 New York: George Doran Co., 1915.. By permission. 
 
 Note: This poem has a splendid swing to it; and a sentiment that 
 belongs to us here, though the writer of it is counted in because of his 
 spirit, rather than because he is a sojourner in our midst. — The Gatherer. 
 
MARCH 101 
 
 A CYCLE 
 
 i. 
 
 Spring-time — is it spring-time? 
 
 Why, as I remember spring, 
 
 Almonds bloom and blackbirds sing; 
 Such a shower of tinted petals drifting to the clovery floor, 
 Such a multitudinous rapture raining from the sycamore; 
 
 And among the orchard trees — 
 
 Acres musical with bees — 
 Moans a wild dove, making silence seem more silent than 
 before. 
 
 Yes, that is the blackbird's note; 
 Almond petals are afloat; 
 But I had not heard or seen them, for my heart was far away. 
 Birds and bees and fragrant orchards — ah ! they cannot bring 
 the May: 
 
 For the human presence only 
 That has left my ways so lonely, 
 Ever can bring back the spring-time to my autumn of today. 
 
 II. 
 
 Autumn — is it autumn? 
 I remember autumn yields 
 Dusty roads and stubble-fields ; 
 Weary hills, no longer rippled o'er their wind-swept slopes with 
 
 grain ; 
 Trees all gray with dust that gathers ever thicker till the rain; 
 And where noisy waters drove 
 Downward from the heights above, 
 Only bare white channels wander stonily across the plain. 
 
 Yes, I see the hills are dry, 
 Stubble-fields about me lie. 
 What care I when in the channels of my life once more I see 
 Sweetest founts long sealed and sunken bursting upward glad 
 and free? 
 
 Hills may parch or laugh in greenness, 
 Sky be sadness or sereneness, 
 Thou my life, my best beloved, all spring-time comes with 
 thee. 
 
 Milicent Washburn Shinn. 
 From Edmund Russell's "Evenings fpith California Poets' ; 
 San Francisco, 1893. 
 
102 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 HOW SAN FRANCISCO WAS NAMED 
 
 When Father Junipero Serra received his orders from the 
 Visitant-general respecting the names which he was to give to 
 the new missions in California, he observed that the name of 
 the founder of their order was not among them, and calling 
 the attention of his superior to the fact, exclaiming, "Is not 
 our Father San Francisco to have a mission?" to which the 
 Visitant-general replied, "If San Francisco desires a mission, 
 let him show you a port, and he shall have it." In the year 
 1769 an expedition was dispatched from San Diego for the pur- 
 pose of settling Monterey. The expedition missed the port, 
 but discovered a much larger and finer bay further to the 
 north, which had been till then unknown. The commander of 
 the expedition and his religious associates decided that this 
 discovery must be the work of St. Francis, and accordingly 
 they gave his name to the place, setting up a cross, and taking 
 possession after the usual manner. 
 
 Francisco Palou. 
 From Quotation used in <i Personal Narrative' of 
 John Russell BartletU United States 
 Boundary Commissioner, J 854. 
 
 BACCHANALE 
 
 On many slopes the vineyards grow, 
 
 All sturdy 'gainst the blustering 
 Of winds of March that madly blow 
 
 Where grapes will soon be clustering. 
 Red grapes and white — the red for wine 
 That warms the heart to cheeriness, 
 The white to sparkle when you dine, 
 A valiant foe to dreariness ! 
 
 On far-flung hills, in twisted shapes, 
 
 The greening leaves are quivering 
 With thrill of life, and soon the grapes 
 
 Their souls will be delivering 
 In luscious drops of red and white 
 
 From press of laughing winery, 
 The white the moon's cool robe of night, 
 
 The red the sun's warm finery! 
 
 Waldemar Young. 
 From "S. F. Chronicle'; March, 1916. 
 
MARCH 103 
 
 LET ME ARISE AND AWAY 
 
 Let me arise and away 
 
 To the land that guards the dying day, 
 
 Whose moonlight poured for years untold 
 
 Has drifted down in dust of gold ; 
 
 Whose morning splendors fallen in showers 
 
 Leaves ceaseless sunrise in the flowers. 
 
 "I sat last night on yonder ridge of rocks 
 
 To see the sun set over Tamalpais; 
 
 Whose tinted peaks suffused with rosy mist 
 
 Blended the colors of the sea and sky 
 
 And made the mountain one great amethyst, 
 
 Hanging against the sun. 
 
 I hold my hand up. so, before my face, 
 It blots ten miles of country and a town. 
 
 'Tis well God does not measure a man's worth 
 By the image in his neighbor's retina. 
 
 Edward Rowland Sill. 
 From "Story of the Files" ; San Francisco: 1893. 
 
 HAS CIVILIZATION BETTERED THE LOT OF THE 
 AVERAGE MAN 
 
 Let us see. In Alaska, along the banks of the Yukon 
 River, near its mouth, live the Innuit folk. They are a very 
 primitive people, manifesting but mere glimmering adumbra- 
 tions of that tremendous artifice, Civilization. Their capital 
 amounts possibly to S10 per head. They hunt and fish for 
 their food with bone-headed spears and arrows. They never 
 suffer from lack of shelter. Their clothes, largely made from 
 the skins of animals, are warm. They always have fuel for 
 their fires, likewise timber for their houses * * * They are 
 healthy and strong and happy. Their one problem is food. 
 They have their times of plenty and times of famine. In good 
 times they feast; in bad times they die of starvation. But 
 starvation, as a chronic condition, present with the large num- 
 ber of them, all the time, is a thing unknown. Further they 
 have no debts. 
 
 In the United Kingdom, on the rim of the Western Ocean, 
 live the English folk. They are a consummately civilized 
 people. Their capital amounts to at least SI 500 per head. They 
 
104 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 gain their food, not by hunting and fishing, but by toil at 
 colossal artifices. For the most part they suffer from lack of 
 shelter. The greater number of them are vilely housed, do not 
 have fuel enough to keep them warm, and are insufficiently 
 clothed. A constant number never have any houses at all, and 
 sleep shelterless under the stars. Many are to be found winter 
 and summer, shivering on the streets in their rags. They have 
 good times and bad. In good times most of them manage to 
 get enough to eat, in bad times they die of starvation. They 
 are dying now, they were dying yesterday and last year, they 
 will die tomorrow and next year, of starvation ; for they, unlike 
 the Innuit, suffer from a chronic state of starvation. 
 
 There are 40,000,000 of the English folk, and 939 out of 
 every 1000 of them die in poverty, while a constant army of 
 8,000,000 struggles on the ragged edge of starvation. Further, 
 each babe that is born, is born in debt to the sum of $110. 
 This is because of an artifice called the National Debt. 
 
 In a fair comparison of the average Innuit and the average 
 Englishman, it will be seen that life is less rigorous for the 
 Innuit; that while the Innuit suffers only during bad times 
 from starvation, the Englishman suffers during good times as 
 well; that no Innuit lacks fuel, clothing or housing, while the 
 Englishman is in perpetual lack of these three essentials. In 
 this connection it is well to instance the judgment of a man 
 such as Huxley. From the knowledge gained as a medical 
 officer in the East End of London, and as a scientist pursuing 
 investigations among the most elemental savages, he concludes, 
 "Were the alternative presented to me I would deliberately 
 prefer the life of a savage to that of the people of Christian 
 London." 
 
 ********** 
 
 There can be no mistake. Civilization has increased man's 
 producing power an hundred fold, and through mismanagement 
 the men of Civilization live worse than the beasts, and, have 
 less to eat and wear and protect them from the elements than 
 the savage Innuit in a frigid climate who lives today as he lived 
 in the stone age ten thousand years ago. 
 
 ********** 
 
 "And there in the camp of famine, 
 
 In wind and cold and rain, 
 Christ, the great Lord of the Army, 
 
 Lies dead upon the plain." 
 
 From "People of the Abyss" ; 
 
 New York and London: McMillan Co., 1906. 
 
 Jack London. 
 
GALAXY 5.— POETS AND PROSE WRITERS 
 
 Agnes Manning Herbert Bashford Richard Realf 
 
 Ella Sterling Mighels Emma Frances Dawson Lillian H. S. Bailey 
 
 Edwin Markham Madge Morris Wagner Virna Woods 
 
 Mary V. T. Lawrence Carrie Stevens Walter Lorenzo Sosso 
 
 105 
 
1 ; 
 
 GALAXY 6.— EDITORS, ORATORS, AUTHORS OF BOOKS 
 
 Arthur McEwen 
 
 Chas. S, Aiken 
 
 Charles A. Murdock 
 
 Samuel M. Shortridge 
 
 Chas. F. Holder 
 
 Bailey Millard 
 
 Harr Wagner 
 
 Jerome A. Hart 
 
 Thomas E. Flynn 
 
 Paul Elder 
 
 Thomas Nunan 
 
 C. F. McGlashan 
 
 106 
 
MARCH 107 
 
 THE YO SEMITE ROAD 
 
 There at last are the snow-peaks, in virginal chastity standing! 
 
 Through the nut-pines I see them, their ridges expanding. 
 
 Ye peaks ! from celestial sanctities benisons casting, 
 
 Ye know not your puissant influence, lifting and lasting; 
 
 Nothing factitious, self-conscious or impious bides in you ; 
 
 On your high serenities 
 
 No hollow amenities 
 
 Nor worldly impurities cast their dread blight; 
 
 August and courageous, you stand for the right; 
 
 The gods love you and lend you their soft robes of white. 
 
 Bailey Millard. 
 From "Songs of the Press* 1 . 
 
 CHARLES WARREN STODDARD 
 
 O Muse ! within thy Western hall, 
 To mellow chord and crystal string, 
 At many harps thy chosen sing — 
 
 His was the greatest soul of all. 
 
 He sang not as the leaping faun, 
 By voiceless rivers cool and clear, 
 Nor yet as chants the visioned^see 
 
 When darkness trembles with the dawn. 
 
 A milder music held his lyre — 
 A wistful strain, all human-sweet, 
 Between the ashes at our feet 
 
 And stars that pass in alien fire. 
 
 His skies were sombre, but he lit 
 His garden with a lamp of gold, 
 Where tropic laughters left untold 
 
 The sadness buried in his wit. 
 
 Lonely, he harbored to the last 
 A boyish spirit, large and droll — 
 Tardy of flesh and swift of soul, 
 
 He walked with angels of the Past. 
 
 With tears his laurels still are wet — 
 
 But now we smile, whose hearts have known 
 The fault that harmed himself alone — 
 
 The art that left a world in debt. 
 
108 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Of all he said, I best recall — 
 
 "He knows the sky who knows the sod, 
 And he who loves a flower loves God". 
 
 Sky, flower and sod, he loved them all. 
 
 From all he wrote (not for his day) 
 A sense of marvel drifts to me — 
 Of morning on a purple sea, 
 And fragrant islands far away. 
 
 George Sterling. 
 From "The House of Orchids and Other Poems"; 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, 1911. 
 
 THE LAW OF ANTAGONISM 
 
 The sun being but newly created and feeble in his power, 
 yet needed another force to counteract the solar attraction; 
 this was the attraction of gravitation, or the persistent will 
 force of the Deity. Without this law of antagonism the sun 
 would very soon rob our planet of its vitality, but this law of 
 attraction is so wisely adjusted that it restores what otherwise 
 would be dissipated by the sun's action ; or the earth would 
 become parched and unfit for the home of any kind of life. 
 
 • This law of antagonism is divine in its origin and includes 
 in its range all forms of existence, animate and inanimate; it 
 is the great law by which the onward progress of the world 
 is accomplished, from the lowest to the highest forms of life. 
 By it the balancings of nature are secured ; by it the mists are 
 lifted up; the clouds surrender their treasure, and the floods 
 are carried back to the sea ; the moaning winds, the muttering 
 thunder and the vivid lightning put to confusion the elements 
 of the atmosphere, purify the earth, and prophesy of man. 
 
 Man himself is subject to the same law. He swings from 
 one extremity of the arc to the other, till at last he settles down 
 at the point of progress and moves forward. The next genera- 
 tion moves in the same way, only in a longer arc, and finds a 
 higher resting point. One generation is sacrificed to another, 
 as forests feed on the rich soil of their predecessors. Men are 
 persecuted in one age and die martyrs, but the next age makes 
 heroes of them and builds monuments over their graves. 
 
 Scientific and philosophic and religious truths are perse- 
 cuted in one age and immortalized in another; laughed at and 
 driven out of the world, then ushered in with music and banners 
 and shouts of the multitude. The see-saw of civilizations, na- 
 tions and empires has been a forward movement over the graves 
 
MARCH 109 
 
 of the buried past. The dead past is but the prelude of the on- 
 ward future; out of the ruins of the old come the institutions 
 of the new. Thus the majestic procession moves on to perfec- 
 tion. Matter and mind alike are under the general superintend- 
 ence of the All-Wise. 
 
 Robert Wilson Murphy. 
 From "A Key to the Sacred Vault"; 
 San Francisco, 1890. 
 
 THE GREAT WHITE CITY 
 
 Shasta! my beautiful Shasta, 
 
 I have come back again — to you, 
 
 Ages ago it seems, I went, 
 
 To travel the wide world through. 
 
 You have not changed in splendor, 
 
 Great, White Mother of Pearl, 
 Manifold! I now behold 
 
 The wonders you unfurl. 
 
 The Indians of the long ago, 
 
 To whom you gave a Home, 
 Named you "The Great White City," 
 
 And like the ancient Rome, 
 
 You had Seven Cities, 
 
 All built of marble white; 
 Great, white, beautiful cities, 
 
 That gleamed like gems in the night. 
 
 Your cities all perfect and peaceful, 
 
 Made you an ivory God, 
 You stood through the aeons, a sentinel, 
 
 Where only the Indians trod. 
 
 When one day the thundered rumble 
 And roaring, came from your heart, 
 
 And the flames of a great volcano 
 Destroyed your cities of art. 
 
 Buried them deep in the mountain, 
 
 Forever and anon, 
 The cremation left a symbol 
 
 For Tomorrows to dwell upon. 
 
 The Indians mourned their cities, 
 
 And prophesied the theft; 
 Home of the great white cities, 
 
 You were the monument left! 
 
 You, the prophecy of ages, 
 
 Lie white and gleaming there, 
 The Marbled Cities' symbol 
 
 Robed in immaculate care. 
 
110 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Shasta! my beautiful Shasta, 
 
 I turn again to you, 
 Of all the world's great landscapes, 
 
 You, the nearest perfect view. 
 
 June Goodrich. 
 Redding, Cal, December 30, 1915. 
 
 A BEAUTIFUL SIGHT 
 
 Below was a winding valley, dotted with isolated lofty- 
 pines, and bright with green grass. A blue stream rambled 
 about the vale and emptied into a muddy-looking lake at the 
 south. This was Honey Lake, and the stream was Susan's 
 river. Beyond, westward, was a vast wall, bristling with trees 
 and crowned with white peaks. It was the Snowy Range of 
 mountains. Beyond it was the promised land. 
 
 The boys gazed with delight on the emerald valley and 
 the sparkling river; but chiefly were they fascinated by the 
 majestic mountains beyond these. They were not near enough 
 to see the smaller features of the range. But their eyes at 
 last beheld the boundary that shut them out of the Land of 
 Gold. The pale green of the lower hills faded into a purple- 
 blue, which marked where the heavy growth of pines began. 
 Above this and broken with many a densely shadowed gulch 
 and ravine, rose the higher Sierra, bald and rocky in places, 
 and shading off into a tender blue where the tallest peaks, 
 laced with snow, were sharply cut against the sky. 
 
 Before the young emigrants were water, rest and pastur- 
 age. But beyond were the mysterious fastnesses in which men, 
 while they gazed, were unlocking the golden secrets of the 
 earth. Up there, in those vague blue shadows, where the 
 mountain-torrents have their birth, miners were rending the 
 soil, breaking the rocks, and searching for hidden treasure. 
 The boys pressed on. 
 
 Noah Brooks. 
 From "The Boy Emigrants'. 
 
 THE GREAT PANORAMA 
 
 In March there is a riot of blossoms of the peach, the 
 cherry and the apricot trees, everywhere. One becomes used 
 to it by that time. And the little elf-queen of Growing Things 
 is working so hard to get the fruitage started just right she 
 comes forth from her hiding into plain sight and says, at the 
 solstice time, "See, the meadow lark is here, and bees and but- 
 terflies! Mortals, all rejoice — the lovely Spring is here." 
 
MARCH 111 
 
 BROAD ACRES MAKE UP COUNTRIES 
 
 Broad acres make up countries but a State is made by men, 
 And if this land grow justly grand, be ye remembered then. 
 Remember, as each plenteous year its ripe reward outpours, 
 You by your father's glory shine — your sons must shine by 
 
 yours. 
 If civil strifes in future rise, your hand must guide the helm, 
 Your wisdom and integrity stand fast when storms o'erwhelm, 
 And may God grant to us and ours, in all the years to be 
 Our State still holds her ocean-throne in peerless majesty. 
 
 Han)) ]. W. Dam. 
 From "The Last Crusade" ; 
 "Golden Era Magazine" 1885. 
 
 CHIVALRY AND CULTURE IN EARLY CALIFORNIA 
 
 EXTRACT FROM A LETTER WRITTEN IN 1851. 
 
 As for this country being backward like all other new 
 countries, it is a mistake. It is as far (if not farther) advanced 
 in literature, science, and the arts as any state in the Union. 
 There is more talent in the cities and in the mines of California 
 than in any of the older states. This may seem a broad asser- 
 tion, but it is nevertheless true. 
 
 We have many weddings here, even though the outside 
 world considers that we are semi-barbarous. I have married 
 two couples, myself, since I became alcalde. The fact of it 
 is this : Nothing in this country is the same as it is in the 
 states. Everything is changed — man's nature even ! I am no 
 more the same person. It cannot be expressed in words — no 
 power of language can portray or convey a correct idea of the 
 state of life in California. 
 
 There are no laws, but very few crimes are committed. 
 Gambling and intemperance reign supreme but there is little 
 drunkenness or dishonesty. And the great cause of these 
 anomalies is mostly FEAR. If a man does wrong we hang 
 him at once. If one trespasses upon the rights of another, he 
 shoots him and that ends it. So that everyone counts well 
 the cost before he engages in anything doubtful. 
 
 As I have sat under a tree on a Sabbath, listening to the 
 preacher I have wished for the genius of a painter to transfer 
 to canvass the scene that presented itself. The minister is 
 praying, near at hand sounds the auctioneer crying, "Going, 
 going, gone !" Then comes from the gambling-tables "Twenty- 
 five on the king'' ; then the woodsman's ax is heard, next the 
 
112 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 "Whoa, gee up there, go 'long" from the driver of an ox-team. 
 And amid all this din of medley, sound voices of heterogeneous 
 beings in conglomerated variety of pursuits and chaotic antag- 
 onisms. How strange that there should be anything like order, 
 and yet everything moves harmoniously ! 
 
 Sterling B. F. Clark. 
 Extract from letter owned bp The Gatherer. 
 
 THE CASTLE OF STORM 
 
 I bless the storm that keeps you here to-day, 
 The furious beating of the wind and rain, 
 The pelting streams against the window-pane; 
 
 I bless the flood that swept the bridge away, 
 
 The lashing of the gale, the trees a-sway; 
 
 The wind-torn blossoms, opened out in vain ; 
 What e'er the ruin, I can call it gain 
 
 Because, storm-bound, a little while you stay. 
 
 Since you are here there seems no cold or gloom ; 
 
 The day is perfect in my gladdened heart; 
 How bright the hearth-flame in the little room ! 
 The wet, wind-baffled songsters have no call ; 
 But here with you, the wide world set apart, 
 Love loosens sunshine, and I claim it all. 
 
 Lillian H. S. Bailey. 
 
CALIFORNIA 
 
 Sown is the golden grain, planted the vines; 
 Fall swift, O loving rain, lift prayers, O pines; 
 O green land, O gold land, fair land by the sea, 
 The trust of thy children reposes in thee. 
 
 Lillian H. S. Bailey. 
 From "Golden Era' ; 1885. 
 
 MEADOW-LARKS 
 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet ! O happy that I am ! 
 
 (Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!) 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet ! O subtle breath of balm, 
 
 O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the 
 spring ! 
 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet ! O skies, serene and blue, 
 
 That shut the velvet pastures in, that fold the mountain's 
 crest ! 
 
 .sweet, sweet, sweet! What of the clouds ye knew? 
 The vessels ride a golden tide, upon a sea at rest. 
 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain? 
 
 Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet! 
 Ah ! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain, 
 
 The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet. 
 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet ! O happy world that is ! 
 
 Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and 
 call. 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss — 
 
 For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all. 
 
 Ina Coolbrith. 
 From "Songs from the Golden Gate" ; 
 New York: Houghton & Mifflin, 1895. 
 
114 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 (From his home "The Heights" on the hills across the bay the poet saw the 
 burning of San Francisco following the earthquake of April 18th) 
 
 Such darkness, as when Jesus died ! 
 
 Then sudden dawn drave all before. 
 Two wee brown tomtits, terrified, 
 
 Flashed through my open cottage door; 
 Then instant out and off again 
 And left a stillness like to pain — 
 Such stillness, darkness, sudden dawn 
 I never knew or looked upon ! 
 
 This ardent, Occidental dawn 
 
 Dashed San Francisco's streets with 
 gold, 
 Just gold and gold to walk upon, 
 
 As he of Patmos sang of old. 
 And still, so still, her streets, her steeps, 
 As when some great soul silent weeps; 
 And, oh, that gold, that gold that lay 
 Beyond, above the tarn, brown bay ! 
 
 And then a bolt, a jolt, a chill, 
 
 And Mother Earth seemed as afraid ; 
 Then instant all again was still, 
 
 Save that my cattle from the shade 
 Where they had sought firm, rooted clay, 
 Came forth loud lowing, glad and gay, 
 Knee-deep in grasses to rejoice 
 That all was well, with trumpet voice. 
 
 Not so yon city — darkness, dust, 
 
 Then martial men in swift array ! 
 Then smoke, then flames, then great 
 guns thrust 
 
 To heaven, as if pots of clay — 
 Cathedral, temple, palace, tower — 
 An hundred wars in one wild hour ! 
 And still the smoke, the flame, the guns, 
 The piteous wail of little ones ! 
 
 The mad flame climbed the costly steep, 
 
 But man, defiant, climbed the flame. 
 What battles where the torn clouds keep ! 
 
 What deeds of glory in God's name ! 
 What sons of giants — giants, yea — 
 Or beardless lad or veteran gray. 
 Not Marathon nor Waterloo 
 Knew men so daring, dauntless, true. 
 
 Three days, three nights, three fearful 
 
 days 
 Of death, of flame, of dynamite, 
 Of God's house thrown a thousand ways ; 
 Blown east by day, blow west by 
 
 night — 
 By night? There was no night. Nay, 
 
 nay, 
 The ghoulish flame lit nights that lay 
 Crouched down between this first, last 
 
 day. 
 I say those nights were burned away ! 
 
 And jealousies were burned away, 
 
 And burned were city rivalries, 
 Till all, white crescenting_ the bay, 
 
 Were one harmonious hive of bees. 
 Behold the bravest battle won ! 
 The City Beautiful begun: 
 One solid San Francisco, one, 
 The fairest sight beneath the sun. 
 
 From "Sunset" ; June-July, 1906. 
 
 Joaquin Miller. 
 
APRIL 115 
 
 SUMMARY OF THE SITUATION 
 
 The calamity seems overwhelming and yet the people are 
 not overwhelmed. Everything has been destroyed except that 
 indomitable American pluck, that unconquerable American 
 spirit which will not be subdued. The past is already forgot- 
 ten, the future is in everyone's mind. The question is not 
 how shall San Francisco be restored, but how shall it be 
 made greater than it was, greater than it ever could have been, 
 except for this fire. * * * In a month there will be the 
 beginning of a new and splendid city; in a year it will have 
 assumed shape and in from three to five years it will be built 
 and busy, an example of American progress and prosperity. 
 
 If you stand upon one of the hills of San Francisco and 
 look only at the ruined city at your feet, you might be dis- 
 couraged at the prospect; but if you look out upon the glorious 
 bay and see ships from every port in the world floating upon 
 its satin surface, if you look across the bay and see the long 
 lines of railroads from the North and the South and the East 
 centering there, if you look beyond over the great valleys 
 teeming with grain and fruits, flowing with milk and honey; 
 if you look further still to the mighty mountains rich in gold 
 and precious ores, you know that the re-building of a greater 
 San Francisco is as well assured as that the sun now sinking 
 beyond the Golden Gate will rise tomorrow above the snow- 
 capped peaks of the Sierras. 
 
 William Randolph Hearst. 
 From "Sunday Examiner"; 
 May 13, 1906. 
 
 THE CITY HALL STATUE 
 
 Am I to fall and crumble into dust, 
 
 My fragments trampled under foot, unknown? — 
 
 I, who have stood for years in pride and trust 
 Of power, regnant, on my erie throne? 
 
 Through days uncounted I have watched, serene, 
 The puerile human throng pass, far below ; 
 
 Silent, in mock importance I have seen 
 The rulers of our city come and go. 
 
 The honest and the criminal have dwelt 
 
 And wrought their destinies beneath my feet; 
 
 Have legislated wisely and have smelt 
 
 Like hungry curs, the Tempter's carrion meat. 
 
116 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Here stood I, calm, undaunted, while the Earth 
 Shook, in its palsy, like a withered hand. 
 
 Here I have watched the city's sure rebirth 
 From nature's fury and the fire's brand. 
 
 Ah, gruesome jest of Fate ! that I have foiled 
 God's mighty elements, to end my span 
 Of life — a vandal's prey — to be despoiled 
 Of being by the hand of puny Man ! 
 
 Louis J. Stellman. 
 From "The Vanished Ruin Era' ; San Francisco: 1906. 
 
 A SONG OF SPRING— SAN FRANCISCO, 1908 
 
 The ordinary poet sings 
 
 Of very ordinary things — 
 Of primroses and daffodils, the stereotype of spring 
 
 Such rhapsodists as these belong 
 
 To the common or garden kind of song — 
 I string my lyre to higher strain — a city's blossoming! 
 
 The modest muse is satisfied 
 
 With violets blue and daisies pied, 
 With pallid flags that hide among the grasses delicate, 
 
 But to my ear such measures lag; 
 
 I hail the wild, exultant flag 
 That laughs above the towering steel and marks its ultimate. 
 
 The little "shooting-star" that shines 
 
 Among the tangled, grounded vines 
 May serve to stir the season's frenzy in a milder man; 
 
 The fire is kindled in my eye 
 
 To watch the rosy meteors fly 
 When red-hot rivets are flung forth and caught within a can! 
 
 A gentler laureate may dream 
 
 Of gossip with a babbling stream 
 (It's easy in a city flat to write that kind of drool!) 
 
 For me, no pebbled brook can teach 
 
 So musically sweet a speech 
 As that reiterative ring of the pneumatic tool. 
 
APRIL 117 
 
 Chirp on, ye bards of commerce, let 
 
 Your music stir the old spring fret; 
 I sing a bigger blossom-time than you have gurgled of ; 
 
 From mighty roots of concrete deep 
 
 The giant flowers spring from sleep 
 Along the barren highways in the city of my love ! 
 
 Charles K. Field. 
 
 THE PROMISE OF THE SOWING 
 
 By now it was almost day. The east glowed opalescent. 
 All about him Annixter saw the land inundated with light. 
 But there was a change. Overnight something had occurred. 
 In his perturbation the change seemed to him, at first, elusive, 
 almost fanciful, unreal. But now as the light spread, he looked 
 again at the gigantic scroll of ranch lands unrolled before him 
 from edge to edge of the horizon. The change was not fanci- 
 ful. The change was real. The earth was no longer bare. 
 The land was no longer barren — no longer empty, no longer 
 brown. All at once Annixter shouted aloud. 
 
 There it was, the Wheat, the Wheat! The little seed 
 long planted, germinating in the deep, dark furrows of the soil, 
 straining, swelling, suddenly in one night had burst upward to 
 the light. The wheat had come up. It was there before him, 
 around him, everywhere, illimitable, immeasurable. The 
 winter brownness of the ground was overlaid with a little 
 shimmer of green. The promise of the sowing was being 
 fulfilled. The earth, the loyal mother, who never failed, who 
 never disappointed, was keeping her faith again. Once more 
 the strength of nations was renewed. Once more the force of 
 the world was revivified. Once more the Titan, benignant, 
 calm, stirred and woke, and the morning abruptly blazed into 
 glory upon the spectacle of a man whose heart leaped exuber- 
 ant with the love of a woman, and an exulting earth gleaming 
 transcendant with the radiant magnificence of an inviolable 
 pledge. 
 
 Frank Norris. 
 From "The Octopus". 
 
118 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE AVITOR 
 
 A PROPHETIC POEM PUBLISHED IN 1875 
 
 Hurrah for the wings that never tire — 
 
 For the nerves that never quail; 
 For the heart that beats in a bosom of fire — 
 For the lungs whose cast-iron lobes respire 
 Where the eagle's breath would fail. 
 
 As the genii bore Aladdin away, 
 
 In search of his palace fair, 
 On his magical wings to the land of Cathay, 
 So here I will spread out my pinions today 
 
 On the cloud-borne billows of air. 
 
 Up! up! to its home on the mountain crag, 
 
 Where the condor builds its nest, 
 I mount far fleeter than the hunted stag, 
 I float far higher than Switzer flag — 
 Hurrah for the lightning's guest! 
 
 Away, over steeple and cross and tower — 
 
 Away over river and sea; 
 I spurn at my feet the tempests that lower, 
 Like minions base of a vanquished power, 
 
 And mutter their thunders at me. 
 
 Diablo frowns, as above him I pass, 
 
 Still loftier heights to attain; 
 Calaveras' groves are but blades of orass — 
 Lo Yo Semite's sentinel peaks a mass 
 
 Of ant-hills dotting a plain ! 
 
 Sierra Nevada's shroud of snow, 
 
 And Utah's desert of sand, 
 Shall never again turn backward the flow 
 Of that human tide which may come and go 
 
 To the vales of the sunset land! 
 
 Wherever the coy earth veils her face 
 
 With tresses of forest hair; 
 Where polar pallors her blushes efface 
 Or tropical blooms lend her beauty and grace — 
 
 I can flutter my plumage there! 
 
APRIL 119 
 
 Where the Amazon rolls through a mystical land — 
 
 Where Chiapas buried her dead — 
 Where Central Australia deserts expand — 
 Where Africa seethes in Saharas of sand — 
 . Even there shall my pinions spread. 
 
 No longer shall earth with her secrets beguile, 
 
 For I, with undazzled eyes, 
 Will trace to their sources the Niger and Nile, 
 And stand without dread on the boreal isle, 
 
 The Colon of the skies. 
 
 Then hurrah for the wings that never tire — 
 
 For the sinews that never quail ; 
 For the heart that throbs in a bosom of fire — 
 For the lungs whose cast-iron lobes respire 
 
 Where the eagle's breath would fail. 
 
 William Henry Rhodes. 
 Published in 1875. 
 From "Collection of Caxton" ; 
 Copyrighted by Mrs. Susan Rhodes. 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 Heedless of what portentious years may hold, 
 I, the Pacific's darling, the delight 
 Of hurricane and sea-fog, of the bright 
 
 Broad orb of Hope, have heard sad stories told 
 
 Of ancient kingdoms of the days of old, 
 
 Cities of stone with symbols strange bedight, 
 O'er which the pitiless, destroying Night 
 
 Has poured her darkness and destruction roll'd. 
 
 That past concerns not me. Today I stare, 
 Splendid and consequential at the flare 
 
 Of ominous stars. I know what must be, must. 
 Beneath the wind-whipt Banner of the Bear 
 The laughter of my children wakes the air — 
 
 I fear not Time, nor its o'erpowering dust ! 
 
 Howard V . Sutherland. 
 From ,l San Francisco News Letter**. 
 
120 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 YO SEMITE 
 
 Waiting tonight for the moon to rise 
 O'er the cliffs that narrow Yo Semite's 
 
 skies ; 
 Waiting for darkness to melt away 
 In the silver light of a midnight day ; 
 Waiting like one in a waking dream, 
 I stand alone by the rushing stream. 
 
 Alone in a temple vast and grand, 
 With spire and turret on every hand ; 
 A world's cathedral with walls sublime, 
 Chiseled and carved by the hand of time ; 
 And over all heaven's crowning dome, 
 Whence gleam the beacon lights of home. 
 
 The spectral shadows dissolve and now 
 The moonlight halos El Capitan's brow, 
 And the lesser stars grow pale and dim 
 Along the sheer-cut mountain rim; 
 And, touched with magic, the gray walls 
 
 stand 
 Like phantom mountains on either hand. 
 
 Yet I know they are real, for I see the 
 
 spray 
 Of Yo Semite all in the moonlight play, 
 Swaying and trembling, a radiant glow, 
 From the sky above to the vale below ; 
 Like the ladder of old, to Jacob given, 
 A line of light from earth to heaven. 
 
 And there comes to my soul a vision 
 
 dear, 
 As of shining spirits hovering near; 
 And I feel the sweet and wondering 
 
 power 
 Of a presence that fills the midnight 
 
 hour; 
 And I know that Bethel is everywhere, 
 For prayer is the foot of the angel's 
 
 stair. 
 
 A light divine, a holy rest, 
 Floods all the valley and fills my breast ; 
 The very mountains are hushed in sleep 
 From Eagle Point to Sentinel Keep ; 
 And a life-long lesson is taught me 
 
 tonight, 
 When shrouded in shadow, to wait for 
 
 the light. 
 
 Waiting at dawn for the morn to break, 
 By the crystal waters of Mirror Lake; 
 Waiting to see the mountains gray 
 Clearly defined in the light of day, 
 Reflected and throned in glory here. 
 A lakelet that seems but the valley's tear. 
 
 i 
 Waiting — but look ! the South Dome 
 
 bright 
 Is floating now in the sea of light ; 
 And Cloud's Rest glistening with caps of 
 
 snow, 
 Inverted stands in the vale below, 
 
 With tow'ring peaks and cliffs on high 
 Hanging to meet another sky. 
 
 O crystal gem in setting rare ! 
 O soul-like mirror in middle air! 
 O forest heart of eternal love, 
 Earth-born, but pure as heaven above! 
 This Sabbath morn we find in thee 
 The poet's dream of purity. 
 
APRIL 121 
 
 The hours pass by ; I am waiting now 
 On Glacier Point's o'erhanging brow ; 
 Waiting to see the picture pass, 
 Like the fleeting show of a wizard glass ; 
 Waiting — and still the vision seems 
 Woven of light and colored with dreams. 
 
 But the cloud-capped towers and pillars 
 
 gray 
 Securely stand in the light of day ; 
 The temple wall is firm and sure, 
 The worshippers pass, but it will endure, 
 And will, while loud Yo Semite calls 
 
 O grand and majestic organ choir, 
 With deep-toned voices that never tire ! 
 O anthem written in notes that glow 
 On the rainbow bars of Po-ho-no ! 
 O sweet Te Deum forever sung, 
 With spray like incense heavenward 
 swung. 
 
 Thy music my soul with rapture thrills, 
 And there comes to my lips "thy templed 
 
 hills, 
 Thy rocks and rills" — a nation's song. 
 From valley to mountain borne aloud; 
 My country's temple, built for thee ! 
 Crowned with the Cap of Liberty. 
 
 O country reaching from shore to shore ; 
 O fairest land the wide world o'er ; 
 Columbia dear, whose mountains^ rise 
 From fertile valleys to sunny skies, 
 Stand firm and sure and bold and free, 
 As thy granite-walled Yo Semite. 
 
 From "Story of the Files'*; San Francisco: 1893. 
 
 Wallace Bruce. 
 
 TWO EXTRACTS FROM A NOVEL 
 
 Let men preach if they will, the strong ties of human 
 love, the sacred links of friendship, the holy sanctity of the 
 marriage-tie ; I will show you a bond more powerful than all 
 these, more enduring than human affection, more indissoluble 
 than priestly rite, more tenacious than friendship ; and it is the 
 humiliating fellowship of crime. There is only one tie on earth 
 that is stronger, and that is the bond of suffering and loss. 
 
 A DESCRIPTION OF PROFESSOR DAVIDSON OF THE 
 ACADEMY OF SCIENCES. 
 
 Although past fifty, the Professor was a singularly hand- 
 some man, with a superbly modeled head, fine dark eyes and 
 a face lined with thought. His head was crowned with waving 
 iron-gray hair, confined with a skull-cap of black velvet, and 
 when he threw back his head with indescribable dignity, he 
 looked as if he had stepped from an old portrait, painted in a 
 
122 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 day when all men were brave in action, pure in mind and 
 heroic in purpose. Age which was stealing upon him would 
 never dim the fire of his eye, or add aught but power and 
 beauty to his noble countenance. 
 
 Flora Haines Loughead. 
 From the novel "The Man Who Was Guilty", 
 which ran as a serial in the "San Franciscan ", 1886. 
 
 A BACHELOR'S BUTTON 
 
 Dear Heart, that time when we were once engaged 
 
 And every thought our happiness presaged, 
 
 You made a promise that I ne'er forgot — 
 
 Perhaps, alas ! because you kept it not. 
 
 You said in accents of a silvery note : 
 
 "I'll sew that button, honey, on your coat". 
 
 Dear Heart, when we were disengaged, that day, 
 You said you'd be my sister, any way. 
 And so I thought perhaps that button yet 
 My coat at your beloved hands would get. 
 But years went by, and ever I must note, 
 No button yet upon my fading coat. 
 
 Dear Heart, I'm growing old; my coat, alack! 
 Has long departed on a beggar's back. 
 I'll follow soon, and creep beneath the mould 
 With single-hearted yearnings all untold: 
 And then perhaps, your promised word to save, 
 You'll sow a bachelor's button on my grave. 
 
 P. V. M. 
 
 From "Out of a Silver Flute"; N. Y., 1896. 
 
 THE GREAT PANORAMA 
 
 In April, still there are blossoms of the late apple-trees 
 coming into bloom, the fruit is beginning to hint of itself in 
 tiny shapes, and strawberries are ripening for the table, early 
 in season, the green leaves make the world a place of beauty 
 and grace to behold. 
 
 A. E. 
 
APRIL 123 
 
 A RIDE IN THE NIGHT 
 
 How Diana found herself in the saddle and galloping 
 through the darkness beside the bandit, she could not exactly 
 tell. The bandit by her side rode on in silence. On and on 
 they rode through the desert for what seemed hours. How 
 her companion knew the road if there was a road, she could 
 not understand. At last ahead of them the stars began to 
 grow pale, the sky luminous. The moon was rising. On the 
 horizon ahead she could see a black line of saw-like moun- 
 tains, outlining against the cold glimmer of the moon. * * * 
 The desert began to change; the monotonous plain was broken 
 by ravines. The mountains were coming nearer; in the cold 
 air of the desert night they had stood out sharp and colorless 
 under the chilly light like the dead peaks of the lunar world; 
 now there was a faint suggestion of color about them — not yet 
 warm and flaming reds and yellows but cold dull tints of 
 amethyst and amber. The dawn was coming. As they passed 
 a clump of greasewood, two or three animals seemed to start 
 out of the shadows — long afterward Diana remembered this 
 group, sharply photographed on her brain — mules, burros, 
 figures of men. Even this bivouac brought no word from her 
 silent escort — there was no sound save the "pad-pad" of their 
 horses' hoofs, the creak of saddle-leather and the jingle of bit- 
 chains and spurs. * * * When they were within easy dis- 
 tance of the town, Basquez signaled to his band to draw rein, 
 and turning to her, said, "Vaya usted con Dios, senorita!" 
 
 And after him like a litany, the band repeated in deep 
 voiced unison, "Vaya usted con Dios!" 
 
 Diana waved her hand to the little group of outlaws and 
 turned the head of her wearied mustang toward the town. Not 
 the least curious thing in this strange night was the farewell 
 of the bandits as she left them, "May God go with you !" 
 
 Jerome A. Hart. 
 Extract from "A Vigilante Girl" ; 
 A. C. McClurg: 1910; 
 Published by A. L. Burt Company. 
 
124 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 FIRST MEETING OF PIUTES AND WHITES 
 
 I was born somewhere near 1844, but am not sure of the 
 precise time. I was a very small child when the first white 
 people came into our country. They came like a lion, yes, a 
 roaring lion andi have continued so ever since, and I have 
 not forgotten their first coming. My people were scattered at 
 that time over nearly all the territory now known as Nevada. 
 My grandfather was chief of the entire nation, and was 
 camped near Humboldt Lake, with a small portion of his 
 tribe, when a party traveling eastward from California was 
 seen coming. When the news was brought to my grand- 
 father, he asked what they looked like. When told that they 
 had hair on their faces and were white, he jumped up and 
 clasped his hands together, and cried aloud: "My white 
 brothers — my long-looked for white brothers have come at 
 last." He immediately gathered some of his leading men, and 
 went to the place where the party had gone into camp. Arriv- 
 ing near them, he was commanded to halt in a manner that 
 was readily understood without an interpreter. Grandpa at 
 once made signs of frendship by casting down his robe and 
 throwing up his arms to show them he had no weapons; but 
 in vain — they kept him at a distance. He knew not what to 
 do. He had expected to have so much pleasure in welcoming 
 his white brothers to the best in the land, that after looking 
 at them sorrowfully for a little while, he came away quite 
 unhappy. But he would not give them up so easily. He took 
 some of his most trustworthy men and followed them day after 
 day, camping near them at night and traveling in sight of 
 them by day, hoping in this way to gain their confidence. But 
 he was disappointed, poor, dear old soul! 
 
 I can imagine his feeling for I have drank deeply from 
 the same cup. When I think of my past life and the bitter 
 trials I have endured, I can scarcely believe I live, and yet I 
 do; and with the help of Him who notes the sparrow's fall, I 
 mean to fight for my down-trodden race while life lasts. 
 * * * ^he third year more emigrants came, and that sum- 
 mer, Captain Fremont, who is now General Fremont. 
 
 My grandfather met him and they were soon friends. They 
 met just where the railroad crosses the Truckee River, now 
 called Wadsworth, Nevada. Captain Fremont gave my grand- 
 father the name of Captain Truckee, and he also called the 
 river after him. Truckee is an Indian word; it means "all 
 right" or "very well". 
 
APRIL 125 
 
 A party of 12 of my people went to California with Captain 
 Fremont, and helped him to fight the Mexicans. When my 
 grandfather came back he told the people what a beautiful 
 country California was. 
 
 Sarah Winrtemucca Hopkins 
 From "Life Among the Piutes; Their Wrongs and Claims" ; 
 Edited by Mrs. Horace Mann; 
 New York: G. P. Putnam s Sons, 1883. 
 
 MOUNT SHASTA 
 
 "As lone as God, and white as winter moon," 
 Mount Shasta's peak looks down on forest gloom. 
 The storm-tossed pines and warlike-looking firs 
 Have rallied here upon its silver spurs. 
 Eternal tower, majestic, great and strong, 
 So silent all, except for Heaven's song — 
 For Heaven's voice calls out through silver bars 
 To Shasta's height; calls out below the stars, 
 And speaks the way, as though but quarter rod 
 From Shasta's top unto its maker, God. 
 
 William F. Burbank. 
 From "Frank Leslie's Magazine"; 1887. 
 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 Queen of the Coast, she sits there emerald crowned, 
 
 Waiting her ships that sail in from the sea. 
 
 Brighter than all the western world, to me, 
 
 Seems this young goddess whom the years have found. 
 
 Ocean and sand, fraught with their treasures sweet, 
 
 Vie as they bring their burdens to her feet. 
 
 In her brave arms, she holds with proud content, 
 
 The varied plenty of a continent; 
 
 In her fair face, and in her dreaming eyes, 
 
 Shines the full promise of her destinies; 
 
 Winds kiss her cheek, while fret the restless tides, 
 
 She in their truth, with trust divine confides ; 
 
 Watching the course of Empire's brilliant star, 
 
 She looks with patient eyes, across the Bar. 
 
 Anna Morrison Reed. 
 From Edmund Russell s "Evenings with California Poets"; 
 San Francisco: 1893. 
 
126 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 CALIFORNIA MEADOW LARKS 
 
 What joy, O lark, wells in your liquid trill, 
 
 What hopes that silver cadence scarce conceals 
 From us, and to your dreaming mate reveals ! 
 
 Harsh was your querulous note, or mute until 
 
 Summer's long drought fled at the south wind's will; 
 Then through the pauses of the rain appeals 
 Your warble clear, while soft the new grass steals 
 
 O'er field and upland to each waiting hill. 
 
 Now, though such rapture thrills your song, though sweet 
 Those haunting falls of melody we hear 
 In your low, restless flight (still hovering near 
 That hidden nest your love, and Spring to greet) 
 Yet, lark, within your strain some nameless, fleet 
 And subtle grief compels a sudden tear! 
 
 Ella M. Sexton. 
 
 AN EASTER SONG 
 
 Sing, merry birds! ring, joyous bells! 
 
 And while the gleeful music swells, 
 Your censers swing, O lilies white ! 
 
 And o'er green floors of grassy dells 
 Dance, Easter beams of golden light! 
 
 Harriet M. Skidmore. 
 From "Chaplet of Verse by Calif ornia Catholic Writers" ; 
 San Francisco: 1889. 
 
 HOPKINS INSTITUTE 
 
 High on a hill her towers rose 
 What time she housed the soul of art ; 
 From threshold unto pinnacle 
 
 Supreme her glory, proud her heart. 
 
 Then fate, portentous, struck her down 
 In rage for some unknown offense — 
 
 A mausoleum on the height, 
 The tomb of her magnificence. 
 
 Ina L. Cool^. 
 
APRIL 127 
 
 WORD PAINTING REGARDING BUBB'S CREEK 
 
 From the discovered trail we descended through a little 
 canyon to the level of Bubb's creek, and before the day died, 
 we were camped upon its banks — and what a glorious place it 
 was ! No pen can describe it for no mind could put its glories 
 into language worthy of the theme. We awoke from our 
 dreams at dawn — and such a dawn ! * * * Over our heads 
 streamed great pinions of light, long shafts that shot their 
 glory into the clouds, crowning the heights beyond us in the 
 West, framing the headlands on whose stony brows, from 
 Creation's dawn, eternal snows had held their life against all 
 the battles of the sun. Here were fleecy clouds, great conti- 
 nents of white, loosely floated into the blue, changing each 
 moment like a drilling regiment on parade, and as they shifted 
 back took on new shapes and piled higher and higher into 
 the heavens. Thus the day opened, disclosing the faces and 
 ridges and near glories of the most wonderful groups of 
 scenery in the heart of the High Sierras. 
 
 * * * In the foreground a wild, rock-walled valley, 
 rested the eyes which grew dim at times with the endless 
 vision of the mightier pageant in the heavens above. Down 
 through these sunless woods leaped and dashed the great 
 creek, almost a river in its volume of waters. Just a mile 
 away were three perpendicular cliffs. Out over the skylined 
 rim of these, three great waterfalls, not less than twenty-five 
 feet in height, sprang into the air and swayed like long ribbons 
 into the valley below. The distance was so great, that, as 
 these falls swayed in the breeze like delicate laces, they lost 
 the solidity of their first outleap and dissolved into mists. 
 Now and then the breeze swayed toward us and we caught 
 the faint splash of waters, evanescent voices full of poetic 
 suggestion. * * * The night fell upon us with a thrall of 
 stars, the great white moon and the glory of the moonlight 
 mountains. * * * 
 
 It has been written that it is not a good thing for man 
 to be alone. This philosophy is relative only, for it is in the 
 loneliness only of an inert life that leaves its mark upon the 
 mind. The story of John Muir's life in the Sierra's where he 
 grew from mediocrity to greatness, the experiences of Audubon 
 who wandered for years in the depths of the Eastern woods, 
 refute the statement. They sought for and found the beauty 
 of the world in the pathless depths of Nature, and grew in 
 strength both mental and moral, upon the majesty of the great 
 spaces wherein the mountains are set as monuments. 
 
 Is there any land or latitude such as California holds, 
 
128 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 where multitudes and variety — things delicate and stupendous 
 — appalling and alluring, winsome and awful — are tangled to- 
 gether almost within the same horizon? The vast sweep of 
 the sky above us and the far-off sky-lines are not the least 
 of the great things that made up the wonderful scene that 
 was before us by the rushing waters of Bubb's Creek. 
 
 Samuel D. Woods. 
 From "Lights and Shadows of Life on the Pacific Coast;" 
 New York: 1910. 
 
 PRESENTIMENT OF LOSS 
 
 I wander out in the great night, alone, 
 
 One of a mighty company of things 
 
 Of giant size. Now silent whisperings 
 Tell me I am a brother, newly thrown 
 Into companionship with all the skies, 
 
 The hills and rivers, and the towering trees, 
 
 And all the stars. My heart, despite all these, 
 Feels a great void ; its spirit cannot rise. 
 O'erhead and far there gleam the stars, clothed deep 
 
 In mystery ; and the night is oddly strange ; 
 
 The river's weird enchantings never change. 
 On shipless, soundless oceans am I tossed ; 
 My soul's foreboding fears that o'er me sweep 
 Are uttered in one gasp of moaning, "Lost!!' 
 
 Why wail your death? — for if you did not die 
 
 You never could have lived, since birth and death 
 
 Must come with life. We would not miss your life : 
 
 Why mourn your death? And what will tears avail, 
 
 Save platitudes of sympathy from those 
 
 Who see the outward manifest of grief? 
 
 Is there not something more in grief than show? 
 
 What good is done when we exhibit pain? 
 
 The friend I lost in you cannot be found 
 
 In many men who walk the earth; and I, 
 
 In hallowed thought of you will weep no tears, 
 
 But in deep silence will I ruminate 
 
 Upon your life, study and venerate 
 
 Your deeds of grace, which you can do no more. 
 
 Merle Robbins Lampson. 
 From "The Giant Loss", A Sonnet Sequence in 
 Memoriam of Harry K. Cummings, by Author of 
 "On Reaching Sixteen and Other Verses"; 
 Ceyserville, California, 1916. 
 
APRIL 129 
 
 "MORT SUR CHAMP D'HONNEUR" 
 
 Oh, think not that there's glory won 
 
 But on the field, of bloody strife, 
 Where flashing blade and crushing gun 
 
 Cut loose the silver chords of life. 
 Carve deep his name in brass or stone, 
 
 Who for his home and country bled, 
 Who lies uncoffined and unknown, 
 
 Upon the field of honor dead. 
 
 But carve there too, the names of those 
 
 Who fought the fight of faith aud truth, 
 Bending beneath life's wintry snows, 
 
 Or battling in the pride of youth. 
 Whoe'er have kindled one bright ray 
 
 In hearts whence hope and joy had fled, 
 Have not lived vainly: such as they 
 
 Are on the field of honor, dead. 
 
 And those who sink on desert sand, 
 
 Or calmly rest 'neath ocean wave, 
 Dropping the cross from weary hand, 
 
 Telling no more its power to save : 
 The true, the pure, the brave, the good, 
 
 Falling at duty's post still shed 
 A radiant light o'er plain and flood — 
 
 Though on the field of honor dead. 
 
 Thus may we live, thus may we die, 
 
 In earnest, valiant, faithful fight; 
 True to man's loftiest destiny — 
 
 True to our God, ourselves, and right. 
 Thus when we sleep, as sleep we must, 
 
 In ocean's cell or earth's dark prison, 
 Be this memorial o'er our dust, 
 
 Though dead he is not here, but risen. 
 
 Bartholomew Dorvling. 
 
 WALKER OF NICARAGUA 
 
 To have looked at William Walker, one could scarcely 
 have credited him to be the originator and prime mover of so 
 desperate an enterprise as the invasion of the state of Sonora. 
 
 His appearance was that of anything else than a military 
 chieftain. Below the medium height, and very slim, I should 
 
130 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 hardly imagine him to weigh over a hundred pounds. His hair 
 light and towy, while his almost white eyebrows and lashes 
 concealed a seemingly pupiless, gray, cold eye, and his face 
 was a mass of yellow freckles, the whole expression very 
 heavy. His dress was scarcely less remarkable than his 
 person. His head was surmounted by a huge white fur hat, 
 whose long nap waved with the breeze, which, together 
 with a very ill-made short-waisted blue coat, with gilt buttons, 
 and a pair of grey, strapless pantaloons, made up the ensemble 
 of as unprepossessing-looking a person as one would meet 
 in a day's walk. I will leave you to imagine the figure he cut 
 in Guaymas with the thermometer at 100, when every one 
 else was arrayed in white. Indeed half the dread which the 
 Mexicans had of filibusters vanished when they saw this their 
 Grand Sachem — such an insignificant-looking specimen. But 
 any one who estimated Mr. Walker by his personal appearance, 
 made a great mistake. Extremely taciturn, he would sit for 
 an hour in company without opening his lips ; but once inter- 
 ested, he arrested your attention with the first word he uttered, 
 and as he proceeded, you felt convinced that he was no ordinary 
 person. 
 
 T. Robinson Warren. 
 
 From "Dust and Foam, or Three Oceans and Tn>o Continents" ; 
 New York: Scribner, 1858. 
 
 ANECDOTE OF THE DISASTER OF 1906 
 
 Many were the experiences of the period during the fire 
 and earthquake upheaval of San Francisco in April, 1906, to 
 be told later and handed down to posterity. Among these is 
 one of a purely domestic nature which has survived as follows: 
 Six months had passed and some Eastern ladies were dining 
 with a San Francisco couple, when the subject arose, the 
 guests expressing their sympathy and saying it must have been 
 a terrible thing to have passed through. 
 
 The hostess glanced at her husband and replied with 
 equanimity: "Oh, I don't know! so far as I was concerned 
 I rather enjoyed the earthquake-and-fire, for it is the only 
 thing which has happened for thirty-five years for which my 
 husband has not held me responsible". 
 
 From "Grizzly Bear Magazine". 
 
APRIL 131 
 
 SANCTUARY 
 
 One of the most wonderful revolutions — of twofold benefi- 
 cence — is going on in our national parks at this moment, in the 
 making of them into wild-life sanctuaries. 
 
 It is remarkable in that it is doing as much for man as for 
 the wild creatures that are protected from him. 
 
 Perhaps, indeed, it is doing even more for him ; for it is 
 teaching him not only that it is possible to live in amity with 
 the wild animals — heretofore presumably formidable, savage 
 and antagonistic — but with his own kind as well. 
 
 The confidence that wild animal protection engenders is 
 mutual. 
 
 Even the unaccustomed city folk that grow quite panicky 
 at thought of a bear at large in the woods find their composure 
 returning when they observe the bear accepting their presence 
 indifferently, even cheerfully. 
 
 Folks fresh from Market street, seeing a bear rise dripping 
 out of the crystal waters of the Merced and come galloping 
 along a regular park road to meet them (to greet them how?) 
 are apt to feel their hair standing on end and turning in its 
 sockets; but when he observes the rules of the road, politely, 
 they recover themselves sufficiently to exclaim : 
 
 "Well! Did you ever? Isn't he the cute thing!" 
 
 And the possibility of a new relation to life — larger, 
 friendlier, more tolerant, more interdependent, of a juster mutu- 
 ality, dawns upon them. 
 
 Wild creatures are shy and retire before the advance of 
 man; but when they find him unaggressive they come out and 
 are willing to keep the truce with him, and to make such 
 advances as seem discreet. 
 
 The notion that wild beasts are lurking in ambush to 
 pounce upon and rend you soon gives way to the shamefaced 
 consciousness that man is the aggressor and inciter of an- 
 tagonism. 
 
 One of the loveliest sights I have ever seen was of a doe 
 shoulder deep in the seeded grass and wild flowers of a moun- 
 tain meadow up near Glacier point, with the afternoon sun 
 slanting long upon her. A doe is essentially a gentle and 
 appealing creature in her exquisite defenselessness, and posed 
 thus, with soft eyes unalarmed, watching our auto glide into 
 view and out again, she made such a beautiful picture of peace 
 and plenty, security and contentment as would move any heart 
 to gladness that human coming and going should be accepted 
 so calmly. 
 
132 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 The wild creatures are willing enough to let us share the 
 earth with them if we will but let them share it with us 
 unmolested. 
 
 And this disposition on their part that we are coming to 
 recognize in the wild-life sanctuaries afforded by our national 
 parks suggests that even human beings might live amicably 
 together in this world if we could adjust our minds to respect- 
 ing each others' rights. 
 
 Helen Dare. 
 
 From "The San Francisco Chronicle", 1916. 
 
 RESURGAM 
 
 Ye days of April came so sweet — 
 / seemed to hear the flowers' feet 
 Come running upward 'neath the sod- 
 Yearning to lift their heads to Cod! 
 Ye days of April. 
 
 From "Story of the Files of California' 
 San Francisco: 1893. 
 
 David Lesser Lezinsk$> 
 
 HER POPPIES FLING A CLOTH OF GOLD 
 
 Her poppies fling a cloth of gold 
 
 O'er California hills — 
 Fit emblems of the wealth untold 
 That hill and dale and plain unfold, 
 
 Her name the whole world fills. 
 
 Eliza D. Keith. 
 
SONG OF AN ABSENT SON 
 
 Within my heart a song shall be 
 Made of thy name's sweet melody, 
 For all my heartstrings sound to thee! 
 California ! 
 
 When careless gods, in their disdain, 
 Surged me in seas of bitter pain, 
 Leaving on love's bright hours a stain, 
 Then did I learn life's meanings, where 
 Thy brown hills rise, sublime and fair, 
 Thou who canst overcome despair! 
 California ! 
 
 Thou knowest — all to thee I gave, 
 When love, lamenting could not save, 
 And in thy peace there is a grave, 
 California ! 
 
 Some day, when days are weariest, 
 I, in thy bosom shall be blessed 
 With mine own heritage of rest, 
 California ! 
 
 From thy swift-slipping golden years 
 I grasped the joy that age outwears — 
 Time's gift of memories and tears ; 
 Thus shall I say farewell to thee, 
 Thou who hast known mine ecstacy 
 When all the glad young years of me 
 
 Were thine, California! 
 
134 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Though I am far from thee, alone, 
 I was, I am, thy Native Son! 
 Take thou this song of love, my own 
 California ! 
 
 See, in my cup, long drained of wine, 
 I pledge in smiles and tears ; thou'rt mine ! 
 When I am dust let me be thine, 
 California ! 
 
 Gabriel Furlong Butler. 
 From "Grizzly Bear Magazine" ; 1910. 
 
 VALE 
 
 De mortuis nil nisi bonum." When 
 
 For me the end has come and I am dead, 
 And the little, voluble, chattering daws of men 
 
 Peck at me curiously, let it then be said 
 By some one brave enough to tell the truth : 
 
 Here lies a great soul killed by cruel wrong. 
 Down all the balmy days of his fresh youth 
 
 To his bleak, desolate noon, with sword and song, 
 And speech that rushed up hotly from the heart, 
 
 He wrought for liberty, till his own wound 
 (He had been stabbed), concealed by painful art 
 
 Through wasting years, mastered him and he swooned, 
 And sank there where you see him lying now 
 With the word "Failure" written on his brow. 
 
 But say that he succeeded. If he missed 
 
 World's honors, and world's plaudits, and the wage 
 Of the world's deft lacqueys, still his lips were kissed 
 
 Daily by those high angels who assuage 
 The thirstings of the poets — for he was 
 
 Born unto singing — and a burthen lay 
 Mightily on him, and he moaned because 
 
 He could not rightly utter in the day 
 What God taught in the night. Sometimes, natheless, 
 
 Power fell upon him, and bright tongues of flame, 
 And blessings reached him from poor souls in stress; 
 
 And benedictions from black pits of shame, 
 And little children's love, and old men's prayers, 
 And a Great Hand that led him unawares. 
 
MAY 135 
 
 So he died rich. And if his eyes were blurred 
 
 With thick films — silence ! he is in his grave. 
 Greatly he suffered ; greatly, too, he erred ; 
 
 Yet broke his heart in trying to be brave. 
 Nor did he wait till Freedom had become 
 
 The popular shibboleth of courtiers' lips; 
 But smote for her when God himself seemed dumb 
 
 And all his arching skies were in eclipse. 
 He was a-weary, but he fought his fight, 
 
 And stood for simple manhood; and was joyed 
 To see the august broadening of the light 
 
 And new earths heaving heavenward from the void. 
 He loved his fellows, and their love was sweet — 
 Plant daisies at his head and at his feet. 
 
 Richard Realf. 
 
 From "The Story of the Files' ; 
 
 Published first in "The Argonaut"; October, 1878. 
 
 DANIEL O'CONNELL 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 The wreath we bring and lay with loyal hand 
 
 Upon the stone which crowns the spot where thou 
 
 So oft hast wandered in the past to stand 
 
 Where we, who honor thee, are gathered now ; 
 
 This wreath will fade ere scarce a day hath fled, 
 But 'round thy brow are bound the living leaves 
 
 That seat the Singer with the Deathless Dead — 
 The few whose laurels Fame not often weaves. 
 
 Thy lips are mute; but each melodious strain 
 Thy fancy conjured from the vibrant chords, 
 
 Lives in our love, there ever to remain 
 Among the dearest treasures Memory hoards. 
 
 Louis Alexander Robertson. 
 
 Lines spoken while placing a wreath upon the Memorial Seat erected to 
 Daniel O'Connell in Sausalito. 
 
 From "From Crypt and Choir" ; 
 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, 1904. 
 
136 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE FAREWELL 
 
 A SUBJECT FOR A PAINTING 
 
 It so happened that there was a day in May in 1885, when 
 a remarkable outpouring of the people of San Francisco from 
 their homes, came forth to honor a man of distinction, who 
 was turning has face away from the setting sun, and returning 
 to the home of his childhood in old Spain. This was Arch- 
 bishop Alemany who had been sent to California in 1850, a 
 stranger in a strange land, yet who had come to gather the 
 scattered flocks together and make them one people. After 
 his thirty-five years of service, he was now seventy-two years 
 of age, and had long planned to return to that land whence he 
 had come. On this day, the 27th of May, he was leaving 
 California, and the outpouring of the people during the cere- 
 monies preceding and upon that date, makes that incident 
 historical in our annals. 
 
 The first ceremony began with a concourse of fifty-five 
 clergymen. Then followed one of the laity, composed of 
 many prominent men and women well known in our earlier 
 years of San Francisco, among whom were the Tobins, the 
 Barrons, the Donohues, the Fairs, the Burnetts, the Phelans, 
 the Barroillets, the Casserlys, the Carrigans, and a hundred 
 others of equal distinction in circles of wealth and social life. 
 Next followed a farewell to the St. Joseph's Benevolent Society, 
 which had been founded by the Archbishop in 1860, for the 
 benefit of the widows and orphans, the sick and needy, and 
 which had expended the sum of $135,000, for these purposes. 
 This also was an overflow meeting, composed of members and 
 their families. 
 
 A touch of the Orient was revealed in the next ceremony 
 connected with the departure of the Archbishop ; it was the 
 gathering of Catholic Chinese in the hallways, leading to the 
 parlors of St. Mary's Cathedral, and composed of Chinamen 
 representing nearly every province of the Flowery Kingdom. 
 Among these was the wife of an interpreter whose four 
 children had been baptized a few weeks before. So pleased 
 had been the Archbishop with the success of his Chinese 
 mission that he had purchased them a lot, and had set apart 
 enough to build them a chapel for themselves. They had stood 
 there in the hallway waiting for over an hour for his appearance. 
 
 On the Sunday of the departure, many were the memories 
 recalled. From early morn he officiated at the services in the 
 Cathedral of St. Mary, and hundreds came and went. Later 
 on, the aged Archbishop, weakened by his continuous service 
 
MAY 137 
 
 on that last clay, rose and walked to the centre of the altar, 
 and began a confirmation-address to several hundred children 
 who gathered about the altar to be received into the church. 
 The girls in white with wreaths of flowers upon their heads, 
 and boys in black suits, knelt before the altar as the Arch- 
 bishop spoke to them and confirmed them. He was deeply 
 moved by the scene. His voice quivered with emotion and 
 tears filled his eyes. After a few words to the boys and girls, 
 he then sought to express his thoughts on the immortality 
 of the soul. 
 
 At 2 o'clock, the vestibule and hall were filled with people, 
 and a crowd surged to the sidewalk to catch a last glimpse 
 of the departing Archbishop. As soon as they saw him, all 
 knelt, men, women and children. The women sobbed. He 
 advanced to the carriage which was waiting for him, blessed 
 the kneeling company and spoke consoling words to them. 
 One poor woman clung to him and said, "Won't you pray for 
 my poor girl?" And he replied, "Yes, God bless you." 
 
 Eighty people took the three o'clock boat and crossed 
 the bay. On the Oakland mole these scenes were repeated. 
 At the Oakland station, there was a scene perhaps never before 
 witnessed in the country. As the train stopped, a crowd of 
 three hundred or more gathered about the last car, which was 
 the one occupied by the Archbishop and the party escorting 
 him. As he stepped on the platform, a hundred hands were 
 stretched out to his. 
 
 The stop at the station was but for a moment, and slowly 
 the people saw the train moving away. Simultaneously they 
 fell on their knees, more than three hundred of them, some 
 on the track, some on the rails, others on the walk. Reverently 
 the men removed their hats. The tide was rippling in and 
 dashing against the rocks on the beach. The sun was glisten- 
 ing on the water, making a shining path of light across the 
 bay. The train drew away from the kneeling people, and the 
 Archbishop removing his hat, blessed them with his out- 
 stretched hand. As he stood in this reverential attitude, the 
 wind blew his gray locks, and tears came into his eyes. The 
 train gathered speed and soon was whirling along the shore, 
 and out of sight of the heavy-hearted people who were rising, 
 with the sunlight and the Archbishop's blessing on their 
 heads. 
 
 At Port Costa he took final leave of those men who had 
 been laboring with him all those many years. With one 
 accord, the clergy and the laity knelt in the aisle and received 
 the final blessing. As the old man passed through the car 
 
138 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 to a Pullman at the head of the train he was received with 
 respect by every one. As the sections of the train ran on to 
 the ferry-boat, he stood on the platform and waved a farewell 
 to his friends, who bade him Godspeed with full hearts. At 
 Sacramento, a few hours later, a delegation boarded the 
 special car, and another ceremony followed, after which the 
 departing Archbishop came out on the platform to give his 
 blessing to many who were there to behold him for the last 
 time. 
 
 From the record of this day, given in the weekly press, 
 are here chosen a few words gathered as a message to be 
 remembered by those who come after, for all those of that 
 wonderful day belong now to the past. "When first I came 
 to San Francisco, it took me a whole day to cross the bay 
 in an open boat." 
 
 "The education of the young, of the dear, innocent, beauti- 
 ful little children is one of our greatest cares. Our mission 
 might be envied by the angels. We train up the hearts of 
 them to love and know God and serve Him. We teach them 
 truths which are to endure for all time, and to make their 
 souls, if faithful to that teaching, shine as the stars in 
 heaven." 
 
 "When first I came here how few children there were! 
 Now wherever I go, I see armies of children. A few years 
 ago in Sonoma and the northern districts, there were none to 
 be seen, but now there are very many. All these dear little 
 children will be lost to the world and to eternity, if you do not 
 devise means by which they may be reclaimed from a life of 
 idleness." 
 
 "I cannot speak of my life here without my emotions 
 overcoming me. I came here with diffidence and weak in 
 heart, but the kindness with which I was greeted, the hearty 
 co-operation which was tendered me, strengthened me in. my 
 purpose and made me forget my lack of power." 
 
 "I do not think I was born to be a Bishop, and I told 
 Pius IX so, but nevertheless they made me a Bishop." 
 
 "I am not exactly the second founder of the Church in 
 California, though you may call me so, but I have zealously 
 labored to discharge my duties. Nor can I say I have done 
 them well. My heart and my sympathies for you all, and this 
 beautiful land were immediately upon my arrival in 1850, 
 enlisted in your behalf. When I shall have left, and the 
 breadth of many a league of land and ocean divides us from 
 
GALAXY 7.— POETS AND PROSE-WRITERS 
 
 Emelie T. Y. Parkhurst Yda Addis 
 
 Ednah Aiken "Betsy B," Mary T. Austin 
 
 Geraldine Bonner Alice Denison Wiley 
 
 Mary L. Hoffman Craig Fannie Avery 
 
 Frona Eunice Colburn 
 
 Anna Morrison Reed 
 
 Eliza D. Keith 
 
 Louise H. Webb 
 
 139 
 
GALAXY 8.— EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS 
 
 William Bausman 
 
 Hugh Hume 
 
 Joseph Wasson 
 
 S. B. Carleton 
 
 Henry Clay Watson 
 
 Lauren S. Crane 
 
 Harry Bigelow 
 
 Samuel Seabough 
 
 Charles Henry Phelps 
 
 J. O'Hara Cosgrave Henry Rust Mighels William P. Harrison 
 
 140 
 
MAY 141 
 
 each other, many will be the moments when the tears shall 
 spring to my eyes at the thought that perhaps never again shall 
 I be permitted to see you. I leave to you my heart and my 
 affection." 
 
 Taken from "San Francisco Monitor, May, 1885; 
 Edited and condensed from seven columns in the 
 above by The Gatherer. 
 
 THE MISSION SWALLOWS AT CARMEL 
 
 When the mating-time of the lark is near 
 
 And down in the meadow the blackbirds swing, 
 
 They come with the music and youth of the year, 
 Sure as the blossoms tryst with spring. 
 
 When willow and alder don their leaves, 
 
 Up from the cloudy south they fare, 
 To flit all day by the Mission eaves 
 
 And build their nests in the shadow there. 
 
 O'er field and meadow, a restless throng, 
 They dart and swoop till the west is red, 
 
 Swift of wing and chary of song, 
 
 That the eggs be hatched and the nestlings fed. 
 
 Serra sleeps within sound of the sea, 
 
 And the flock he fathered is long since still. 
 
 Over their graves the wild brown bee 
 Prowls, and the quail call over the hill. 
 
 Serra is dust for a hundred years, 
 
 Dust are the ladies and lords of Spain — 
 Safe from sorrow and change and tears, 
 
 Where the grass is clean with the springtide rain. 
 
 Meekly they slumber, side by side, 
 
 Cross and sword to the furrow cast, 
 Done forever with love and pride, 
 
 And sleep, as ever, the best at last. 
 
 But over the walls that the padres laid, 
 
 The circling swallows come and go, 
 Still by the seasons undismayed, 
 
 Or the storms above or the dead below. 
 
 Ceorge Sterling. 
 From "Beyond the Breakers and Other Poems" ; 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, 1914. 
 
142 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 FOR THESE UNKNOWN 
 
 IN MEMORY OF THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER DEAD. 
 
 Sleep where they may, above them Memory lingers, 
 A tender light within her shadowed eyes, 
 
 And in the wind's low touch lovingly fingers 
 Each fallen leaf that on the grave mound lies. 
 
 And what if fame pass by in clarioned splendor, 
 Or triumph all unheeding, lead her train? 
 
 For those unknown, there wakes a chord more tender 
 Than ever echoed in the victor's paean ; 
 
 For over them, full mindful of their glory, 
 
 Low hidden in a field of graves unnamed, 
 The soft winds weave for me the splendid story 
 
 Of heroes whom the heavens have acclaimed: 
 
 No laurel wreaths lie on their breasts, no flowers 
 Make gardens of the gloom and hush of death; 
 
 But in the night's deep spirit-haunted hours, 
 Their deeds are chanted on the heaven's breath. 
 
 And when the night has passed and all translucent 
 With kindling light glows Orient's architrave, 
 
 The kind leaves fall, by Memory's soft hands loosened, 
 A trembling tribute on each unknown grave. 
 
 Charles Phillips. 
 
 WHY? 
 
 Why is it that the groansome loads of Fate 
 
 Are thrust, not on the shoulders, broad and strong, 
 Of beings swart and big who daily throng 
 The ways of Life, but on the Souls that late 
 Have staggered, spent and tired, from burdens great, 
 And now deserve the laurel which their long 
 And patient suff'ring earned? It seems all wrong! 
 Why cannot Fate attack its size and mate? 
 Great God! — perhaps it does; perhaps the weak 
 Refined and pure, are ablest, after all 
 
 To bear the thorns and briers that abound 
 In Heaven's path ; and when they — aching, meek — 
 Complete the task, some obstacle must fall, 
 And Souls of Men advance another round. 
 
 P. V. M. (Inspired by Ina Coolbrith.) 
 From "Out of a Silver Flute" ; 
 New York: 1896. 
 
MAY 143 
 
 TO MY FATHER'S MEMORY 
 
 They will not blame me if my poet repeat 
 A thousand times his phrases like a child : 
 
 For like a child, to all that he can meet, 
 He talks of love that's vigilant and wild. 
 
 To Petrarch, life was but a mirror fair, 
 Wherein his lady's beauties tranced lay, 
 
 Her eyes, her lips, her voice, her smile, her hair 
 Made the strange spectrum of his lonely day. 
 
 For me, I con these bright monotonous things 
 That, when my angel meets me on the strand 
 
 And stuns me in the rushing of his wings, 
 I may say something he can understand. 
 
 Agnes Tobin. 
 From dedication to "Madonna Laura" ; 
 London: William Heinemann, 1906. 
 
 RICHARD WHITE 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 He walked so softly that he never trod 
 
 In hurt of anything that breathed the air, 
 And in his bosom felt the pulse of God 
 That pointed him to ways divinely fair. 
 
 Edward Robeson Taylor. 
 April 21, 1918. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE WATER IN THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 NIGHT IN THE YO SEMITE. 
 
 I have lain all night a-listening 
 
 To the voice of the water in the mountains, 
 
 Where in the white moonlight glistening 
 Are assembled the mighty fountains. 
 
 Blued with the mists of twilight, 
 
 The guardian walls grew dimmer; 
 Outlined alone by the sky-light 
 
 Where the stars begin to glimmer. 
 
144 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Softly the night-breeze is creeping 
 
 In and out through the pines, 
 But ever the waters are sweeping 
 
 Forth from their high confines. 
 
 The beast to his lair is driven, 
 
 The bird in her nest is dreaming, 
 But ever the eyes of Heaven 
 
 See the rushing waters' gleaming. 
 
 Over the verge of the chasm 
 
 The moon's pale orb appears, 
 But her peace calms not the spasm — 
 
 The throes of the waters fierce. 
 
 Loud now is their voice as thunder, 
 
 With volley and thud and rumble, 
 Now a mountain seems rent asunder, 
 
 Now a crash, then a distant grumble. 
 
 Then faint grow the stars more distant. 
 
 A light in the Orient creepeth, 
 Up rise the great domes, all resistant, 
 
 And Dawn, but the water ne'er sleepeth. 
 
 I have lain all night a-listening 
 
 To the voice of the water in the mountains, 
 
 To its tale, from the world's first christening, 
 To the time there shall be no more fountains. 
 
 Charles Elmer Jenney. 
 From "California Nights' Entertainment" ; 
 Edinburgh: Valentine & Anderson. 
 
 EMPEROR NORTON I 
 
 Monarch by choice of the Golden West, 
 
 Usurper by right of his own behest, 
 
 What though his reign was a world-wide jest- 
 
 This wise old Emperor Norton — 
 There never was monarch so kindly as he, 
 So lordly in rags, democratic and free, 
 With never a battle on land or sea — 
 
 Our good old Emperor Norton. 
 
MAY 145 
 
 His soldierly dress we can never forget, 
 
 With its tarnished and old-fashioned epaulette, 
 
 A white plug hat with a side rosette — 
 
 One suit had Emperor Norton — 
 With a monster cane as a regal mace, 
 Entwined with the serpent that tempted the race, 
 This monarch of mystery held his place, 
 
 Majestical Emperor Norton. 
 
 Exacting no bounty but moderate need, 
 While the light of his life was excellent creed, 
 For he never had done an ignoble deed, 
 
 This raggedy Emperor Norton. 
 There never was tribute more modestly laid, 
 By banker and merchant more willingly paid, 
 And never were titles more cheerfully made 
 
 Than those by Emperor Norton. 
 
 All men are usurpers somewhat in their way, 
 
 But the high and the lowly acknowledged his sway, 
 
 And even the children would pause in their play 
 
 With greetings for Emperor Norton. 
 No King ever ruled better people, I vow — 
 Those old San Franciscans were peers, anyhow — 
 For none but the noble would smilingly bow 
 
 To a mock-regal Emperor Norton. 
 
 Fred Emerson Brooks. 
 From 'The Overland", 1917. 
 
 A MESSAGE FROM EMPEROR NORTON I 
 
 Nothing in our early days was more charming than the sight of 
 the poor throneless emperor in all his regalia, on parade on Kearny 
 street with the rest of the fashionable world, stopping to present to 
 some pretty little girl, the rose-bud bouquet from his coat-lapel. 
 Everyone humored the harmless old man in his vagary that he was 
 a person to be honored, and both mother and child would accept the 
 proffered gift as from one of importance, and smile and bow in 
 return and wish him ''Good-day" most politely. 
 
 When death claimed the body of the man notable in our early 
 annals as one whose loss of fortune had affected his brain, he was 
 buried in the Masonic cemetery in the shadow of Lone Mountain's 
 cross. But the memory remained in the hearts of those little girls to 
 whom he had presented the flower from his breast as they passed in 
 the crowded street. They never forgot him. When others tried to 
 make mock of the story of his affliction, they always smiled and told 
 of the pretty ceremony and how Emperor Norton had given them a 
 flower to remember him by. 
 
146 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Years passed. A committee came into existence in 1913 resolved 
 to visit the cemeteries on Decoration-day out in the neglected region 
 of Lone Mountain and hold services there. They sought the grave 
 of Edward A. Pollock, the author of "When the Clouds Come in 
 Through the Golden Gate", and that of Richard Realf, the author of 
 that great poem, "Vale", also that of Bernard Dowling, who wrote 
 "Dead on the Field of Honor", and "Hurrah for the Next That Dies", 
 and for that of the author of the "Old Oaken Bucket". They also 
 were led to view the spot where lay set apart by the Masonic Cemetery 
 to mark the resting-place of Emperor Norton I. And to their surprise 
 they found it already decorated by bunches of rose bud bouquets in 
 memory of those he had given to the young away back more than a 
 quarter of a century before. A silence fell upon them and they knew 
 that he had builded better than he knew. Those little girls, now 
 grandmothers, had not forgotten him. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 "Life in California*, 1916. 
 
 WHERE BRODERICK SLEEPS 
 
 The intelligence of Broderick's death, September 16, 1859, spread 
 like a pestilence. People refused to credit that which their hearts 
 dreaded — that he had been thus slain in the very morning of his 
 career; that his sun had set while it was yet day. But the conviction, 
 the sad conviction was verity. Men's hearts sank; eyes were moistened 
 by tears which the sternest pride of manhood could not repress, and 
 voices were hushed to earnest whisperings. * * * There was no 
 concerted signal of woe, no set form or phase of sorrow; but gloom 
 like a black mist crested the town and its expression was silenced. 
 * * * Moved by the fullness of their individual sorrow, men 
 suspended business, draped doors and repaired slowly to their homes. 
 San Francisco had never such a day in its stormy existence. There 
 are those living who yet recall the universal gloom. * * * On 
 Sunday afternoon the body was removed to the Plaza, deposited on a 
 catafalque, and without music, banners, religion, organizations or 
 chairman, but in the presence of the dead and of thirty thousand 
 silent living men, Colonel Baker pronounced a discourse almost 
 unrivaled in English. The Monte Diablo range to the east, recalling 
 the Alban Hills; the sparkling September sun, scarce equalled by 
 Italia's brilliant sunshine; the seven hills of San Francisco, like the 
 seven hills of Rome — the first towering o'er the plaza where lay the 
 stricken senator, while the others, looking over the forum, on the 
 mangled body of the first of the Caesars — surely, to the modern An- 
 tony, who lived and died as did his ancient prototype, the parallel must 
 have occurred when he exclaims: 
 
 "What hopes are buried with him in the grave." 
 
 He sleeps at the base of Lone Mountain, itself as lonely as he, 
 where, facing the lordly Pacific, he lies, a pathetic and memorable 
 sacrifice to the minotaur of human slavery. 
 
 Jeremiah Lynch. 
 From "A Senator of the Fifties"; 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, 191 1. 
 
MAY 147 
 
 LONE MOUNTAIN 
 
 Thou cross-crowned hill to which I often turn, 
 
 Although no dead of mine lie slumbering there, 
 I watch the western skies behind thee burn 
 
 And my pale lips are parted with a prayer 
 
 Till resignation drives away despair. 
 With tear-dimmed eyes I gaze and can discern 
 The silent resting-place for which I yearn, 
 
 And unto which with faltering feet I fare. 
 
 When I shall rest beneath thee evermore, 
 
 And cold gray fogs drift o'er me from the deep, 
 Perchance — who knows? — the voices of the sea 
 Rolling in deep-toned music from the shore, 
 May not be all unheard in that last sleep, 
 Murmuring a long, low slumber-song to me. 
 
 Louis A. Robertson. 
 From "The Dead Calypso and Other Verses"; 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, 1 90 J . 
 
 JUNIPERO SERRA AT THE GOLDEN GATE 
 
 The sun shines bright, the fog is burned away, 
 The Golden Gate lies open, sea and land 
 Smile as if touched by the Almighty's hand. 
 
 A hundred years ago, on such a day 
 
 With sandles shod, in garb of saddest gray, 
 Did that Franciscan monk, that hero grand, 
 The good Junipero, the padre stand 
 
 And gazing out to sea thus did he say: 
 
 "Praise be to God and thanks, for His grace 
 
 We His weak ministers this deed have wrought, 
 In reaching thus the goal we long have sought. 
 
 Further to go is old paths to retrace; 
 
 Christ's holy rood to the land's end is brought, 
 
 The cord of Francis holds the earth in its embrace." 
 
 Richard Edward White. 
 
148 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE LILY OF GALILEE'S WATER 
 
 Mid the tallest reeds in the ranks of wealth, 
 
 Where the sunlight laughs forever, 
 Where the woe of want ne'er crushed out health, 
 
 Nor poisoned the wings of the weather, 
 Far purer than gold, more guileless than glee, 
 
 And sweet as the most loving of mothers — 
 A lily as fair as the foam of the sea 
 
 Wept the woe that was woven for others. 
 
 'Twas charity bloomed where the proudling seals 
 
 Men's fountain of love for each other, 
 Where the puny or poor but vainly appeals 
 
 As a child of the Lord and a brother, 
 Though grown in the groves — gilded groves of the great- 
 
 The lily loved all — thorn, thistle and clover, 
 And its pure heart pulsed as the seas pulsate 
 
 In the breath of the winds passing over. 
 
 So downward from hillocks and upward from streams — 
 
 From waters of woe and storms that were chilly, 
 Each sad-stricken waif, seeking life-giving gleams, 
 
 Was drawn to the heart of the beautiful lily. 
 And cresses that craved and brambles and rue, 
 
 Found favor though sombered in shadow, 
 For the lily could bless as the sunbeams do — 
 
 The storm and the stream and the meadow. 
 
 'Twas gloomy and grey — 'twas a wintry morn, 
 
 And the blast swept solemnly over 
 The puny and poor — dumb thistle and thorn, 
 
 And cresses and bramble and clover. 
 And they quivered and quailed as the word was said, 
 
 From the heart of the town to the river, 
 "Lo , the lily ye loved lies lowly and dead, 
 
 And your poverty's with you forever." 
 
 Ah, few are the flowers so bannered and blest 
 
 As the lily God plucked from the poorest; 
 For fed by the tears of the truest and best, 
 
 It blooms where its glory is surest. 
 Too pure to be pained in the groves of the great, 
 
 'Twas culled for the crown of its Author 
 To blossom forever in heavenly state 
 
 As the lily of Galilee's water. 
 
 Patrick S. Dorney. 
 
MAY 149 
 
 In Memoriam of the late Nellie Crocker, second daughter of the late Judge 
 E. B. Crocker of Sacramento, to whose funeral obsequies, in the winter of 1877, 
 flocked the lame, the halt, the blind, and poverty-stricken, whom she had befriended 
 during her young life. Although a "sandlotter" in his sympathies, yet Mr. Dorney 
 was so affected by this scene, he wrote this tribute to her memory. It first appeared 
 anonymously in the "Sacramento Bee" and was later reprinted in the "Golden 
 Era". Original almost to the point of peculiarity, yet there is a deep pathos to be 
 read between the lines. 
 
 From "Golden Era Magazine" ; January, 1885. 
 
 CALIFORNIA TO THE FLEET 
 
 Behold, upon the 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. 
 
 Come in, O ships ! The purple crown 
 
 Of Tamalpais is looking down, 
 
 And from the Contra Costa shore 
 
 Diablo leans across once more 
 
 To listen for the signal gun, 
 
 Proclaiming that a port is won. 
 
 O ships! Thou art not of the sea; 
 It was the land that mothered thee — 
 The broad, sweet land, the prairies wide, 
 The mine, the forge, the mountain side; 
 And so the rivers hastening 
 Through valleys where the med'larks sing, 
 Come freighted with Love's offering. 
 Behold, they leap the granite wall 
 Where far the dim Sierra call; 
 And lordly Shasta, from his throne, 
 Looks down the canons, dark and lone, 
 To smile his welcome to the tide; 
 Come in, O ships ! The Gate stands wide. 
 
 Think not we love, O squadrons gray, 
 
 Grim war's magnificent array ! 
 
 'Tis not that gleaming turrets reel 
 
 Above thy decks of belted steel, 
 
 And frowning guns look down, that we 
 
 Extend glad arms and hearts to thee. 
 
150 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 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; 
 The pledges of a nation's power, 
 To use alone in that dread hour 
 When Justice fails, and Wrong shall dare 
 Uplift its front in menace there. 
 
 Come in, O ships ! The voyage is done. 
 
 Magellan's stormy cape is won ; 
 
 And all the zones have seen thee trail 
 
 The glorious banners down the gale. 
 
 No stranger here to greet thee springs ; 
 
 It is thine own sweet land that sings 
 
 Come in — come home; the Gate swings wide, 
 
 Drift in upon the happy tide; 
 
 For lo, upon the yellow sands, 
 
 I wait with garlands in my hands. 
 
 Daniel S. Richardson. 
 From "Trail Dust" ; 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, 1908. 
 
 IN THE SIERRAS 
 
 Out of the heat and toil and dust of trades, 
 Far from the sound of cities and of seas, 
 I journeyed lonely and alone; I sought 
 The valley of the ages and the place 
 Of the wind-braided waters. 
 
 si;********* 
 
 So we toiled; 
 
 Now through the clustering groves' white-cushioned boughs, 
 
 And now through openings and anon between 
 
 The tall unbending columns that impale 
 
 The architectural forests. 
 
 There no lack 
 Of the imploring cries that startle us — 
 The jay-bird's shrill alarms, and many notes 
 Untraceable to any tongue whatever, 
 Heaven-born and brief. 
 
 Anon we sank 
 
 Into the awful canyons, where the brook 
 
MAY 151 
 
 Hissed between icy fangs that cased the shore, 
 Slim, lank, and pallid blue. 
 
 ******* * * * 
 
 Journeying 
 Under the sky's blue vacancy, I saw 
 How nature prints and publishes abroad 
 Her marvelous gospels ! 
 
 Here the wind burnt bark 
 Like satin glossed and quilted; scattered twigs 
 In mysterious hieroglyphics ; the giant shrubs 
 That seem to point to something wise and grave ; 
 The leafless stalks that rise so desolate 
 Out of their slender shafts, within the drift; 
 Under the dripping gables of the fir 
 The slow drops softly sink their silent wells 
 Into the passive snow; and over all, 
 Swept the brown needles of the withering pine. 
 Thither, my comrades, would I fly with thee 
 Out of the maelstrom, the metropolis, 
 Where the pale sea-mist storms the citadels 
 With ghastly avalanches. 
 
 The hot plains, 
 Dimmed with a dingy veil of floating dust, 
 The brazen foot-hills the perennial heights, 
 And the green girdle of the spicy wood 
 We tread with gathering rapture. 
 
 Still we climb ! 
 The season and the summit passed alike, 
 High on the glacial slopes we plant our feet 
 Beneath the gray crags insurmountable; 
 Care, like a burden falling from our hearts; 
 Joy, like the wings of morning, spiriting 
 Our souls in ecstacy to outer worlds 
 Where the moon sails among the silver peaks 
 On the four winds of heaven ! 
 
 Charles Warren Stoddard. 
 From "Century Magazine" ; 1886. 
 
 WHERE A PHILANTHROPIST SLEEPS 
 
 Thirty-seven years ago, a citizen of California passed from earth. But his 
 name still abides with us. Born in August, 1796, in Fredericksburg, Pennsylvania. 
 James Lick came to California to do a great work. He amassed great wealth, lived 
 very economically and died like a king. He loved his state and lived for it. At 
 his death it was found he had executed a deed of trust leaving his millions to be 
 utilized for certain noble and benevolent purposes, under the direction of Dr. Still- 
 man, Horace Davis, A. S. Hallidie, Jo. O. Eldridge, John O. Earl, and Lorenzo 
 Sawyer, and the survivors of them. 
 
152 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 It was the sensation of the day — a day which still continues because of the 
 wonderful judgment and far-reaching acumen of the man who thus set apart his 
 gold to do his will. 
 
 It may be a matter of interest to those who honor the name of James Lick to 
 know where he has found sepulture. His body lies beneath his grandest gift of 
 science, "nor has any king couch more magnificent". While the scientists are 
 counting the stars in the heavens down at the Lick Observatory, all that remains 
 of the mortal part of the great philanthropist reposes beneath that great structure, 
 which his forethought has made possible. 
 
 r "T 'x • n vx • " The Gatherer, 
 
 brom Life in Lalifornia ; 
 
 "Mechanics Fair Daily"; Sept 2, 1913. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO MRS. REBECCA LAMBERT 
 
 She was a Captain's wife who sailed the seas 
 Until the captain died; and then she gave 
 Her fortune, and every day and hour to save 
 "Her boys" from "land-sharks", and the stern decrees 
 Of law that bound them down and turned the keys 
 Of prison on them at the will of every knave 
 That ruled the water-front. As brave 
 As any lioness, with every breeze 
 
 That brought "her boys" to San Francisco-town 
 She stood and fought at bay for them. All unforgot 
 
 The Sailor's Home on Rincon Hill — the crown 
 Of all her work — yet greater still, God-wot 
 
 The Sailor's grave-yard by the shore so brown, 
 Another home where the salt, salt wavelets lave, 
 And here she lies within her grave 
 
 Amidst them all until the Day of Great Renown — 
 Oh, Sailor-boys — a violet to mark the spot ! 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From 1852 till 1886, she gave her life to "her boys". The 
 "Ladies' Seamen s Friend Society of the Port of San Francisco was 
 founded by her. A portrait of Mrs. Lambert hangs in the Golden 
 Gate Museum. 
 
 THE GREAT PANORAMA 
 
 In May the flowers are everywhere; orange gold poppies 
 emblazon themselves everywhere in riotous profusion on the 
 hillsides ; dainty little flowers join together to make a Persian 
 carpet design alongside the roadways. Roses are sweet and 
 gorgeous in their soft appeal to the eye and the olfactories, as 
 if wafted from a sphere beyond earth. Fruits hang temptingly 
 on the trees, but hardly to their highest perfection. 
 
 A. E. 
 
MAY 153 
 
 THE CITY OF THE LIVING 
 
 In a long vanished age, whose varied story- 
 No record has today — 
 
 So long ago expired its grief and glory 
 There flourished, far away, 
 
 In a broad realm, whose beauty passed all measure, 
 A city fair and wide 
 
 Wherein the dwellers lived in peace and pleasure 
 And never any died. 
 
 Disease and pain and death, those stern marauders 
 
 Which mar our world's fair face, 
 Never encroached upon the pleasant borders 
 
 Of that fair dwelling place. 
 No fear of parting and no dread of dying 
 
 Could ever enter there; 
 No mourning for the lost, no anguished crying, 
 
 Made any face less fair. 
 
 Without the city's walls, death reigned as ever, 
 
 And graves rose side by side; 
 Within, the dwellers laughed at his endeavor, 
 
 And never any died. 
 Oh, happiest of all earth's favored places! 
 
 O bliss! to dwell therein! 
 To live in the sweet light of loving faces 
 
 And fear no grave between! 
 To feel no death-damp, gathering cold and colder 
 
 Disputing life's warm truth — 
 To live on, never lowlier or older, 
 
 Radiant in deathless youth! 
 And hurrying from the world's remotest quarters, 
 
 A tide of pilgrims flowed 
 Across broad plains and over mighty waters 
 
 To find that blest abode, 
 Where never death should come between and sever 
 
 Them from their loved apart — 
 Where they might work, and win and live forever 
 
 Still holding heart to heart. 
 
 And so they lived in happiness and pleasure, 
 
 And grew in power and pride, 
 And did great deeds, and laid up stores of treasure, 
 
 And never any died. 
 And many years rolled on and saw them striving, 
 
 With unabated breath; 
 And other years still found and left them living, 
 
 And gave no hope of death. 
 Yet listen, hapless soul, whom angels pity 
 
 Craving a boon like this — 
 Mark how the dwellers in that wondrous city 
 
 Grew weary of their bliss. 
 One and another, who had been concealing 
 
 The pain of life's long thrall, 
 
154 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Forsook their pleasant places and came stealing 
 
 Outside the city walls. 
 Craving with wish that brooked no more denying, 
 
 So long had it been crossed, 
 The blessed possibility of dying — 
 
 The treasure they had lost. 
 Daily the current of rest-seeking mortals 
 
 Swelled to a broader tide, 
 Till none were left within the city's portals, 
 
 And graves grew green outside. 
 
 Would it be worth the having or the giving, 
 The boon of endless breath? 
 Ah, for the weariness that comes of living 
 There is no cure but death! 
 Ours were indeed a fate deserving pity, 
 Were that sweet rest denied; 
 And few, methinks, would care to find the city 
 Where never any died. 
 
 Frank Alumbaugh. 
 
 THE MUSSEL SLOUGH TRAGEDY 
 
 Every stalk of the bright green wheat that grew there on 
 the eleventh of May; every tender spray of alfalfa; every fruit 
 tree, loaded with its perfumed burden of flowers; every thrifty 
 home and happy household — everything _of life, where death 
 had been before was a monument and a breathing witness to 
 the struggles, hardships and dire sufferings of those Pioneers 
 in Mussel Slough who dug the ditches that carried water into 
 the desert, transforming it into a garden whose loveliness is 
 not surpassed on all the broad face of the earth; dug the 
 ditches in poverty, hunger, and rags, while rich men jibed 
 them, and men less brave derided them; dug the ditches to 
 make a home and shelter for their wives and children who had 
 not enough to eat; worked through burning heat and freezing 
 cold, through water and through choking dust with the mock- 
 ing world at their backs and the hope of a peaceful future 
 before them. * * * The land that was heretofore utterly 
 valueless became so productive and the demand for it became 
 so great that the enhanced value consequent upon the toil of 
 the early settlers would have been sufficient to make one man 
 fabulously rich. * * * 
 
 Soon they came to her house. A great change had taken 
 place there. She saw all her household goods in the road, 
 where they had been recently put. And they were all covered 
 with dust. In particular, one famous quilt, which she had 
 made with her own hands, a great many years before, and 
 
MAY 155 
 
 which she had treasured from year to year — a many-colored 
 quilt of the finest silk — lay all in a shapeless bundle in the dirt. 
 If she had not been a spirit, she would have felt aggrieved at 
 this; but of what use were all those cherished things now? 
 
 The spirit with whom she rode begged her not to get out, 
 telling her that the house had been taken from her in her 
 absence as were those other homes on the day when they had 
 had that great fight; but she did not think that any one could 
 rob a poor old woman of her home ; and she begged so pite- 
 ously that he tenderly lifted her from the wagon. 
 
 (There follows an altercation between the man who came 
 to the door of the house and the man in the wagon who 
 championed the cause of the now homeless woman.) 
 
 But in the midst of it, she fell unconscious to the ground. 
 He raised her head and anxiously spoke to her but no answer 
 came; then he placed the gaudy silk quilt in the bottom of 
 the wagon and tenderly gathered her up in his great strong 
 arms and laid her thereon. She was at the end of her long 
 and dreary journey at last. 
 
 William C. Morrow. 
 From "Blood Money' ; 
 San Francisco: F. J. Walker, 1882. 
 
 THE COMET 
 
 (HALLEY'S COMET, MAY, 1910) 
 
 Again there flares across the skies of night 
 Thy blazing torch, O warden of the years, 
 Proclaiming all is well among the spheres, 
 
 And that another age of man hath flight. 
 
 Since 'round its great elipse hath sped thy light. 
 God many wonders hath given to our seers: 
 Full many a dream of man as truth appears 
 
 Since last thou flashed across the human sight. 
 
 Long centuries ago fair Norman dames 
 
 Thy marvel on their people and their times 
 Wove blindly in their Bayeau tapestry; 
 So I, today, enkindled by thy flames. 
 
 Weave here again in thread of patient rhymes 
 Thy story for unknown posterity. 
 
 Charles Elmer Jenney. 
 From "California Nights' Enter iainment** ; 
 Edinburgh: Valentine & Anderson. 
 
156 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 AT POLLOCK'S GRAVE 
 
 No heaven-born blossoms ever blow, 
 
 The wild grass withers on the desolate ground, 
 No meanest marking headstone can be found, 
 
 Where he who soared so high now lies so low. 
 
 For him "the air is chill" ; no longer flow 
 His tears for lost Olivia; no more is bound 
 The Falcon to the rocks all doom-encrowned ; 
 
 His Chandos Picture's spectres, who can know? 
 Apollo's child, thy fate is but the one 
 Of him who makes a brother of the sun, 
 
 And in the "Realms of Gold" bears dazzling light; 
 Thou art a member of that radiant host 
 
 Which holds its torch before men's blinded sight, 
 And dies all unregarded at its post. 
 
 Edward Robeson Taylor. 
 May 28, 1914. Unpublished. 
 
 PASSING AWAY 
 
 Robed in her white garments, she sat resigned, 
 
 A happy smile upon her pure, pale face; 
 While down her slender temples fell entwined, 
 
 Bathed in gold, from the sun's last lingering rays, 
 The dark brown hair, giving her still sweeter grace. 
 
 Within the leafy arbor's green confine, 
 And many blue-eyed violets growing near, 
 
 Around her clustering roses and jasmine; 
 A bride for heaven only could appear 
 
 So fair, so sweet, so child-like and divine. 
 
 Charles Crissen. 
 From " 'Golden Era": 1885. 
 
 ANGELINE OF FOREST HILL 
 
 She was born in Placer county, the first of the family of eleven 
 children, exquisitely fair with a white rose complexion and with eyes 
 darkly violet. At seventeen this firstling of the flock closed her eyes 
 to earth, and opened them in heaven. One by one, the little brothers 
 and sisters as they were born and grew, took on this white rose look 
 of delicacy, till there were five that had gone, and only six that were 
 left to the bereaved parents. 
 
 The father was a miner, seeking the gold in the earth as his 
 work; the mother was one of those prodigies of maternal love that 
 
MAY 157 
 
 are at once the spiritual and the material providence of the race. Of 
 her it could well be said as was of the original Pioneer mother, "The 
 only church they knew was around their mother's knees", for there 
 are still wildernesses left in California for women to civilize. Forest 
 Hill was indeed far away from the centers of social life, but this 
 mother brought order out of chaos. Snowed in, in the winter-time, yet 
 all was well with that brood of hers, for every provision had been 
 made for the season, so that the flock was comfortable, and they had 
 learned to be company to each other during those hours hemmed in 
 away from all the outer world. Green and beautiful in the summer 
 with every kind of useful fruit and vegetable growing in luxuriousness. 
 everything was stored away to prepare for the winter-solstice again. 
 
 Thus season followed season and they had plenty and freedom 
 and lands. But each time the waxen rose-bud had gone to sleep, the 
 mother's heart had given warning that all was not well. There was 
 some malign influence in that beautiful place with which she could 
 not cope. It was beginning to be understood that" in the springs and 
 waters was too much iron or other mineral for the well-being of the 
 young. So eagerly she prepared the way for a change in soil, climate 
 and productions to save her brood. Not easy was this to be done. 
 The father loved his free life in the mountains, seeking and finding 
 gold. So also the eldest son. But the mother's anxious eye noted the 
 white-rose look of Angeline stealing over his face, too, and she became 
 resolute. The eldest was sent to the great city to take up the profes- 
 sion of nursing, the son to study for the civil service. One daughter 
 married and moved away. Then came the mother and the brood to 
 the city, and she secured employment for the father, and thus coaxed 
 him from his beloved mountains to take up life under new conditions. 
 The younger son and daughter each found places to work day-times 
 and attended night-school to gain an education. The youngest as 
 beautiful as a princess in a fairy story went to a convent school. 
 This mother was a queen indeed in her little kingdom. She ruled well 
 and wisely. Her own gifted hands made the bread, washed the clothes 
 and ironed them, cut out pretty gowns for her daughters and contrived 
 them, added to which she radiated in her neighborhood to such a 
 degree that always was she doing something for others. And the 
 beautiful smile, with which she greeted one, gave an added joy to 
 living. 
 
 She comforted the mourner from the deep springs of her own 
 responsive nature. With always some bright story or anecdote from 
 her own experience to tell to "point a moral or adorn a tale" — yet in 
 the midst of it she would say, "Yes, as I was telling Angeline — did you 
 hear me — say 'Angeline'? I meant one of the other girls," and she 
 would continue her incident without a pause. Always the name of 
 that firstling of the flock was on her lips, till one knew that to the 
 mother "they still were eleven" and she still held them in her heart. 
 There was never a shadow on her bright face, nor a sign on her lips, 
 for she cherished the living too deeply to mar their lives with anything 
 like grief for the absent. Xor yet would she shut them out in the 
 dim darkness as if they had never been. They were only on a journey. 
 
 It came to pass that all of us who knew her, also knew Angeline 
 — fair Angeline of Forest Hill who seems a vision of that place, always 
 young, always beautiful — a tradition of our land. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From "Life in California'. 
 
158 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 PORT-U-GAL, MY PORT-U-GAL 
 
 A LAMENT 
 
 May be sung to the refrain of "The Danube River". 
 
 O, Port-u-gal, my Port-u-gal 
 
 I long to press thy shore, 
 But O alas ! I fear 't will be 
 That I'll behold thee 
 
 No more, no more. 
 
 Oh ! in this land, so fair and sweet, 
 
 'T is here I've made my home, 
 And here it is I think I'll stay, 
 My feet no more 
 
 To roam, to roam. 
 
 Upon the hill, where white marbles gleam, 
 
 And all the pathways wind, 
 'T is there with friends who've gone before 
 I think I'll find 
 My Port-u-gal. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From "Life in California*. 
 
 A Portuguese who has been in California for twenty years and over told me 
 one day of his homesickness for the old country, but that he never expected to 
 see that land again. Waving with his hand significantly toward the hill where 
 rose the tombs of the Catholic cemetery of Haywards, he said, "I think it's there 
 I'll find my Port-u-gal". 
 
 MY HOUSE IS IN ORDER 
 
 My house is in order. 
 
 There is no one to fret, 
 I can go at my work 
 
 Without hindrance or let. 
 
 My work is a pastime — 
 
 And my work it loves me — 
 
 But I'm seeing the child 
 
 That once stood by my knee. 
 
 Earth is all beautiful 
 
 And Life, it is sweet, 
 But I'm listening to hear 
 
 The sound of her feet. 
 
 
MAY 159 
 
 When the Comforter, Death, 
 
 So tall and so fair 
 Shall come to my door, 
 
 I know she'll be there. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 
 From "Life in California" ; 1909. 
 
 CUPID IN SAUSALITO 
 
 RONDEAU 
 
 Love fled the town, 't was late in May 
 And indolently thought to stray 
 
 Where, just beneath a green-grown hill, 
 
 There ran a cool, refreshing rill 
 That chased the sultry air away, 
 And there he let his fancies play 
 Till sleeping by his darts he lay. 
 
 Was it to slumber — all was still — 
 Love fled the town? 
 
 A shout aroused him in dismay 
 And up he sprang prepared to slay 
 
 Or wound, perhaps, with practised skill — 
 Far better 't were at once to kill. 
 The barb flew straight — I mind the day 
 Love fled the town. 
 
 David E. W. Williamson. 
 
 1885. 
 
 "All honor to those sturdy pioneers, who, with self-sacrificing zeal 
 and devotion, open up a primeval croft, whether in the physical, mental 
 or moral wilderness, thus making it richer and brighter for those who 
 follow after them.** 
 
 Sarah B. Cooper. 
 
WHEN I AM DEAD 
 
 "When you are dead and lying at rest 
 
 With your white hands folded above your breast — 
 
 Beautiful hands, too well I know, 
 
 As white as the lilies, as cold as the snow, 
 
 I will come and bend o'er your marble form, 
 
 Your cold hands cover with kisses warm, 
 
 And the words I will speak and the tears I will shed 
 
 Will tell I have loved you — when you are dead! 
 
 When you are dead your name shall rise 
 From the dust of the earth to the very skies, 
 And every voice that has sung your lays 
 Shall wake an echo to sound your praise. 
 Your name shall live through the coming age 
 Inscribed on Fame's mysterious page, 
 'Neath the towering marble shall rest your head, 
 But you'll live in memory — when you are dead!" 
 
 Then welcome, Death! thrice welcome be! 
 
 I am almost weary waiting for thee; 
 
 Life gives no recompense — toil no gain, 
 
 I seek for love and I find but pain; 
 
 Lily-white hands have grown pale in despair 
 
 Of the warm red kisses which should be their share. 
 
 Sad, aching heart has grown weary of song, 
 
 No answering echo their notes prolong; 
 
 Then take me, Oh, Death, to thy grim embrace ! 
 
 Press quickly thy kiss on my eager face 
 
 For I have been promised, oh, bridegroom dread, 
 
 Both Love and Fame — when I am dead ! 
 
 Elizabeth Chamberlain, ("Carrie Carlton", and Topsy Turvy") 
 From "Story of the Files" 1893. 
 
JUNE 161 
 
 LOVE'S SLAVERY IS SWEET 
 
 BALLAD 
 
 I would my soul were free 
 From love's sweet slavery, 
 
 The heights of perfect peace to proudly greet; 
 I'd know no chains to fret 
 
 Love's slavery is sweet! 
 
 Could I forget you, dear, 
 Cease wishing you were here, 
 
 Cease holding spirit-arms your own to meet, 
 I know that peace I'd gain, 
 In freedom from Love's chain, 
 
 But slavery is sweet. 
 
 And so — I cannot, dear, 
 Cease wishing you were here, 
 
 Cease holding spirit-arms your own to meet, 
 Nor ever wish to be 
 From such dear bondage free — 
 Love's slavery is sweet! 
 
 Carrie Stevens Walter. 
 From "Rose Ashes**; 
 San Francisco, 1890. 
 
 A FLIGHT OF MARK TWAIN'S 
 
 * * * In Sacramento it is fiery Summer always, and 
 you can gather roses, and eat strawberries and ice-cream, and 
 wear white linen clothes, and pant and perspire, at eight or 
 nine o'clock in the morning, and then take the cars, and at noon 
 put on your furs and your skates, and go skimming over 
 frozen Donner lake, seven thousand feet above the valley, 
 among snowbanks fifteen feet deep, and in the shadow of 
 grand mountain-peaks that lift their frosty crags ten thousand 
 feet above the level of the sea. There is a transition for you ! 
 Where will you find another like it in the Western hemi- 
 sphere? And some of us have swept around snow-walled 
 curves of the Pacific railroad in that vicinity, six thousand 
 feet above the sea, and looked down as the birds do, upon the 
 deathless Summer of the Sacramento valley, with its fruitful 
 fields, its feathery foliage, its silver streams, all slumbering in 
 the mellow haze of its enchanted atmosphere, and all infinitely 
 
162 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 softened and spiritualized by distance — a dreamy, exquisite 
 glimpse of fairyland, made all the more charming and striking 
 that it was caught through a forbidding gateway of ice and 
 snow, and savage crags and precipices. 
 
 Mark Twain. 
 From "Innocents at Home" ; 
 London: Chatto & Windus, 1910. 
 
 A SAMPLE OF CALIFORNIA WEATHER 
 AND CLIMATE 
 
 So you want me to tell you once again of my trip from 
 Quincy, Plumas county, via the old stage route to Oroville, 
 and on to San Francisco, and how, in that distance, rather 
 less than two hundred miles, "as the crow flies," I experienced 
 such diversity in both weather and climate. 
 
 It was seven o'clock on a bright, sunny spring morning 
 in mid-April, 1884, when we set out upon our journey of 
 about eighty miles. The snow had melted; the ground was 
 comparatively dry, and the early spring work of plowing had 
 just begun in American valley. Seven miles out on the road, 
 at the foot of Spanish Pass, the snow was still a foot deep; 
 a little distance further on we abandoned the Concord coach, 
 passengers and mail being transferred to a box-sleigh that 
 had been left under a sheltering tree by the roadside on the 
 previous day. The snow continued to deepen, and our next 
 halt was to outfit the four horses with snow-shoes which, also, 
 had been cached under a convenient tree. 
 
 Buck's ranch, at the top of the divide, was the station 
 where horses were changed and passengers halted for dinner, 
 and when our driver cheerfully called, "Here we are at 
 Buck's", I could see not a sign of the house and barns — nothing 
 but the field of snow and the track before us — but presently 
 we swung round a curve, and down an incline perhaps a fur- 
 long in length, between high snow banks, at the other end 
 of which there glimmered a light which proved to be coming 
 from the fire in a great open fireplace high enough for a man 
 to walk into. We ate our noonday meal by candle-light, and 
 left the inhabitants cheerfully optimistic. They said the snow 
 was going fast and they expected to be "out" in a week or 
 two more. 
 
 We had been enjoying a remarkably fine view of the Sac- 
 ramento valley and the Marysville Buttes and as I had no 
 recollection of seeing it on the up-trip in the previous Septem- 
 
JUNE 163 
 
 ber, I asked the driver if we were on the same road, and 
 received the enigmatic answer that we were and we weren't, 
 supplemented by the explanation that there were about forty- 
 five feet of snow under us and that what I had supposed to be 
 young pines growing about us were really the tops of tall 
 trees rooted in the ground far below. 
 
 The second day's travel reversed the proceedings of the 
 first, for at intervals, the horses discarded their snow-shoes and 
 the sleigh was abandoned for another coach. The weather con- 
 tinued bright and pleasant, and towards afternoon it was 
 decidedly warm. At Bidwell's Bar we had ripe oranges picked 
 fresh from the famous tree, the first one planted in the northern 
 part of the state, and when we arrived at Oroville in the even- 
 ing, snow was about the last thing one would have thought of. 
 
 During the night a rainstorm set in, and the next day the 
 skies wept incessantly all through the Northern Sacramento 
 valley; it was a dripping landscape that presented itself, and 
 a day far more mid-winter than California spring. This con- 
 tinued until we reached Sacramento, where a change of trains 
 necessitated a delay of an hour or two. Coming through 
 Livermore valley there was not an indication of rain. Farmers 
 in shirt-sleeves and straw hats were out in the fields raking 
 the hay which they had cut, and bare-footed children in sum- 
 mery costume waved their greetings to the train. 
 
 Sarah Connell. 
 From "Life in California 11 ; 
 a story the children like to hear, 1916. 
 
 LOVE STORY OF CONCHA ARGUELLO 
 
 Lines written in the tropics during a voyage to California. 
 (The occasion of the following remarks was the placing of a bronze tablet 
 upon the oldest adobe building in San Francisco, the former residence of the 
 Comandante, now the Officers' club, at the Presidio, under the auspices of the 
 California Historical Landmarks league, on Serra Day, November 24, 1913.) 
 
 I am glad to see this bronze tablet affixed to this noble 
 adobe building. I take it, that when some of the wooden eye- 
 sores that here abound are torn down, in the necessary beauti- 
 fication that should precede 1915, this old historic building — a 
 monument to Spanish chivalry and hospitality — will be spared. 
 We have too few of them left to lose any of them now. And 
 of all buildings in the world, the Presidio army post should 
 guard this one with jealous care, for here was enacted one of 
 the greatest, sweetest, most tragic love stories of the world — 
 a story which is all the Presidio's own, and which it does not 
 have to share with any other army post. 
 
164 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 To you, men of the army, my appeal ought to be an easy 
 one. You have no desire to escape the soft impeachment that 
 the profession of arms has ever been susceptible to the charms 
 of woman. The relaxation of Mars to Venus is not simply a 
 legend of history, is founded on no mere mythology — their 
 relationship is as sure as the firmament, and their orbits are 
 sometimes very close together. 
 
 There is one name that should be the perennial toast of 
 the men of this Presidio. We have just celebrated by a 
 splendid pageant the four-hundredth anniversary of the dis- 
 covery of the Pacific Ocean by Balboa, and we chose for queen 
 of that ceremony a beautiful girl by the name of Conchita. 
 There was another Conchita once, the daughter of the coman- 
 dante of this Presidio, the bewitching, the beautiful, the radiant 
 Concha Arguello. 
 
 In this old Presidio she was born. In the old Mission 
 Dolores she was christened. Here, it is told, that in the merry 
 exuberance of her innocent babyhood, she danced instead of 
 prayed before the shrine. In the glory of these sunrises and 
 day-vistas and sunsets, she passed her girlhood and bloomed 
 into womanhood. In this old adobe building she queened it 
 supremely. Here she presided at every hospitality; here she 
 was the leader of every fiesta. 
 
 To this bay, on the 8th of April, 1806, in the absence of 
 her stern old father in Monterey, and while the presidio was 
 under the temporary command of her brother Luis, there 
 came from the north the "Juno", tne vessel of the Russian 
 Chamberlain Rezanov, his secret mission an intrigue of some 
 kind concerning this wonderland, for the benefit of the great 
 Czar at St. Petersburg. He found no difficulty in coming 
 ashore. Father was away. Brother was kind. Besides the 
 Russian marines looked good, and the officers knew how to 
 dance as only military men know how to dance. The hospi- 
 tality was Castilian, unaffected, intimate, and at the evenings' 
 dances in this old building their barrego was more graceful 
 than any inartistic tango, and in the teaching of the waltz 
 by the Russians — there was no "hesitation". 
 
 Then came Love's miracle; and by the time the coman- 
 dante returned to his post, ten days later, the glances of the 
 bright-flashing eyes of the daughter had more effectively pul- 
 verized the original scheme of the chamberlain, than any old 
 guns of her father on this fort could have done. Their troth 
 was plighted, and, as he belonged to the Greek church, with 
 a lover's abandon, he started home to St. Petersburg, the 
 tremendous journey of that day by way of Russian America 
 
JUNE 165 
 
 and across the plains of Siberia, to obtain his Emperor's con- 
 sent to his marriage. Xo knight of chivalry ever pledged more 
 determined devotion. He assured even the governor that. 
 immediately upon his return to St. Petersburg, he would go 
 to Madrid as ambassador extraordinary from the Czar, to 
 obviate every kind of misunderstanding between the powers. 
 From there he would proceed to Vera Cruz, or some other 
 Spanish harbor in Mexico, and then return to San Francisco. 
 to claim his bride. 
 
 On the 21st of May, about four o'clock in the afternoon, 
 the ''Juno" weighed anchor for Sitka, and in passing the fort. 
 then called the fort of San Joaquin, she saluted it with seven 
 guns and received in return a salute of nine. The old chron- 
 icler who accompanied the expedition says that the governor. 
 with the whole Arguello family, and several other friends and 
 acquaintances, collected at the fort and waved an adieu with 
 hats and handkerchiefs. And one loyal soul stood looking 
 seaward, till a vessel's hull sank below the horizon. 
 
 How many fair women, through the pitiless years, have 
 thus stood — looking seaward ! Once more the envious Fates 
 prevailed. Unknown to his sweetheart. Rezanov died on the 
 overland journey from Okhotsk to St. Petersburg, in a little 
 town in the snows of central Siberia. With a woman's 
 instinctive and unyielding faith, the beautiful girl waited and 
 watched for his return, waited the long and dreary years till 
 the roses of youth faded from her cheeks. True heart, no 
 other voice could reach her ear! Dead to all allurement, she 
 first joined a secular order, ''dedicating her life to the instruc- 
 tion of the young and the consolation of the sick'', and finally 
 entered the Dominican sisterhood, where she gave the remainder 
 of her life to the heroic and self-effacing service of her order. 
 Xot until late in life did she have the consolation of learning — 
 and then quite by accident — that her lover had not been false 
 to her, but had died of a fall from his horse on his mission to 
 win her. Long years afterward she died, in 1857. at the con- 
 vent of St. Catherine : and today, while he sleeps beneath a 
 Greek cross in the wilds of Siberia, she is at rest beneath a 
 Roman cross in the little Dominican cemetery at Benicia, 
 across the Bay. 
 
 This history is true. These old walls were witnesses to 
 part of it. These hills and dales were part of the setting for 
 their love-drama. One picnic was taken by boat to what is 
 now called the Island of Belvedere yonder. One horseback 
 outing was taken to the picturesque canon of San Andres, so 
 named by Captain Rivera and Father Palou in 1774. Gertrude 
 
166 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Atherton has given us the novel, and Bret Harte has sung 
 the poem, founded upon it. 
 
 When we think of the love stories that have survived the 
 ages, Alexander and Thais, Pericles and Aspasia, Anthony and 
 Cleopatra, and all the rest of them — some of them a narrative 
 unfit to handle with tongs — shall we let this local story die? 
 Shall not America furnish a newer and purer standard? If 
 to such a standard Massachusetts is to contribute the courtship 
 of Miles Standish, may not California contribute the Courtship 
 of Rezanov? You men of this army post have a peculiar right 
 to proclaim this sentiment; in such an enlistment you, of all 
 men, would have the right to unsheathe a flaming sword. For 
 this memory of the comandante's daughter is yours — yours to 
 cherish, yours to protect. In the barracks and on parade, at 
 the dance and in the field, this "one sweet human fancy" 
 belongs to this Presidio; and no court-martial nor departmental 
 order can ever take it from you. 
 
 John F. Davis. 
 From "California Romantic and Resourceful"; 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, 1914. 
 
 EARLY CALIFORNIA A LAND OF BACHELORHOOD 
 
 In the early mining days California was practically a land 
 of bachelorhood. A woman in the "diggin's" was the "observed 
 of all observers". If she passed from one mining-camp to 
 another, work was suspended along the route she pursued, and 
 they who were beardless boys when they left their monther's 
 side, rough, unkempt miners now, gathered around to do 
 honor to the lady who visited their section of country. It 
 mattered not how scanty her physical charms, she was yet a 
 woman and women were kind, generous, helpful, beautiful. 
 It mattered not if she was a wife. Her husband must stand 
 aside and patiently witness the admiration of men, many of 
 whom had not seen a woman, yea, for many years. It was 
 not unfrequent that these occasions should be not only an 
 event in the "camp", but also a financial episode in the life 
 of the newcomer. The miners were generous to a fault, and 
 "dust" and "nuggets" in the absence of coin, were poured into 
 the lap of her who reminded those hard-working men of the 
 mothers, sisters, sweethearts, and wives who were left behind 
 in "the States". 
 
 Scarcely one in a hundred of all those who hastened to the 
 new land of gold had the least intention of remaining there 
 
JUNE 167 
 
 longer than barely the time necessary to amass a fortune. 
 Lovers left their sweethearts at the gate promising soon to 
 return and bring with them the glittering gold that would 
 make the journey of life a pleasure-voyage; husbands bade 
 the good wives and the little ones good-bye for a season. But 
 who can predict the future? There was a charm about the far- 
 off land, once they had arrived there, which was irresistible. 
 If the youth returned to wed, the honeymoon was ofttimes 
 passed in journeying back to California. 
 
 Wives, mothers, sisters, children were sent for. Soon 
 happy homes smiled over lovely valleys, and mountain gorges 
 echoed the prattle of little ones. The plains began to lay 
 aside their garments of wild oats and put on the clothing of 
 orchard, vineyard and grain-field; school-houses and churches 
 dotted the landscape; prosperous towns grew; cities expanded 
 and a State was born. It was an Arabian Night's tale told in 
 the prose of every day life. 
 
 Charles B. Turrill. 
 From an address given in New Orleans, January, 1886. 
 
 LOVE IS DEAD 
 
 Love is dead ! 
 
 And all the world which smiled 
 With roses red 
 
 And asphodel, beguiled 
 By odors, spicy sweet 
 And sense of joy complete, 
 
 Seeming a place of soft delight 
 By intoxicating breezes fanned 
 Is now a scorched and desert land 
 Glaring with its burning sand, 
 Where I lie stricken all alone, 
 Where I lie fallen mute and prone. 
 
 Love is dead ! 
 
 And my poor heart, once beating 
 
 Rhythmically true to all the fleeting 
 
 Music of the spheres above, 
 With a wild fantastic sense 
 Of triumphant joy intense, 
 
 As part of all the universe of love, 
 Is now a dull and pulseless thing, 
 Heavy hanging like a broken wing, 
 No longer craving life or breath — 
 Praying only for the peace of death. 
 
168 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Do not the roses breathe as sweet? 
 The pulses of the heart still beat? 
 And gloriously as e'er before 
 With added splendours more and more 
 
 The sky its pageant spread? 
 Ah yes, for other eyes to see, 
 But not for me, but not for me — 
 
 For Love is dead. 
 
 Ella Sterling Mighels. 
 From "Cosmopolitan" ; May, J 909. 
 
 AN IDYL OF MONTEREY 
 
 When summer days grow long and clear, 
 With June-time comes a memory, dear, 
 Of one glad day beneath the blue 
 In quaint old Monterey with you. 
 
 I mind the narrow, crooked street, 
 The old brick pave that tripped our feet; 
 Th' adobe houses, white and low, 
 The scarlet peppers, row on row. 
 
 The sweet Castilian roses made 
 Anon a bower of perfumed shade. 
 From casement, opened to the air, 
 Peeped dusky faces here and there. 
 
 I mind the church beyond the town; 
 The dusky highway winding down 
 Where sleek brown cattle grazed the farms, 
 Towards fair Del Monte's newer charms. 
 
 How deeply blue the skies that day! 
 And bluer still the sparkling bay! 
 The summer breeze like music bore 
 The sounds of mirth from wave and shore. 
 
 O'er many Junes the sun has set; 
 The years between were glad, and yet 
 I fain would live again that day 
 With you, in quaint old Monterey. 
 
 Anna Cowan Sangster. 
 From "Overland Monthly'; Aug., 1899. 
 
JUNE 169 
 
 THE LOVE I SHOULD FORGET 
 
 ' Tis time I should forget thee now, 
 
 Since thou so much art changed. 
 Since broken has been every vow 
 
 And we have grown estranged. 
 
 would we never had to part, 
 O would we never met, 
 
 The old love lingers in my heart, 
 The love I should forget. 
 
 Although thou hast grown changed and cold, 
 
 Thou dost remember still 
 How e'en my lightest word of old 
 
 Thine inmost soul would thrill, 
 
 1 cannot dream 'though far apart 
 Thou hast forgot while yet 
 
 The old love lingers in my heart, 
 The love I should forget. 
 
 In spite of changes time may bring, 
 
 In spite of space and tears, 
 My soul unto thy soul will cling 
 
 Through all the endless years ; 
 Though in the world we live apart, 
 
 Fate hath her fiat set 
 The old love lingers in my heart, 
 
 The love I should forget. 
 Ballad. Richard Edward White. 
 
 LOVE AND NATURE 
 
 THEME FOR A PAINTING 
 
 Down such a hill as singers poetize — 
 
 Bloom-jeweled, smooth with grass, its easy slope 
 
 Inviting quick descent, and yet with hope 
 Inspiring upward-climbers to the rise — 
 Two beings race all mindlessly ; and one 
 
 Is Nature, wild and free ; 't is she that leads ; 
 
 And Love the other is ; he swiftly speeds 
 In hot pursuit. Her hair is wild, undone — 
 A matchless black, as if 't were woven fine 
 
 Of webs of night; unclad of robes is she, 
 Except that free about her loins and loose 
 A leopard's skin is girt in careless use. 
 
170 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 And wreathed about her breast bewitchingly 
 Are garland roses, blushing to entwine 
 
 Her tingling form; a smile is on her lips 
 
 And in her eyes is life and gleam and fire — 
 Oh, everything but soul! With keen desire 
 
 To pass her in the race, Love rudely whips 
 
 The blooms aside with reddened feet and knees 
 And forward leans in eagerness, his hand 
 Outstretched to clutch a mocking, waving strand 
 
 Of air-buoyed tresses. In the race the bees 
 All honey-hungry, join: thus fast adown 
 The ever steeper hill. But at the top, 
 With sharp commands, entreaties, cries to stop, 
 
 Is Wisdom, watching anxiously, a frown, 
 
 A look of pity and a trickling tear 
 
 Upon her face. A warning doth she call 
 With Thunder's voice, as if God's forces all 
 
 Were hers wherewith to warn. Yet reason, fear 
 
 And shame alike are impotent in this 
 
 The frolic of the soulless pair and blind — 
 Who yet more swiftly leave the hill behind* — 
 
 And just before them is a precipice. 
 
 P. V. A/., Inspired by Ella Sterling Mighcls. 
 From "Out of a Silver Flute'; New York, 1895. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN THE TROPICS DURING A 
 VOYAGE TO CALIFORNIA 
 
 The clouds are darkening Northern skies, 
 
 Yet these are all serene, 
 The snow in Northern valleys lies, 
 
 While tropic shores are green. 
 But radiance tints those far-off hills, 
 
 No summer can bestow, 
 For there the light of memory dwells 
 
 On all we love below. 
 I watch yon point of steadfast light 
 
 Declining in the sea, 
 Yon polar star, that night by night 
 
 Is looking, love, on thee. 
 "Oh, give me, Heaven," I constant sigh 
 
 "For all this flowery zone, 
 A colder clime, a darker sky 
 
 And her I love — alone." 
 
 Edward A. Pollock- 
 
JUNE 171 
 
 A TREMENDOUS MOMENT 
 
 That the facts in the case of the elopement of Senorita 
 Josefa Carillo and Captain Henry Fitch may be known forever 
 without doubt, I am here presenting a private paper written 
 for me by a member of that family of eleven brave sons and 
 beautiful daughters, whose descendants have intermarried with 
 the Americans, thus making an integral part of our common- 
 wealth. 
 
 This letter relates the incidents connected with the return 
 from the elopement, in the following words : 
 
 It was Andre Pico (not Pio as has been stated) who took 
 mother (Senorita Carillo) to meet father (Captain Henry 
 Fitch) where he was waiting for her in a boat, sailors rowing 
 them toward father's ship. Captain Smith was on board ; he 
 had accompanied father always since he had become captain ; 
 by grandfather Fitch's request (as father was so young when 
 he began to serve). 
 
 Captain Smith married them out at sea. Then arriving 
 at Valparaiso, they were married again by a Catholic priest 
 in a Catholic church. Mother being faint, a part of the cere- 
 mony of kneeling was omitted. 
 
 On their return, arriving at Monterey from Valparaiso, 
 father would not consent to let mother land, as word had been 
 sent him that Don Joaquin Carillo (mother's father) meant tu 
 wipe out the disgrace of their having eloped, by shooting 
 them both on sight. 
 
 However, mother was determined to see her father, to 
 implore his forgiveness and blessing even, though it should 
 cost her her life. So she enlisted the help and the sympathies 
 of her maid and of one of the sailors, who consented to go 
 with her and put her on shore. 
 
 At midnight, after father had retired in his stateroom, 
 they stole out and into a boat and rowed to shore, she taking 
 her infant son in her arms. The maid and the sailor returned 
 to the ship, leaving her alone on the shore where wild animals 
 lived — it was miles from any house. She made her way safely, 
 however, and finally reached Tia Juana's house, where she 
 rested until next morning. 
 
 Immediately the whole town knew about it, and many 
 came to see her and beg of her not to go to her father's 
 house, as he was intending to kill her, having a gun by his 
 side all the time for that purpose. Her mother and sisters 
 and brothers came to meet her weeping, and begging her not 
 
172 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 to go to her father's, but she was determined to see him, 
 and went. 
 
 Reaching the gate of the garden, still holding her babe, 
 she knelt down and walked on her knees, she began talking 
 to him and imploring his forgiveness, assuring him of her 
 undying love and respect (mother was very eloquent, yon 
 know). She could see her father through the open door — he 
 had thrown himself down upon his bed, face downwards, in 
 an agony of emotion — in a battle between love and duty — 
 LOVE, for she was his favorite child, and DUTY, for* so it 
 behooved him to deal with an offspring who had, as he 
 imagined it to be, brought disgrace into his family. 
 
 Mother still came on, talking so beautifully, so lovingly, 
 so penitently (with outstretched arms that held her babe) — on 
 to the very threshold, on towards the bed where her father 
 lay. Don Joaquin stood up, raised the gun and — then looked 
 at his daughter and her babe — the gun dropped out of his 
 hand and he stretched out his arms and took them to his 
 heart. Immediately there arose sounds of rejoicing and of 
 weeping together out in the street, for many relatives and 
 neighbors had congregated in the hope, to avert the tragic end 
 of the romance. 
 
 And all were overcome at the mingled grief and despair 
 of both father and daughter, now turned to joy and happiness 
 once more at this great reconciliation. 
 
 A messenger was now sent to Don Enrique to come, and 
 join them. 
 
 In the meantime, poor father was wild with anxiety — 
 having the bay dragged, searching for his wife's body, think- 
 ing she must have jumped overboard from her wild despair 
 over her father's anger against her. 
 
 However, all was well — and after being in San Diego 
 some days later, through the authority of the church they were 
 ordered again to be married to complete the unfinished cere- 
 mony of the Valparaiso marriage by holding lighted candles as 
 they knelt for a long time, and by a three-days' continued 
 ceremony and celebration of High Mass, which served to make 
 all things right and well. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From "Life in California*. 
 
GALAXY 9.— POETS, PROSE-WRITERS AND DIVINES 
 
 Emily Browne Powell Lillian Ferguson Sarah M. Williamson 
 
 Mary E. Hart Eugenia Kellogg Sarah Connell 
 
 Jacob Voorsanger John Richards Emma Henrietta Oakes 
 
 I. E. Dwinell Mary De Lacey M. Furlong Albert Sonnichen 
 
 173 
 
GALAXY 10— ORATORS, EDITORS AND PROSE-WRITERS 
 
 John Daggett 
 
 Charles B. Turrill 
 
 George Douglas 
 
 H. E. Poehlman 
 
 George T. Bromley 
 
 Jeremiah Lynch 
 
 Clara Shortridge Foltz 
 
 George Wharton James 
 
 Edwin Sherman 
 Nathan Newmark 
 Clarence M. Hunt 
 Louis J. Stellman 
 
 174 
 
JUNE 175 
 
 LOVE 
 
 Love stands waiting with open arms, 
 
 Love that shields from vain alarms, 
 
 Love unbought, 't is priceless, pure — 
 
 Love, life's changes to endure. 
 
 Love that spans the flood of tears, 
 
 Sighs and hopes of weary years — 
 
 Love that blots out all life's past, 
 
 Breathes through the soul and holds Love fast. 
 
 Anna Neivbegin. 
 
 CHIVALRY AND CULTURE IN EARLY CALIFORNIA 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A LETTER WRITTEN IN 1850. 
 
 One year ago, tonight, at this very hour I was one hundred 
 and fifty miles west of Salt Lake crossing the desert, my 
 mouth parched with thirst, and myself speechless, without the 
 first desire to live and without expectation of ever reaching 
 the spring in the mountains that might save me. And here 
 tonight I am writing from California to her who has just 
 assured me by letter that her love is as constant as mine, 
 and if it be as constant as I believe it to be pure, in a few 
 months more I shall meet her once again never more to part. 
 
 It seems as though my affection for you increases every 
 day, for there is hardly an hour while awake but that I find 
 myself attempting to depict and picture to my mind a scene 
 which I imagine will be the happiest of my life : the time 
 when I shall return to strike glad hands with you. 
 
 * * * I am pleased to hear of your studies and improve- 
 ment in music with the guitar and the piano. I was just 
 looking at your miniature and a thought occurred to my mind 
 which has presented itself a thousand times. How even more 
 lovely you would look if you would part your raven-black 
 hair upon the top and comb it both ways down, instead of 
 drawing some of it backward from the front to the back. I 
 have only time to say that you have surpassed yourself in 
 this last letter, it being the nonpareil of all the thousand-and- 
 one letters you have written to me, in your final saying that 
 you are willing to leave your home in Pennsylvania and that 
 you wish to live in California. 
 
 There does not a day pass but that my imagination pic- 
 tures to my mind the happy time in anticipation of meeting 
 
176 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 you and delivering unto your possession that which I have 
 already given, my hand and heart, and claiming yours in 
 return. 
 
 The letter before me has occasioned me more joy and 
 delight than could be told in an octavo — it has transported me 
 and I go about my business with a lightsome heart and a glad 
 countenance. 
 
 Believe me language cannot express with what affection 
 and truth I write forever yours, qtft? T TNf 
 
 Extract from letter dated J 850; written by author of 
 "Diary of a Forty-Niner" ; published in 
 "Grizzly Bear Magazine* ; author having died in 1852; 
 Original owned by The Gatherer. 
 
 THE HARP OF BROKEN STRINGS 
 
 And now by Sacramento's stream, 
 
 What memories sweet its music brings ; 
 The vows of love, its smiles and tears 
 
 Hang o'er this harp of broken strings. 
 It speaks, and midst her blushing fears 
 
 The beauteous one before me stands ! 
 Pure spirit in her downcast eyes, 
 
 And like twin doves her folded hands! 
 
 It breathes once more, and bowed with grief, 
 
 The bloom has left her cheek forever, 
 While, like my broken harp-strings now, 
 
 Behold her form with feeling quiver! 
 She turns her face o'errun with tears, 
 
 To him that silent bends above her, 
 And by the sweets of other years, 
 
 Entreats him still, oh ! still to love her ! 
 
 He loves her still — but darkness galls 
 
 Upon his ruined fortunes now, 
 And it is his evil doom to flee, 
 
 The dews like death are on his brow. 
 And cold the pang about his heart; 
 
 Oh ! cease — to die is agony ! 
 'T is worse than death when loved ones part. 
 
 John Rollin Ridge. 
 From "Story of the Files'*; San Francisco, 1893. 
 
JUNE 177 
 
 A PLAINSMAN'S SONG 
 
 Oh give me a clutch in my hand of as much 
 
 Of the mane of a horse as a hold, 
 And let his desire to be gone be afire, 
 
 An let him be snorting and bold! 
 And then with a swing, on his back let me fling 
 
 My leg that is as naked as steel, 
 And let us away, to the end of the day, 
 
 To quiet the tempest I feel! 
 
 And keen as the wind, with the cities behind, 
 
 And prairie before like a sea, 
 With billows of grass, that lash as We pass — 
 
 Make way for my stallion and me! 
 And up with his nose, till his nostril aglows, 
 
 And out with his tail and his mane, 
 And up with my breast till the breath of the West 
 
 Is smiting me — knight of the plain! 
 
 Ah, give me a gleam of your eyes, love, adream 
 
 With the fas of the sun and the dew, 
 And mountain nor vale, nor scorch, nor the hail 
 
 Shall halt me from spurring to you! 
 For wild as a flood — melted snow for its blood — 
 
 By crag, gorge or torrent or shoal, 
 I'll ride on my steed and lay, tho* it bleed, 
 
 My heart at your feet — and my soul! 
 
 P. V. M. 
 
 From "Harpers Weekly"; J 906. 
 
 SONG 
 
 I heard a flute in the night, 
 
 An old-time sweetest tune; 
 Then, soft as clouds that drift from sight, 
 When evening curtains out the light, 
 
 It passed like scented June. 
 
 Yet think that I can e'er forget, 
 
 The music of that strain? 
 From out my dreams dim eyes are wet 
 For every joy our souls had met, 
 Thou love was born in vain. 
 
 Florence Richmond. 
 From "Heart of the Rose". 
 
178 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 A FIERCE AFFECTION 
 
 The Californian loves his state because his state loves 
 him. He returns her love with a fierce affection that to men 
 who do not know California is always a surprise. Hence he 
 is impatient of outside criticism. Those who do not love Cali- 
 fornia, cannot understand her, and to his mind their shafts, 
 however aimed, fly wide of the mark. * * * The charm of 
 California has in the main, three sources — scenery, climate and 
 freedom of life. To know the glory of California scenery, one 
 must live close to it through the changing years. * * * 
 Inland rises the great Sierra, with spreading ridge and foothill, 
 like some huge, sprawling centipede its granite back unbroken 
 for a thousand miles. * * * The climate of California is 
 especially kind to childhood and old age. * * *The third 
 element of charm in California is that of personal freedom. 
 The dominant note in the social development of the state is 
 individualism, with all that it implies of good or evil. Man is 
 man in California ; he exists for his own sake, not as a part of a 
 social organism. He is in a sense superior to society. In the 
 first place it is not his society; he came from some other region 
 on his own business. Most likely he did not intend to stay; 
 but having summered and wintered in California, he has become 
 a Californian, and now he is not contented anywhere else. 
 Life on the coast has, for him, something of the joyous irrespon- 
 sibility of a picnic. * * * The Californian is peculiarly 
 sensitive as to his own personal freedom of action. Toward 
 public rights or duties he is correspondingly indifferent. In 
 the times of National stress, he paid his debts in gold and asked 
 the same of his creditors, regardless of the laws or the customs 
 of the rest of the United States. 
 
 To him gold is still money, and a national promise to pay 
 is not. * * * Varied ingenuity California demands of her 
 Pioneers. Their native originality has been intensified by cir- 
 cumstances until it has become a matter of tradition and habit. 
 The processes of natural selection have favored the survival 
 of the ingenious, and the quality of adequacy has become 
 hereditary. * * * Under all the deviations and variations 
 of the social life here, lies the old Puritan conscience, which 
 is still the backbone of the civilization of the republic. Life 
 in California is a little fresher, a little freer, a good deal richer, 
 in its physical aspect, and for these reasons, more intensely 
 and characteristically American. * * * California is the 
 most cosmopolitan of all the states of the Union and such she 
 will remain. Whatever the fates may bring her, her people 
 
JUNE 179 
 
 will be tolerant, hopeful and adequate, sure of themselves, 
 masters of the present, fearless of the future. 
 
 David Starr Jordan. 
 From "California and the Calif ornians" ; 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, 1907. 
 
 I HEAR THY VOICE 
 
 I hear thy voice when meadow larks are trilling, 
 
 Trilling o'er the dewy lea, 
 I hear, hear thee when the swallows bring 
 
 Their evening song to me, 
 Fly forth today, wing ye away, 
 
 Bear ye my answer across the sea, 
 My heart is thine, beloved! 
 
 Alone I am waiting for thee. 
 
 I see thy face in every fleeting shadow 
 
 Wafted over field and fell, 
 I see, see thee in the rosebud blushing 
 
 In the hidden dell. 
 Only thy voice, only thy form 
 
 Shall in my soul forever dwell. 
 
 Fly on the wings of the morning 
 
 My envoys, this message to tell ! 
 
 Ballad, both words and music; 
 Boston: G. Shirmer, 1918. 
 
 Joseph D. Redding. 
 
 THE PRAIRIE 
 
 An inland sea of acres broad, and where 
 
 The undulating grassy billows leap 
 Exultantly; and far away and fair, 
 
 A schooner braves the mystic Western deep. 
 
 P. V. M. 
 
180 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE TWILIGHT PORCH 
 
 In Memory of Moonlight Nights in Sacramento in 1870, when the young men recited 
 this poem to their lady-loves and soon after married them. 
 
 I would barter tonight a ton of gold 
 
 For an hour of the lovelit days of old, 
 
 When the cool South wind in its flow and float, 
 
 Just from the Tropic's fragrant throat 
 
 Rocked the leaves of the summer trees 
 
 As it rocks the boats of the Mexic seas. 
 
 As I sit alone in the porch tonight, 
 In the selfsame chair and the dim twilight, 
 I miss the voice of a gentle girl 
 And the touch of an overhanging curl, — 
 The trust that knew no shock or check, 
 The clinging arms around my neck, 
 And the eyes that said when bent over me, 
 "God marries, you know, the vine to the tree." 
 
 I thought just then as I looked on her, 
 With the pride of a human worshiper, 
 That the Sultan might search the Orient-land 
 From the Golden Horn to Samarcand, 
 And send his spies where the snows caress 
 The mountain-tops of the white Cherkess, 
 And none could be found as fair as she 
 Who stood on the twilight-porch with me. 
 
 I sometimes think when I pass away 
 
 In the hazy light of a summer's day, 
 
 Borne on the wings of a seraph band 
 
 To the silvery light of the Summerland, 
 
 That when in the midst of the spirits there, 
 
 Though their eyes be blue and their faces fair, 
 
 And the songs they sing be sweeter than 
 
 Young Mozart's song in the Vatican, 
 
 I should turn away to the realms below 
 
 Where your blue eyes beam and your sweet lips glow, 
 
 And sigh for the touch of the little hands 
 
 That cooled my brow like fairy fans, 
 
 Or stealthily crept along my sleeve 
 
 In the dim twilight of a summer-eve 
 
 Till they lay just under my chin as white 
 
 As the snow that gleams in an Arctic night. 
 
 I know I should long for the chair that stood 
 
JUNE 181 
 
 In the twilight-porch; and the womanhood 
 That made you come with your velvet feet, 
 And your laylike words, soothing and sweet, 
 Your coaxing eyes, and the delicate arts 
 That men will love in their queen of hearts, 
 And fold your hands just under my chin 
 And ask my heart to let you in ! 
 
 Yes, full well I know that the seraph-band 
 On the beautiful plains of the Summer-Land 
 Would miss me when I thought of you; 
 The snow-flake arms and the eyes of blue, 
 The sweet meek face and the human tricks, 
 Where Art and Nature so intermix, 
 That none save Love could tell anyone 
 Where the girl left off and the woman begun ! 
 
 Ah ! sweet, I fear should I leave you here, 
 I would wander away from the spirit-sphere 
 And be with you when the seraph-band 
 Would want me up in the Summer-Land ! 
 That in spite of a sweeter world than this, 
 I might barter its bliss for a human kiss, 
 While the fairest spirits would gaze and grieve, 
 And your hand stole stealthily up my sleeve, 
 Till folded and resting just under my chin, 
 You asked my heart to let you in. 
 
 John W. Overhall 
 From an old scrap-book made tp Adley H. Cummins; 
 Sacramento, 1873. 
 
 AMARE E'VIVERE 
 
 It is a blessed thing to love, 
 
 To love not wisely but too well, 
 
 To feel in life the witchery 
 Of love's romantic spell. 
 
 To keep within the heart of hearts 
 
 A sacred altar flame, 
 And burning daily incense there, 
 
 Maintain for answering love a claim. 
 
182 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 To feel the thrill of conscious joy, 
 
 When in a handclasp hearts unite, 
 
 To centre all in one brief hour 
 
 And see it vanish from our sight. 
 
 To be beloved. To touch the chords, 
 
 Which vibrate with an answering thrill, 
 
 The lute-strings of another heart, 
 Vocal, responsive to our will. 
 
 To know, that in the careless world 
 One heart-throb is for us alone, 
 
 One voice is raised in our defense 
 
 Else low in love's soft undertone. 
 
 True love, it knoweth no distrust, 
 It cancels every anxious fear, 
 
 It lulls the troubled soul to rest, 
 
 Of human life, the golden year. 
 
 It is a blessed thing to love, 
 
 To love not wisely but too well, 
 
 To feel in life the witchery 
 Of love's romantic spell. 
 
 Holly Dean. 
 
 From the scrap-book of a Pioneer Mother who cherished and preserved this 
 poem in her extreme youth as a precious thing. Nobody would put it into her 
 scrap-book today. Yet it tells the story of her youth and innocence in an interest- 
 ing way for many of them married at sixteen. This poem was written for the 
 "Rural Free Press", date unknown. 
 
 SONG OF HERRERA THE RAIDER 
 
 Oh, closed be all eyes but thine own, my sweet, 
 
 And dim be the kindly stars ! 
 How else shall I come to thy dear, dear feet 
 
 When the hate of thy kindred bars? 
 And swift be thy silent hoofs, my steed, 
 
 Swift, swift, as the leagues fly by! 
 Thou knowest what need 
 Will I have of thy speed 
 
 Till the home of my foes be nigh; 
 The home of my fo.es, 
 Where there dwelleth the rose 
 
 For the breath of whose lips I would die ! 
 
 Yes, deem myself blessed to die ! 
 From "The Nine Swords of Morales'. CeQTge Rom& M ^ u 
 
JUNE 183 
 
 BALLAD— RECOMPENSE 
 
 If God should plunge me in perpetual gloom 
 By taking from my eyes the boon of sight, 
 I would not rail against His word of doom, 
 Nor curse the solemn hours of endless night ; 
 
 For Love would come attendant to my call, 
 And whisper of thy graces rare and bright, 
 And limn thy face upon my dungeon's wall 
 In perfect lines of ever-living light. 
 
 Henry A. Melvin. 
 
 LIFE'S HOPES 
 
 When the weight of sorrow presses on the weary, weary heart, 
 When the future we have trusted fails to do its promised part, 
 As it creeps into the present, and we shrink deceived, betrayed, 
 With the fruit of expectation turning bitter in the shade 
 Of the Tree of Knowledge, reaching with its elongated bough 
 Through the shadow of the ages to the stern and staring now; 
 When the long-desired fulfilment, clasped at last in our embrace 
 Proves a chill and bloodless nothing with a stolid, painted face ; 
 When Ave seem like some lone cedar which cruel Chance has 
 
 placed 
 On a bleak and stony headland looking o'er a dreary waste; 
 When the smiling sky is darkened with the gloom-clouds of 
 
 despair, 
 Not a single star to brighten — only blackness everywhere — 
 
 Then comes a breeze so gently blowing — 
 
 Comes a warm and tender light 
 
 Stealing up the Eastern Heaven — 
 
 When despair and sable night, 
 Slowly fade away together — Morning trips along the slope. 
 
 And the Spirit's Day breaks newly, 
 
 With the Dawning Light of Hope. 
 
 From "San Francisco Chronicle" ; May, 1889. 
 
 FORBIDDEN 
 
 The Snow King, peering from Sierran steep, 
 Across the Western Slope of fragrant bloom, 
 Cries : "Halt ! — To enter Eden were our doom ! 
 
 Here let us fold our white robes close and sleep !" 
 
 Richard Lew Dawson. 
 
184 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 SWEETHEART 
 
 Sweetheart, I sail away to thee 
 Wherever the helmsman steers, 
 
 Wherever the main is wild and free 
 My hope doth banish tears. 
 
 Sweetheart, I strive always for thee 
 Wherever my swift feet tread, 
 
 What task my eager eyes may see 
 'Tis done for hope ahead. 
 
 Sweetheart, of thee I dream alway 
 'Neath stars and summer skies 
 
 And by thy side I long to stay 
 And read thy shining eyes. 
 
 'Tis true I know thee not, Sweetheart, 
 
 Nor are thy kisses real, 
 But still of me art thou a part, 
 My own, my fond ideal. 
 
 Ben Field. 
 From "Poems of California and the West;" 
 Boston: Richard C. Badger, J 904. 
 
 A THOUGHT FROM LILLY 0. REICHLING DYER 
 
 Very little is enough for us to live on; it is not clothes, it 
 is not luxuries that give to us our greatest happiness, it is that 
 which is within — our inward resources. 
 
 It is my belief that what we plan, even with our greatest 
 effort, can never equal that which comes forth spontaneously 
 as if by inspiration. 
 
 THE GREAT PANORAMA 
 
 In June, the cherries are more than ripe and luscious — they 
 are the rubies and garnets of the jewel-world of fruits, in their 
 lavish display. You hear the Portuguese at their work, singing 
 in the trees, as they pluck the gems and prepare them for mar- 
 ket. And it makes a poem of the season to hear them singing. 
 
 A. E. 
 
JUNE 185 
 
 LOVE SONNETS OF A HOODLUM 
 
 Life is a combination hard to buck, 
 A proposition hard to beat, 
 E'en though you get there Zaza with both feet, 
 In forty flickers, it is the same hard luck, 
 And you are up against it nip and tuck, 
 Shanghaied without a steady place to eat, 
 Guyed by the very copper on your beat 
 Who lays to jug you when you run amuck. 
 
 O Life! you give Yours Truly quite a pain. 
 On the T square I do not like your style; 
 For you are playing favorites again 
 And you have got me handicapped a mile. 
 Avaunt, false Life, with all your pride and pelf; 
 Go take a running jump and chase yourself! 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 To just one girl I've tuned my sad bazoo, 
 Stringing my pipe-dream off as it occurred, 
 And as I've tipped the straight talk every word, 
 If you don't like it you know what to do. 
 Perhaps you think I've handed out to you 
 And idle jest, a touch-me-not, absurd, 
 As any sky-blue-pink canary bird, 
 Billed for a season at the Zoo. 
 
 If that's your guess you'll have to guess again, 
 
 For this I fizzled in a burst of glory, 
 
 And this rhythmatic side-show doth contain 
 
 The sum and substance of my hard-luck story, 
 
 Showing how Vanity is still on deck 
 
 And humble Virtue gets it in the neck. 
 
 Wallace Irrvin. 
 
 Txdo stanzas from "The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum" ; 
 
 San Francisco: Paul Elder & Co., 1901 . 
 
 THE WEDDING IS OVER 
 
 The wedding is over, the guests are all gone, 
 But why sits the bride's sister all weeping alone? 
 The wreath of white roses she takes from her brow, 
 But why sits the bride's sister all sorrowing now? 
 
 A Memory Cem. 
 A quotation from the lips of a Pioneer Mother of early days. 
 
186 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 MORNING 
 
 Through yon gates of beaten gold 
 Cometh now the Goddess Morning, 
 Robed in glories manifold, 
 Earth and heaven adorning; 
 Fill the heart and banish sadness, 
 Touch the keys that thrill with might, 
 Loose the fountain floods of light, 
 
 John C. Jury. 
 From "Omar and Fitzgerald and Other Poems' ; 
 Whitaker & Ray Company, 1903. 
 
 A RED, RED HEART 
 
 He gave me a red, red heart to wear, 
 
 I placed it next my own, 
 As a symbol of love — of love so fair — 
 
 But his was made of stone. 
 
 A. E. 
 
 The sweetheart of Summer weds to-day, — 
 
 Pride of the Wild Rose clan: 
 
 A Butterfly fay 
 
 For a bridesmaid gay, 
 
 And a bumblebee for best man ! 
 
 Charles Elmer Jenney. 
 From "California Nights' Entertainment" ; 
 Edinburgh: Valentine & Anderson. 
 
 WHEN LOVE GROWS TO BE TOO OBSERVANT 
 
 When Love grows to be too observant 
 It ceases to be fervent. 
 
 Lorenzo Sosso. 
 From "Wisdom for the Wise". 
 
INVOCATION 
 
 Goddess of Liberty ! lo, thou 
 
 Whose tearless eyes behold the chain, 
 And look unmoved upon the slain, 
 
 Eternal peace upon thy brow, — 
 
 Before whose shrine the races press, 
 Thy perfect favor to implore 
 (The proudest tyrant asks no more, 
 
 The ironed anarchist no less), — 
 
 Whose altar-coals that touch the lips 
 Of prophets kindle, too, the brand 
 By Discord flung with wanton hand 
 
 Among the houses and the ships, — 
 
 Upon whose tranquil front the star 
 Burns bleak and passionless and white, 
 Its cold inclemency of light 
 
 More dreadful than the shadows are, — 
 
 Thy name we do not here invoke 
 
 Our civic rites to sanctify ; 
 
 Enthroned in thy remoter sky, 
 Thou heedest not our broken yoke. 
 
 Thou carest not for such as we ; 
 
 Our millions die to serve thee still 
 And secret purpose of thy will. 
 
 They perish — what .is that to thee? 
 
 The light that fills the patriot's tomb 
 Is not of thee. The shining crown 
 Compassionately offered down 
 
 To those who falter in the gloom 
 
 And fall, and call upon thy name, 
 And die desiring— 'tis the sign 
 Of a diviner love than thine, 
 
 Rewarding with a richer fame. 
 
 To Him alone let freemen cry 
 
 Who hears alike the victor's shout 
 The song of faith, the moan of doubt, 
 
 And bends Him from His nearer sky. 
 
 God of my country and my race ! 
 So greater than the gods of old — 
 So fairer than the prophets told, 
 
 Who dimly saw and feared Thy face, 
 
 Who didst but reveal Thy will 
 
 And gracious ends to their desire, 
 Behind the dawn's advancing fire 
 
 Thy tender day-beam veiling still, — 
 
188 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 To whom the unceasing suns belong, 
 And deed is one with consequence, — 
 To whose divine inclusive sense 
 
 The moan is blended with the song, — 
 
 Whose laws, imperfect and unjust, 
 Thy just and perfect purpose serve; 
 The needle howsoe'er it swerve, 
 
 Still warranting the sailor's trust, — 
 
 God, lift Thy hand and make us free ; 
 
 Perfect the work Thou hast designed. 
 
 O strike away the chains that bind 
 Our souls to our idolatry ! 
 
 The liberty Thy love hath given 
 
 We thank Thee for. We thank thee for 
 Our _ great, dead father's holy war 
 
 Wherein our manacles were riven. 
 
 We thank Thee for the stronger stroke 
 Ourselves delivered and incurred 
 When Thine incitement half unheard — 
 
 The chains we riveted we broke. 
 
 We thank Thee that beyond the sea 
 The people, growing ever wise, 
 Turn to the west their serious eyes 
 
 And dumbly strive to be as we. 
 
 As when the sun's returning flame 
 Upon the Egyptian statue shone, 
 And struck from the enchanted stone 
 
 The music of a mighty fame, 
 
 Let Man salute the rising day 
 
 Of liberty, but not adore. 
 
 'Tis Opportunity — no more — 
 A useful, not a sacred ray. 
 
 It bringeth good, it bringeth ill. 
 
 As he possessing shall elect. 
 
 He maketh it of none effect 
 Who worketh not within Thy will. 
 
 O give us more or less, as we 
 
 Shall serve the right or serve the 
 
 wrong. 
 Confirm our freedom but so long 
 
 As we are worthy to be free. 
 
 But when (O distant be the time!) 
 Majorities in passion draw 
 Insurgent swords to murder Law 
 
 And all the land is red with crime, 
 
 Or — nearer menace ! when the band 
 Of feebler spirits cringe and plead 
 To the gigantic strength of Greed, 
 
 And fawn upon his iron hand ! 
 
 Nay, when the steps to power are worn 
 In hollows by the feet of thieves, 
 And Mammon sits among the sheaves 
 
 And chuckles while the reapers mourn — 
 
 Then stay Thy miracle! replace 
 
 The broken throne, repair the chain, 
 Restore the interrupted reign 
 
 And veil again Thy patient face. 
 
 Lo ! here upon the world's extreme 
 We stand with lifted arms and dare 
 By Thine eternal name to swear 
 
 Our country, which so fair we deem — 
 
JULY 189 
 
 Upon whose hills — a bannered throng — 
 
 The spirits of the dawn display 
 
 Their flashing lances all the day 
 And hears the sea's pacific song — 
 
 Shall be so ruled in might and grace 
 
 That men shall say : "O drive afield 
 
 The lawless eagle from the shield 
 And call an angel to the place". 
 
 Ambrose Bierce. 
 Note: This great poem has been the inspiration of other great 
 poems. — The Gatherer. . 
 
 (This poem Was first read at a Fourth of July celebration. Later 
 it was sent by the poet to be preserved in the "Story of the Files of 
 California.") 
 
 THE SIMPLICITY OF TYRANNY 
 
 Not as poet's dream, is Freedom to be represented ; not 
 as a fair young maiden with light and delicate limbs, but, rather 
 as a bearded man armed to the teeth, whose massive limbs 
 are strong with struggling. For man has through the centuries 
 fought and battled and won triumphs, has gained the treasures 
 of art, has built magnificent temples, has wrought with cun- 
 ning and skill — all things have come to him with splendid 
 realization. But the one thing which is his by right, God- 
 given and eternal, the one thing for which he has battled from 
 the smallness of Time, has been the last to be accorded to him. 
 That thing is the RIGHT TO THINK. 
 
 The mind which should be as free as the winds of heaven, 
 has always been held in chains, weighed down by the tyrant's 
 knee upon its breast. By some strange perversity of the 
 human heart, the very moment that power is placed in the 
 absolute keeping of some one man over his fellows, that 
 moment he schemes to enslave the minds of those about him, 
 or if failing so to do, gives them over to the torture chamber 
 or the thumbscrew. The right to think, God-given and eternal 
 though it may be, has been won only by wading through seas 
 of blood and pressing forth into the wilderness of an unknown 
 world. By what process has society been formed that this 
 God-given right has been delayed until this nineteenth cen- 
 tury? By what process did this desire to thwart man's natural 
 heritage first arise? From what habit of primitive man did 
 it receive its first impetus? * * * 
 
 It is the power of wealth that destroys a nation. Law 
 ceases to be of any value. The social fabric becomes a fester- 
 ing mass of rottenness. * * * It may be stated as a fact that 
 no nation ever died because it was poor — that is to say, poor 
 
190 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 in purse; it could not be poor while it was rich in manhood. 
 There was another thing that entered into making men poor 
 indeed and depriving them of the right to think; it was the 
 difficulty which stood in the way, preventing freedom of mind, 
 because it was so much easier to submit than to organize 
 against the ages and overturn the old order of things- It is 
 the simplicity of Tyranny that gives it its power, while the 
 complexities of Liberty keep it afar, like some distant star in 
 the heavens, much admired and worshiped, but unattainable. 
 
 Why? Because one-man rule is easy, but to gain that 
 power which the rule of , many-men-together may operate 
 for the good of all, requires patriotic fervor and self-efface- 
 ment. To administer an empire it requires only an emperor, 
 but to organize and carry on a republic it demands many 
 incorruptible citizens who are more anxious over the common 
 good than they are over their own personal good. Indeed 
 there is required a self-effacement sometimes on the part of 
 citizens of a republic that leaves them beggared for life in 
 return for their sacrifices, made to save their country. In the 
 founding of the Republic of the United States, there were many 
 such instances required to make it possible, notably that of 
 Robert Morris who was sustained in his efforts to supply 
 large sums of money by an obscure banker named Solomon, 
 a patriotic Jew, who aided him and Madison and Jefferson with 
 his own private fortune. Although these sums were expended 
 for state purposes yet they were never repaid and this patriot 
 died at forty-five, a poor man. 
 
 Just to indulge in the white passion for patriotism is the 
 only reward that is theirs, for it is proverbial that "republics 
 are ungrateful". There is no one to do the bribing, no one to 
 pay the debt of honor in the carrying on of a republic — all 
 that belongs to the clever management of an empire where 
 one-man rule covers everything. 
 
 Yes, it is the simplicity of TYRANNY that gives it its 
 age-long power. 
 
 Adley H. Cummins. 
 In "The Coming of Liberty" 
 From "Grizzly Bear Magazine" 
 April 10, 1918. 
 
JULY 191 
 
 THE CIVIC CONSCIENCE 
 
 To purify politics we should first purify those from whom 
 the politicians derive their powers. What is most needed in 
 this country today is a sound civic conscience, a clear and deep 
 intellectual perception of truth, a moral prescience which 
 enables its possessor to differentiate right from wrong, coupled 
 with an impulse toward rectitude. The civic conscience is the 
 corner-stone of good citizenship, the mainspring of patriotism, 
 the right which men should follow in every contact with govern- 
 ment, and with society. A people without its pure flame to 
 guide them are groping in darkness on the brink of a chasm. 
 The country basking in its effulgence is immune to decay. It 
 does not suffice to urge men to do their civic duty- They must 
 have a proper sense of their obligations and their hearts must 
 be inclined toward right action. To that end the heart as well 
 as the mind must be cultivated, and that sort of cultivation 
 comes with religious teaching. It has been pretty clearly 
 demonstrated that there can be no moral progress under a 
 system that has not honor for its basic principle. A sense of 
 honor is incompatible with indulgence of the passions that 
 breed depravity. The civic conscience is becoming atrophied 
 in this materialistic age because of the growing popularity of 
 the twentieth century gospel, the gospel of corrupting wealth 
 which urges material ideals contrary to the fundamentals of 
 ethical and pure Christianity. Hence the paramount import- 
 ance of persistent denunciation of the irrational coveting of 
 gold, and the eternal glorification of the idealities. Let us quit 
 apotheosizing Success, and proclaim more frequently the higher 
 purposes of existence which inspire grand and beneficent effort. 
 By this course we may, in time, acquire a civic conscience 
 which will find expression not only in political activities but 
 in all our relations with society. 
 
 Theodore Bonnet. 
 From "Town Talk," 
 June 3, 1905. 
 
192 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 LIBERTY'S BELL 
 
 There's a legend told of a far-off land — 
 The land of a king — where the people planned 
 To build them a bell that never should ring 
 But to tell of the death or the birth of a king, 
 Or proclaim an event, with its swinging slow, 
 That could startle the nation to joy or woe. 
 
 It was not to be builded — this bell they had planned — 
 Of common ore dug from the breast of the land, 
 But of metal first molded by skill of all arts — 
 Built of the treasures of fond human hearts. 
 
 And from all o'er the land, like pilgrims, they came, 
 Each to cast in a burden, a mite in the flame 
 Of the furnace — his offering — to mingle and swell 
 In the curious mass of this wonderful bell. 
 
 Knights came in armor, and flung in the shields 
 
 That had warded off blows on the Saracen fields; 
 
 Freemen brought chains from the prisons afar — 
 
 Bonds that had fettered the captives of war; 
 
 And sabres were cast in the molten flood, 
 
 Stained with the crimson of heroes' blood; 
 
 Pledges of love, a bracelet, a ring, 
 
 A gem that had gleamed in the crown of a king; 
 
 The coins that had ransomed a maiden from death; 
 
 The words, hot with eloquence, caught from the breath 
 
 Of a sage, and a prayer from the lips of a slave 
 
 Were heard and recorded, and cast in the wave, 
 
 To be melted and molded together, and tell 
 
 The tale of their wrongs in the tones of the bell. 
 
 It was finished at last, and, by artisan hand, 
 
 On its ponderous beams hung high over the land. 
 
 The slow years passed by, but no sound ever fell 
 
 On a listening ear from the tongue of the bell. 
 
 The brown spider wove her frail home on its walls, 
 
 And the dust settled deep in its cavernous halls. 
 
 Men laughed in derision, and scoffed at the pains 
 
 Of the builders; and harder and harder the chains 
 
 Of a tyrannous might on the people were laid; 
 
 More insatiate, more servile, the tribute they paid, 
 
 There was something they found far more cruel than death, 
 
 And something far sweeter than life's fleeting breath. 
 
 But, hark! in the midst of the turbulent throng, 
 
 The moans of the weak, and the groans of the strong, 
 
 There's a cry of alarm. Some invisible power 
 
 Is moving the long-silent bell in the tower. 
 
 Forward and backward and forward it swung, 
 
 And Liberty! Liberty! Liberty! rung 
 
 From its wide brazen throat, over mountain and vale, 
 
 Till the seas caught the echo, and monarchs turned pale. 
 
JULY 19! 
 
 Our forefathers heard it — that wild, thrilling tone, 
 
 Ringing out to the world, and they claimed it their own. 
 
 And up from the valley, and down from the hill, 
 
 From the flame of the forge, from the held and the mill, 
 
 They paid with their lives the price of its due, 
 
 And left it a legacy, freemen, to you. 
 
 And ever when danger is menacing nigh, 
 
 The mighty bell swings in the belfry on high; 
 
 And men wake from their dream, and grasp in affright 
 
 Their swords, when its warning sweeps out in the night. 
 
 It rang a wild paean o'er war's gory wave, 
 
 When the gyves were unloosened from our millions of slaves 
 
 It started with horror and trembled a knell 
 
 From ocean to ocean when brave Lincoln fell; 
 
 And again its wild notes sent a thrill through the land 
 
 When Garfield was struck by a traitorous hand; 
 
 And once in each year, as time onward rolls, 
 
 Slowly, and muffled, and mournful it tolls 
 
 A dirge while Columbia pauses to spread 
 
 A tribute of love on the graves of her dea"d. 
 
 While Washington's name is emblazoned in gold, 
 While the valor of Perry or Sherman is told, 
 While patriots treasure the name of a Hayne, 
 The fiery drops from the pen of a Paine, 
 While dear is the name of child, mother or wife, 
 Or sweet to a soul is the measure of life, 
 America's sons will to battle prepare 
 When its tones of alarm ring aloud on the air; 
 For Liberty's goddess holds in her white hand 
 The cord of the bell that swings over our land. 
 
 Madge Morris Wagner. 
 
 WHAT IS THIS REPUBLIC? 
 
 What is this Republic? It is the concentrated expression 
 of intelligent free men organized for the advancement of them- 
 selves in the pathways of honor and virtue, asking for higher 
 and better things, not seeking for enslavement; not organizing 
 themselves to be slaves. 
 
 "Reviewing the array of nations prepared for war, I see 
 a mighty nation — a Russia, a France, a Germany, and England, 
 with their millions of men armed and ready to strike; ready to 
 fight; ready to extinguish life. I see their serried forms, not 
 only upon land, but their wondrous navies upon the vasty deep ; 
 I behold their mighty cannon leveled at the foe; and I ask 
 myself why is it thus? I turn back my eyes to the days when 
 on Calvary's mount the Nazarene died that man might live 
 
194 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 and that peace might prevail; * * * and I wonder whether 
 in this nineteenth century, in this day and in this hour whether 
 we are in reality sincere. 
 
 For myself my views are clear. I believe in my country. 
 Her I am ready to defend. On her great shore, from her 
 mountain tops, and from every vale within which she attempts 
 to exercise jurisdiction, I believe it to be the duty of our man- 
 hood to rally to the support of the American flag. But I think 
 that her destiny is something more than to subjugate rattle- 
 snakes, boa constrictors, Filipinos or Cubans. I look upon 
 her as the typification of the republic of the ages. I regard her 
 as containing within her mighty bosom the truth of centuries, 
 received from those who have striven to elevate virtue, to 
 take women and men and build them up to be higher and 
 better things in the struggling story of mortality. I believe 
 in tjhat, and I summon to that great contest no barbarian 
 horde. If I have anything to say, if my voice may summon 
 from the vasty deep, if it may call from the mountain top, if it 
 may bring echoes from the plain, the note will be, "Let us 
 fight that manhood may be better; that it may be purer; that 
 it may be greater". 
 
 And at my side I want intellect, purity, truth, manhood; 
 and ABOVE ME THE STANDARD OF JUSTICE. 
 
 From "Speeches of Stephen M. White"; 
 
 Extract from "The Decadence of the Past 
 
 and the Hope of the Future" 
 
 Delivered in Los Angeles, California April 14, 1899. 
 
 Los Angeles, CaL: Times-Mirror Co. 
 
 After forty-eight years of devotion to his native state, as orator, 
 United States senator, and citizen, with the great harbor of San Pedro 
 as a monument to the sagacity, cleverness, adroitness, audacity and un- 
 swerving loyalty of this man, Stephen M. White, his life came to an end 
 on February 21st, 1901, at 4:15 a. m. His last words to those assem- 
 bled at his bedside were as follows: "The evidence is all in; the case 
 is submitted." 
 
JULY 195 
 
 EARLY CALIFORNIA BALLAD 
 THE MAID OF MONTEREY 
 
 The moon shone but dimly 
 
 Upon the battle plain, 
 A gentle breeze fanned softly 
 
 O'er the features of the slain. 
 The guns had hushed their thunder 
 
 The guns in silence lay 
 Then came the sefiorita, 
 
 The Maid of Monterey. 
 
 She cast a look of anguish 
 On the dying and the dead 
 And made her lap a pillow 
 
 For those who mourned and bled. 
 Now here's to that bright beauty 
 
 Who drives death's pangs away, 
 The meek-eyed sefiorita, 
 
 The Maid of Monterey. 
 
 Although she loved her country, 
 
 And prayed that it might live, 
 Yet for the foreign soldier 
 
 She had a tear to give. 
 And when the dying soldier 
 
 In her bright gleam did pray 
 He blessed this sefiorita 
 
 The Maid of Monterey. 
 
 She gave the thirsty water, 
 
 And dressed each bleeding wound, 
 A fervent prayer she uttered 
 
 For those whom death had doomed. 
 And when the bugle sounded 
 
 Just at the dawn of day, 
 
 They blessed this senorita, 
 
 The Maid of Monterey. 
 
 Author unknown. 
 (This ballad Was sung by the soldiers of the Mexican War, in the 
 early days of California. From "California, '46 to '88, Jacob Wright 
 Harlan; San Francisco: Bancroft Co., 1888.) 
 
 AN EXPERIENCE IN THE PHILIPPINES 
 
 By this time the bombardment had ceased, but we met 
 men breathlessly running who had informed us that the Amer- 
 icans had landed and were advancing upon the town. * * * 
 We waited and watched anxiously, when finally, a small black 
 speck made its appearance, then another and another until 
 quite a column of these tiny figures were observed descending 
 
196 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 from the brow of the hill. The black mass became bluish, the 
 figures more distinct. In front fluttered something, borne 
 by one of the foremost of the advancing figures, the colors 
 of which, as they became visible to my straining eyes, sent 
 a thrill through my whole being. Never before had those 
 red and white stripes impressed me with a similar sensation. 
 * * * We brought to under a tree not two hundred yards 
 from the advancing column. I could now distinguish them 
 as soldiers and marines. On foot we walked forward to meet 
 them. The foremost marine reached out his hand to me as 
 I ran up, and my first impulse, had I given way to it, would 
 have been to throw my arms around his neck and weep on 
 his bosom; but with a mighty effort, I contained myself, and 
 nearly shook his hand off. 
 
 An elderly officer who appeared to be in command, called 
 a halt and to him I now addressed myself. * * * At length 
 they seemed to understand me, and taking a cutlass from the 
 nearest marine, I split open the cane and delivered Gilmore's 
 letter. This caused some excitement for Gilmore's misfortune 
 had evidently made him a famous man. 
 
 * * * These were the men of the good ship "Oregon" ; 
 the officer in command was Lieutenant-Commander McCracken. 
 To him I now introduced Villamor and Singson, and the former 
 as representative of the people, surrendered the town formally. 
 The American officer treated them with the utmost courtesy. 
 At length my two native friends and I re-entered the quilez, 
 and leading the way, returned to Vigan, the inhabitants of 
 which now headed by the band, flocked out to meet us. When 
 we reached the plaza, the marines, some two hundred, were 
 lined up before the palace. 
 
 The governor came out, and I introduced him to Com- 
 mander McCracken, upon whom he expended just one-half 
 of his entire English vocabulary, "Welcome!" which so im- 
 pressed the American officer with his knowledge of our 
 language that he at once expressed himself as deeply pleased 
 to meet the Honorable Governor. Acosta understood not a 
 word, so in despair he gave forth the other half of his 
 vocabulary, "Good-bye !" 
 
 All was silent, a hush had fallen over that mighty throng 
 in the plaza. Glancing at the palace I comprehended what 
 was to follow. A moment later I was rushing wildly up the 
 stairs to the floor above. 
 
 From the balcony the Stars and Stripes were gliding 
 slowly out and upward toward the flagstaff where a day before 
 the Insurgent banner had fluttered; while down below in the 
 
JULY 197 
 
 plaza the notes of the American bugles arose. I had arrived 
 in the nick of time- The flag was half way up, and the next 
 moment I had a hold on the halyard as it dropped from the 
 hands of the sailor who stood on the railing. 
 
 Thus I assisted in raising the American colors over Vigan. 
 
 Albert Sormichsen. 
 From ''Ten Months a Captive Among Filipinos" ; 
 being a narrative of adventure and observation 
 during imprisonment on the Island of Luzon, P. I.; 
 New York: Scribner's, J 901. 
 
 A CALIFORNIA SUNSET 
 
 Unfurled above the horizon 
 
 Were crimson stripes on cumulus, 
 On snowy clouds : though day was done 
 
 The sun's brave message stayed for us. 
 
 There hung the lingering evening star, 
 
 Bright in its field of azure true. 
 "What flag," asks Earth, "shall master War?" 
 
 The Heavens respond : ''Red, White and Blue !" 
 
 Arthur L. Price. 
 From Examiner, 
 Oct. 1917. 
 
 THE SIGHT OF "OLD GLORY" TO AN EXILE 
 
 This is a tale of long ago ; if you are young — a long span 
 of years to which to look forward. But to us who are elder, it 
 seems but yesterday that Cleveland laid the first keel of the 
 new American navy. 
 
 At the time of which I write, two venerable side-wheelers, 
 the Monocacy and the Monongahela, represented the might 
 of the Western Republic in the Eastern seas, because no 
 mariner was there intrepid enough to sail them home. For 
 the same reason a very restricted area of these seas they sailed, 
 and the Stars-and-Stripes were known to but a mere handful 
 of the denizens of their shores. Since then came Dewey on 
 a May Day to Manila Bay. Since then, to Pekin, in the van- 
 guard of nations, Old Glory led the march, and we are better 
 known in the Eastern seas, today. But still there are wan- 
 derers who like Renwick, hunger for a sight of the flag, still 
 people of the earth to be reminded of the power of the Great 
 Republic. And not a lesser duty of our navy than acting as 
 
198 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 advance agent of our great commerce is that of carrying 
 cheer to our exiles. 
 
 When I went to Fusan I met there, Renwick, who being 
 from the Southern States, welcomed me as a countryman, 
 though I was but a boy from California. Yet we became 
 comrades. Later I learned his story. At the close of the 
 war of the rebellion in which he had fought for the South 
 and lost, he drifted into the navy with a dim idea of making 
 atonement to his country. In the surgeon's crew he had 
 sailed for the China station. When the cruise had ended, 
 Renwick was not ready to return. What welcome had he, 
 a rebel, and homeless, to expect from his native land? So 
 he bade his ship-mates farewell, and continued drifting in his 
 voluntary exile through the Eastern world. And so it happened 
 that the vicissitudes of time and chance wafted him to Corea 
 and Fusan, and there I found him. * * * It was on the 
 next morning that we sat in rapt admiration of the scene 
 looking down on the sparkling waters from the summer tea- 
 house amid the perfume of pine and sweet pea. From near-by 
 boats rose in soft cadence the chants of fishermen and sailors. 
 Just now, below us, where the sun's rays glanced from the 
 water, lay the old vessel that had borne me to this unique 
 corner of earth. 
 
 As I looked, the colors floated to the mast-head. The 
 flutter caught Renwick's eye, and as he descried the old flag 
 rising from the blinding reflection, he arose and stood at 
 attention ; he removed his helmet and with his head upon his 
 breast, dwelt long and sadly on that banner of red, white and 
 blue. His face was pale. His eyes, dimmed with manly tears 
 of emotion, gazed with a vacant, far-away look, and one hand 
 rested on the near-by rail of the tea-house veranda, for support, 
 for his very limbs trembled beneath him. Then he gave way 
 to the pent-up emotions within him. 
 
 "Old Glory, flag of the country God made !" he exclaimed- 
 
 After a pause he turned to me and said, "Bradley, you 
 were glad to greet a countryman after a few paltry days of 
 separation from your home and kindred to whom you expect to 
 return before long. Suppose it had been years since you had 
 grasped the hand of one who could tell you of your home- 
 country! years that each seemed ages since you had seen that 
 flag wafted in its native air, or even borne by a representative 
 of its power and glory !" His emotion affected me deeply. 
 
 * * * A few days later I found him in the driving rain, 
 leaning against the old scarred fir-tree, while the rising waves 
 
JULY 199 
 
 of the bay laved his feet and he was seemingly oblivious of it 
 all. I ran to him, crying, ''Man, have you lost your mind?" 
 
 "No," he replied, "I am going — home." His arm extended 
 to the hazy outline of the harbor-entrance where lay the ship. 
 "Home — " he murmured, "at last." * * * As the good towns- 
 people, young and old, came with many a sincere tear to view 
 all that was mortal of their companion and friend, a day later, 
 I wondered not that the land for which beat such a heart was 
 great; I did regret, however, that the nation that fostered 
 such a deep sentiment took not greater pains to gladden like 
 hearts among its exiles. 
 
 W. Kimball Briggs. 
 Extract from a very beautiful short story 
 written in 1893, after the return of the author from 
 Korea, where he was one of the secretaries of the then 
 Minister to Korea, Gen. Lucius Harwood Foote. 
 The title of the story is "My Light". 
 
 (Note by the Gatherer: While preparing the "Story of the Files", in 1893, this 
 Ms. was brought to me by the author, then a mere youth, to read and make com- 
 ments upon. I could never forget the impression made upon my mind by this par- 
 ticular incident of the story, as told above, because it was different from any other of 
 the kind. Twenty-two years later I sought to get this incident to include in "Literary 
 California". As a result of this effort the story will be issued in book-form by the 
 author.) 
 
 GEOGRAPHICAL 
 
 California is the largest State in the Union, with the exception of 
 Texas. Its area is 158,360 square miles. Irregular in form, the length 
 is about 750 miles, the width about 200 miles. The . most striking 
 physical feature is the great mountain-rimmed basins of the San 
 Joaquin and Sacramento rivers. The waters of the mountain streams 
 and rivers of the valleys pour into San Francisco Bay and mingle with 
 the waters of the Pacific at the Golden Gate. 
 
 From "The Pacific School Geography." 
 
 Harr Wagner, 1902, San Francisco, California. 
 
200 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 LEX SCRIPTA 
 
 "For the Letter killeth; but the Spirit giveth life."— St. Paul. 
 
 This once I dreamed. Before me grandly stood 
 
 One fashioned like a Deity — his brow- 
 Still, massive, white — calm as Beatitude, 
 
 All passion sifted from its sacred glow, 
 His eyes serenely fathomless and wise, 
 
 His lips just fit to fashion words that fall 
 
 Like silent lightning from the summer skies 
 To kill without the thunder; over all 
 The sense of Thor's vast strength and symmetry of Saul. 
 
 Clad with eternal youth, the ages brake 
 
 Harmlessly over his majestic form, 
 As the clouds break on Shasta. Then I spake 
 
 Glad words, awe-struck, devotional and warm. 
 "Behold," I cried, "the Promised One is come — 
 
 The Leader of the Nations, pure and strong! 
 He who shall make this wailing earth our Home, 
 
 And guide the sorrowful and weak along 
 
 To reach a land of Rest where right has conquered wrong! 
 
 "Oh, He shall build in mercy, and shall found 
 
 Justice as firmly as Sierra's base, 
 And unseal founts of charity profound 
 
 As Tahoe's crystal waters and erase 
 The lines of vice and selfishness and crime 
 
 From the scarred heart of sad humanity. 
 Hail, splendid Leader! Hail, auspicious time! 
 
 When might and right with holiness shall be 
 
 Like base and treble blent in anthems of the free!" 
 
 Just then I heard a wailing, mocking voice 
 
 Shiver and curse along the still, dark night, 
 Freezing the marrow in my bones: "Rejoice; 
 
 And may your Leader lead you to the Light! 
 He laid that perfect hand of His on me 
 
 And left me what I am — cursed, crushed and blind — 
 A living, hopeless, cureless Infamy, 
 
 Bound with such bonds as He alone can bind — 
 
 Bonds that consume the flesh and putrefy the mind." 
 
 I looked and saw what once had been a girl; 
 
 A sense of beauty glinted round her frame, 
 Like corpse-lights over rottenness that swirl 
 
 To image putrid forms in ghastly flame. 
 "Poor, tempted, weak, I did sin once," she cried, 
 
 "And I was damned for it — would I were dead! 
 The partner of my guilt was never tried; 
 
 Your Leader there was on his side, and said 
 
 That this was right and just." The woman spoke and fled. 
 
JULY 201 
 
 The wondrous Being did not move or speak, 
 
 Did not regard that lost, accusing soul 
 More than he did the night breeze on his cheek; 
 
 Smiled not nor frowned; serene, sedate and cold, 
 And while I wondered that no cold wrath 
 
 Blazed from his eyes>, a wretched creature came 
 Cringing and moaning, skulking in his path 
 
 A fierce, wild beast that cruelty kept tame — 
 
 A lying, coward thing, for which there is no name. 
 
 This whining, human, wretchedest complaint, 
 
 Crouching, as from some unseen lash, thus spoke: 
 "He held the poison to my lips; the taint 
 
 Corrupts me through and through! his iron yoke, 
 Worn on my ankles, makes me shuffle so. 
 
 'The criminal class'! Yea, that was his hot brand 
 Which worked me such irremediable woe, 
 
 Writ on my soul by his relentless hand — 
 
 A doom more fearful than the just can understand. 
 
 "He careth nothing for the right or truth, 
 
 Believes in naught save punishment and crime, 
 Regardeth not the plea of sex, or youth. 
 
 Nor hoary hair, nor manhood in its prime. 
 That which is called 'respectable' and 'rich' 
 
 Seems right to him; and that he doth uphold 
 With force implacable, calm, cruel, which 
 
 Hath delegated all God's power to gold, 
 
 Making the many weak, the few more bad and bold. 
 
 "He never championed the weak; no cause 
 
 Was holy, just and pure enough to gain 
 His aid without " a momentary pause, 
 
 Born of some superhuman throe of pain 
 Let in a calm, grave voice that quietly 
 
 Pursued the swift indictment: "I declare 
 Wherever right and wrong were warring, 
 
 Displayed his merciless, calm forces where 
 
 He might most aid the strong, and bid the weak despair. 
 
 "He murdered Christ and Socrates, and set 
 
 Rome's diadem upon the felon brows 
 Of Caesars, Caligulas, and wet 
 
 Zion's high altar with the blood of sows. 
 For ever more the slaughter of mankind, 
 
 Oppressions, sacrileges, cruelties, 
 Thongs for the flesh, and tortures for the mind — 
 
 These are his works!" Astounded, dizzy, blind, 
 
 I gathered up my soul, and cast all fear behind. 
 
 "This grand but beautiful thing should die," I cried, 
 
 "In God's great name have at thee!" Then I sprung 
 
 With superhuman strength and swiftness — tried 
 To seize, to strangle, and to kill, and flung 
 
 All my soul's force to break and bear him down. 
 The calm, strong being did not move or speak; 
 
 The grand face showed no trace of smile or frown; 
 The eyes burned not; the beautiful, smooth cheek 
 Nor flushed nor paled, but I grew impotent and weak. 
 
202 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 A hand reached forth as fair and delicate 
 
 As any girl's, as if but to caress 
 My throat; the steel-like fingers, firm as fate, 
 
 Relentless, merciless and passionless, 
 Began to strangle me; the chill of death 
 Crept on me, numbing brain and heart and eye. 
 "Who are thou, Devil?" shrieked I, without breath. 
 
 Before death came I heard his cold reply: 
 
 "I am Lex Scripta, madman, and I cannot die." 
 
 Nathan Kouns. 
 From "Story of the Files of California", 
 San Francisco: 1893. 
 
 "THE WAY OF WAR" 
 
 Man primeval hurled a rock, 
 Torn with angry passions he; 
 
 To escape the which rude shock, 
 Foeman ducked behind a tree. 
 
 Man primeval made a spear, 
 Swift of death on battlefield; 
 
 Foemen fashioned other gear 
 
 Fought behind his hidebound shield. 
 
 Man mediaeval built a wall, 
 Said he didn't give a damn; 
 
 Foeman not put out at all, 
 
 Smashed it with a battering ram. 
 
 Man mediaeval, just for fun, 
 Made himself a coat of mail; 
 
 Foeman laughed and forged a gun, 
 Peppered him with iron hail. 
 
 Modern man bethought a change, 
 Cast more massive iron-plate; 
 
 Foeman just increased his range, 
 Tipped his ball to penetrate. 
 
 Modern man, with toil untold, 
 Deftly built torpedo boats ; 
 
 Foeman launched "destroyers" bold, 
 Swept the seas of all that floats. 
 
JULY 203 
 
 Future man — ah! who can say? — 
 May blow to smithereens our earth ; 
 
 In the course of warrior play 
 
 Fling death across the heaven's girth. 
 
 Future man may hurl the stars, 
 
 Leash the comets, o'er-ride space, 
 Sear the universe with scars, 
 
 In the fight 'twixt race and race- 
 Yet foeman will be just as cute — 
 
 Amid the rain of falling suns, 
 Leave the world by parachute, 
 
 And build ethereal forts and guns. 
 
 And when skies begin to fall 
 
 And foeman still will new invent — 
 
 Into a star-proof world he'll crawl, 
 Heaven insured from accident. 
 
 Jack London. 
 Reprint of a Prophetic Poem from S. F. Chronicle, 
 Dec. 1 6th, 1917. 
 
 THE AGE OF ORATORY IN CALIFORNIA 
 
 The age of Oratory is past in California. Thirty or forty 
 years ago there was not a village in the state but could con- 
 tribute its orator, and no slouch at that. In the late seventies 
 for instance, Los Angeles was nothing more than a country 
 village, but the town could boast of half a dozen speakers, 
 any one of whom could give cards and spades on the stump 
 to the best that California can produce today. There was that 
 marvelous master of style, Colonel E. J. C. Kewen, on the 
 Democratic side, and handsome Jim Eastman on the Republican 
 end. There were, besides, the masterful Volney Howard, 
 ''Black Jim" Howard, Frank Ganahl and others. 
 
 Stephen M. White was just beginning his career in those 
 days and great as he became, he was outclassed as an orator 
 by most of the men I have named. 
 
 The people of that day used to travel miles to have a part 
 in a big political powwow and the orator was a popular hero. 
 In those days the roads in Los Angeles county were simply 
 
204 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 beds of shifting sand and at Downey City the Missourians 
 would flock in from the country along about 3 or 4 o'clock in 
 the afternoon and squat down in the soft and warm sand in 
 front of the hotel, smoking corncob pipes and waiting for 
 Frank Ganahl to come along about sundown and expound 
 to them the democratic law and gospel from the balcony. 
 Nobody ever thought of hiring a hall- September was the 
 campaign month and all political functions were held outdoors. 
 
 You could hear Stephen M. White's voice a block away. 
 You did not have to attend the meeting. All that was neces- 
 sary was to open the windows and listen. That marvelous 
 voice of White's with which in later years he was able to 
 control national conventions, gained its pitch and compass by 
 practice in open-air speaking. * * * P. D. Wigginton of 
 Merced, Henry Edgerton of Sacramento, William Henry Liv- 
 ingston Barnes — they are gone and only Tom Fitch, the silver- 
 tongued, remains of all that notable band. Of all the wonderful 
 array of orators that California has produced the most delight- 
 ful and most polished was General Barnes, and the most 
 effective and convincing was Stephen M. White. 
 
 Barnes was never strongly in earnest. He was the advo- 
 cate and political opportunist. The best thing he ever did was 
 a short speech at the republican state convention in Sacramento 
 in 1898. The convention was waiting for a report to be 
 handed in and Barnes was called to the platform to fill in the 
 time and keep things moving. He made a very pretty talk 
 for about twenty minutes and stopped but the report was not 
 ready and the convention insisted he should go on. It was at 
 the time when the volunteer army for the Philippines was 
 cantoned at Camp Merced, among the foggy sand dunes of 
 San Francisco. The sanitary arrangements were wretched 
 and there was no little suffering in camp. Barnes broke away 
 into the story of the dying soldier of Camp Merced, far away 
 from home and friends. He spoke for another twenty min- 
 utes and the speech was a little classic. Clement Shorter 
 reported it in shorthand, and the remarkable thing is that it 
 reads as well in cold print as it sounded from the platform. 
 That is a rare thing with oratory. Tom Fitch was another 
 of the great word weavers. He had an almost miraculous skill 
 in compounding glittering epigram, but like Barnes he was 
 merely the advocate. * * * 
 
 Oratory was a powerful factor in the first half century of 
 California history. The reputation of Colonel E. D. Baker, 
 the "Gray Eagle", who died for his country at the head of 
 his troops at Ball's Bluff, has come down to us. Ned Jerome, 
 who used to be deputy collector of the port, was a great 
 
JULY 205 
 
 admirer of Baker and collected and published some of his 
 speeches. As models of English diction they are wonderfully 
 perfect. 
 
 Just fifty years ago last month David C. Broderick, sen- 
 ator from California, was killed in a duel by David S. Terry, 
 who had resigned his office of chief justice as preliminary to 
 the meeting. Baker delivered the funeral oration and it is 
 worth quotation as an example of his style: 
 
 "Fellow Citizens ! One year ago today I performed a duty 
 such as I perform today over the remains of Senator Ferguson, 
 who died as Broderick died, tangled in the meshes of the 
 code of honor. Today there is another and more eminent 
 sacrifice. Today I renew my protest; today I utter yours. 
 The code of honor is a delusion and a snare ; it palters with 
 the hope of a true courage and binds it at the feet of crafty 
 and cruel skill. It surrounds its victim with the pomp and 
 grace of the procession, but leaves him bleeding on the altar. 
 It substitutes cold and deliberate preparation for courageous 
 and manly impulse and arms the one to disarm the other; 
 it may prevent fraud between practiced duelists who should 
 be forever without its pale but makes the mere trick of the 
 weapon superior to the noblest cause and the truest courage. 
 Its pretense of quality is a lie — it is unequal in all the form, 
 it is unjust in all the substance — the habitude of arms, the 
 early training, the frontier life, the border war, the sectional 
 custom, the life of leisure, all these are advantages which no 
 negotiation can neutralize, and which no courage can overcome. 
 But, fellow-citizens, the protest is not only spoken in your 
 words and mine — it is written in indelible characters ; it is 
 written in the blood of Gilbert, in the blood of Ferguson, in 
 the blood of Broderick, and the inscription will not altogether 
 fade. With the administration of the code in this particular 
 case I am not here to deal. Amid passionate grief, let us strive 
 to be just. I give no currency to rumors of which personally 
 I know nothing. There are other tribunals to which they may 
 be well referred and this is not one of them. But I am here 
 to say that whatever in the the code of honor or out of it 
 demands or allows, a deadly combat where there is not in all 
 things entire and certain equity, is a prostitution of the name, 
 is an evasion of the substance, and is a shield blazoned with 
 the name of chivalry to cover the malignity of murder." 
 
 How much of the history of California sprang from that 
 duel! It was the starting-point of that tremendous drama in 
 which Judge Terry, Stephen J. Field, William Sharon and 
 
206 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Sarah Althea Hill were the leading figures. It had all the 
 intensity, the inexorable force and logic of a Greek tragedy. 
 Aeschylus might have used it for a theme. 
 
 Edward F. Cahill 
 From "San Francisco Call"; 
 October 17, 1909. 
 
 SWORD, GO THROUGH THE LAND 
 
 Sword, go through the land and slay 
 Guilt and Hate, Revenge, Dismay! 
 Now where is such a sword, you say? 
 
 Sword, go through the land but spare 
 Love and Hope and Peace and Prayer ! 
 Now who, you ask, that sword shall bear? 
 
 Sword, go through the land and Youth, 
 Prime and Age shall cry, "Forsooth, 
 How mighty is the sword called Truth"! 
 
 From "A California Troubadour" ; 
 A. M. Robertson; 
 S. F. 1912. 
 
 THE COMING OF LIBERTY 
 
 "Gentlemen of America," wrote a brilliant Frenchman, during 
 the American Revolution," what right have you more than we, 
 to this cherished liberty? Inexorable tyranny crushes Europe, 
 and you lawless and mutinous people, without kings and with- 
 out queens, will you dance to the clanking of the chains which 
 weigh down the human race? and deranging the beautiful 
 equipoise, will you beard the whole world and be free?" 
 
 Nevertheless the day came when France, herself, deranged 
 the beautiful equipoise and demanded that she, too, should 
 have her liberty ! 
 
 Oh, it was a wonderful day for France when the walls of 
 the Bastile were leveled ! and in the place where was known 
 so much human misery, where men had been chained for so 
 long that the charges against them had been forgotten, the 
 retcord lost of why they had been thus confined, when the 
 new era came in, and in this place was hung the device, 
 
 "DANCING HERE"! 
 
GALAXY 11.— POETS AND PROSE-WRITERS 
 
 Ellen Donovan 
 
 Robert Willson Murphy 
 
 Nora May French 
 
 Florence Richmond 
 
 John Vance Cheney 
 
 Lucius Harwooc Foote 
 
 Lionel Josephare 
 
 Dora Amsden 
 
 C. Van Order. 
 Mrs. Fremont O'.ier 
 James Doran 
 Grace MacGowar. 1 
 Alice MacG 
 
 
208 
 
JULY 209 
 
 Merriment, joy and delight, citizens of France, "dancing 
 here" on this spot infamous in history, blackened with the 
 tyrannies of kings! "Dancing here"? where the tears have 
 worn furrows down the cheeks of innocent men ! Let the 
 feet trip and the music swell the breeze, a defiance against 
 the memories of this awful spot. And so let it be written 
 over all institutions of slavery and tyranny: "dancing here! 
 dancing here!" 
 
 It was a beautiful thought, one characteristic of the French 
 mind and temperament, the sending of the great key of the 
 Bastile to rest upon the coffin of Washington — as if it were 
 fitting that it should be placed in his keeping and care, even 
 though dead. 
 
 Manhood of our Western civilization has dared to derange 
 the beautiful equipoise of tyranny and be free. That last- 
 obtained heritage, the "RIGHT TO THINK" is at last ours. 
 Ecclesiasticism, that goblin of our creation, from which we 
 have turned affrighted and fled shrieking, has lost its power 
 to hold mankind in its thrall. Like the serpents, imprisoning 
 Laoccoon and his sons in its coils, the folds are slowly loosen- 
 ing superstition is in its dying throes. 
 
 Western civilization carries the torch uplifted, its rays 
 must shine in every corner. Where the race goes, there the 
 germs of liberty are scattered and take root and flourish. 
 
 The story is told of a certain elephant named Mr. Pun- 
 jaub, who dwelt in a lovely, fever-laden jungle in India with 
 Mrs. Punjaub and their daughter. Now Mr. Punjaub had a 
 tremendously high opinion of his own valor and prowess. In 
 fact he announced his ability to annihilate any moving, breath- 
 ing thing on earth. But one day, down two queer looking 
 lines of steel which were mysteriously laid through his reser- 
 vation, there charged a furious monster, puffing and blowing. 
 To vindicate his defiance of this new rival, Mr. Punjaub 
 stumped around and tore a few trees up by the roots. But 
 the next day he gave the monster battle — with the result that 
 Mr. Punjaub was observed by his loving family perched upon 
 the cowcatcher of the locomotive, and tearing across the 
 country at a frightful rate of speed. 
 
 Upon his return, a wiser but a sorer elephant, he stuck 
 up on high a sign, which being interpreted, means "This jungle 
 to let!" 
 
 And so where goes this new dominant race that loves 
 "FREEDOM" — it is as well for them to announce "This 
 jungle to let" — For the miasma and fevers and decay of old 
 superstitions left over from those days of the childhood of 
 
210 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 our race shall be driven out and dissipated — the coiling reptiles 
 of superstition cast off, the goblins-of-light-and-darkness no 
 longer feared. 
 
 Where this race comes with this flaming torch of liberty 
 there will the nations be lifted up and enlightened and learn 
 to resist tyranny. 
 
 "Citizens, the nineteenth century is great, but the twentieth 
 century shall be happy." 
 
 Let us hope indeed that this new century whose dawn is 
 now reddening the horizon, will bring to sorrowing, suffering, 
 toil-worn millions of earth, their long-hoped-for freedom, those 
 halcyon days 
 
 "When the dwellers in the nether gloom" 
 
 shall be happy yet. 
 
 Adley H. Cummins. 
 Extract from "The Coming of Liberty", 
 published in the "Grizzly Bear Magazine", April 1918, 
 This Oration was first delivered at Irving Hall, S. F., 
 March, 1889. 
 
 A STAR SEEN AT TWILIGHT 
 
 Shine on companionless 
 As now thou seemst. Thou art the throne 
 Of thine own spirit, star ! 
 And mighty things must be alone. 
 Alone the ocean heaves, 
 Or calms his bosom into sleep; 
 Alone each mountain stands 
 Upon its basis broad and deep; 
 Alone through Heaven the comets sweep — 
 Those burning worlds which God has thrown 
 Upon the universe in wrath, 
 As if he hated them — their path 
 No stars, no suns may follow — none — 
 'Tis great, 'tis great to be alone. 
 
 John Rollin Ridge. 
 From "Poems", San Francisco: 1868. 
 
JULY 211 
 
 WHAT IS OUR COUNTRY? 
 
 What is our country? Not alone the land and the sea, 
 the lakes, the rivers and the mountains and valleys — not alone 
 the people, their customs and laws — not alone the memories of 
 the past, the hopes of the future. It is something more than 
 all these combined. 
 
 It is a Divine Abstraction. You cannot tell what it is — 
 but let your flag rustle above your head and you feel its living 
 presence in your heart. 
 
 * * * * jyjot vet> not vet> shaii the Republic die. Bap- 
 tized anew, it shall live a thousand years to come, the Colossus 
 of the nations — its feet upon the continents, its sceptre over 
 the seas — its forehead among the stars." — 
 From "Sacramento Union*. 
 
 Newton Booth. 
 
 MAKERS OF THE FLAG 
 
 This morning, as I passed into the Land Office, The Flag dropped 
 me a most cordial salutation, and from its rippling folds I heard it 
 say: "Good morning, Mr. Flag Maker." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Old Glory," I said, "aren't you mistaken? I 
 am not the President of the United States, nor a member of Congress, 
 nor even a general in the army. I am only a government clerk. 
 
 "I greet you again, Mr. Flag Maker," replied the gay voice, "I 
 know you well. You are the man who worked in the swelter of yes- 
 terday straightening out the tangle of that farmer's homestead in Idaho, 
 or perhaps you found the mistake in that Indian contract in Oklahoma, 
 or helped to clear that patent for the hopeful inventor in New York, 
 or pushed the opening of that new ditch in Colorado, or made that 
 mine in Illinois more safe, or brought relief to the old soldier in 
 Wyoming. No matter: whichever one of these beneficent individuals 
 you may happen to be, I give you greeting, Mr. Flag Maker." 
 
 I was about to pass on, when The Flag stopped me with these 
 words: 
 
 "Yesterday the President spoke a word that made happier the 
 future of ten million peons in Mexico; but that act looms no larger 
 on the flag than the struggle which the boy in Georgia is making to 
 win the Corn Club prize this summer. 
 
 "Yesterday the Congress spoke a word which will open the door 
 of Alaska; but a mother in Michigan worked from sunrise until far 
 into the night to give her boy an education. She, too, is making 
 the flag. 
 
 "Yesterday we made a new law to prevent financial panics, and 
 yesterday, maybe, a school-teacher in Ohio taught his first letters to 
 a boy who will one day write a song that will give cheer to the 
 millions of our race. We are all making the flag." 
 
 "But," I said impatiently, "these people were only working." 
 
 Then came a great shout from The Flag: 
 "The work that we do is the making of the flag. 
 
 "I am not the flag; not at all. I am but its shadow. 
 
 "I am whatever you make me, nothing more. 
 
212 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 "I am your belief in yourself, your dream of what people may 
 become. 
 
 "I live a changing life, a life of moods and passions, of heart- 
 breaks and tired muscles. 
 
 "Sometimes I am strong with pride, when men do an honest 
 work, fitting the rails together truly. 
 
 "Sometimes I droop, for then purpose has gone from me, and 
 cynically I play the coward. 
 
 "Sometimes I am loud, garish and full of that ego that blasts 
 judgment. 
 
 "But always I am all that you hope to be, and have the courage 
 to try for. 
 
 "I am song and fear, struggle and panic, and ennobling hope. 
 
 "I am the day's work of the weakest man, and the largest dream 
 of the most daring. 
 
 "I am the Constitution and the courts, statutes and the statute 
 makers, soldier and dreadnought, drayman and street sweep, cook, 
 counselor, and clerk. 
 
 "I am the battle of yesterday, and the mistake of tomorrow. 
 
 "I am the mystery of the men who do without knowing why. 
 
 "I am the clutch of an idea, and the reasoned purpose of resolution. 
 "I am no more than what you believe me to be and I am all that 
 you believe I can be. 
 
 "I am what you make me, nothing more. 
 
 "I swing before your eyes as a bright gleam of color, a symbol 
 of yourself, the pictured suggestion of that big thing which makes 
 this Nation. My stars and my stripes are your dream and your labors. 
 They are bright with cheer, brilliant with courage, firm with faith, 
 because you have made them so out of your hearts. For you are the 
 makers of the flag and it is well that you glory in the making." 
 
 Franklin K. Lane. 
 Delivered on Flag Day, 1914, before the employes of the 
 Department of the Interior, Washington, D. C, 
 by Franklin K. Lane, Secretary of the Interior. 
 
 HERE— AND THERE 
 
 Day sleeps. By Twilight's tender hand caressed 
 The poppies nod, where beds of lupin lie 
 In deepening shade, and the unfathomed sky 
 In velvet robe folds Earth's abundant breast, 
 A soft breeze stirs the forest's curving crest; 
 Above, a purple vault, where pale clouds fly; 
 And on the ear sounds Ocean's solemn sigh, 
 In murmurous monotone of vast unrest. 
 
 How peaceful is this dreaming spot this night, 
 Where dim, mysterious shadows, veil the light, 
 And man, and all his deeds, seem far apart; 
 And yet, somewhere in France, this hour there toll 
 War's direful bells, that search her bleeding heart, 
 And echo in the caverns of her soul. 
 
 Edward DeWitt Taylor. 
 
JULY 213 
 
 DREAM OF A SLACKER 
 
 A corporal gave me instruction; 
 
 Clear of eye, a clean-cut chin, 
 
 Face firm set; yet boyish, young — 
 
 Shoulders square and stomach in. 
 
 A mellow voice, a cultured tongue — 
 
 Of the sort reared by our Pilgrim fathers 
 
 On Pilgrim farms. 
 
 "Steady men, 
 
 Once again, 
 
 Left shoulder — arms !" 
 
 And we were his keen and eager pupils, 
 
 Clean of limb and bronzed of face ; 
 
 Were keen, alert, our heads held high — 
 
 Pride of half the human race ; 
 
 Were proud, and unafraid to die — 
 
 Of the sort reared by our Pilgrim fathers 
 
 On Pilgrim farms. 
 
 Smart and snap 
 
 Of piece and strap 
 
 To "order — arms! 
 
 And then we had some bayonet drill. 
 
 Smart the clap of solid heel ; 
 
 Our fingers tight like iron bands 
 
 Gripping the glist'ning steel; 
 
 We boys with man-like hairy hands, 
 
 And strong, like knights of Middle Ages 
 
 Who threw the lance ! 
 
 "Firm of sound, 
 
 Hold your ground, 
 
 On guard — advance!" 
 
 And we marched to our transport, 
 
 All equipped, in fighting trim, 
 
 Our muscles swelled by the heavy load, 
 
 Jaws set firm and faces grim 
 
 With eyes ahead upon the road. 
 
 We were manly and mighty — eager, 
 
 Yes, keen to go. 
 
 The hep-hep 
 
 Of eager step! 
 
 "Squads left— ho !" 
 
214 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 'T was not till then I felt my high head nod ; 
 
 'T was not till then I wakened from my dream 
 
 And rose my head 
 
 From pillowed bed; 
 
 And saw me as I am ; then cried, "O God !" 
 
 Sergeant Thomas Klecfyner; 
 "S. F. Chronicle'; 1917. 
 
 GOD BLESS OUR BOYS 
 
 (Tune, Pentecost.) 
 
 L. M. 
 God bless our boys where'er they be. 
 In conflict with the enemy, 
 On tented field or rolling sea, 
 God bless our boys where'er they be. 
 
 Midst perils many keep them free 
 From harm and sin's mad misery; 
 May they repose their lives in Thee, 
 God bless our boys where'er they be. 
 
 As Thine own soldiers may they be 
 Lovers of God and loved of Thee ; 
 Speed Thou their fight to victory — 
 God bless our boys where'er they be. 
 
 Soon o'er the earth let freedom see 
 Her banners wave; and endless be 
 God's reign of love and liberty — 
 God bless our boys where'er they be. 
 
 /. H. Lewin. 
 
 Inserted in a hymnbook to suit the hour; 
 
 San Francisco: 1918. 
 
 FOR OUR SOLDIERS 
 
 It is the tendency in this country to decry the services of 
 the army and of its officers; and yet, most of the latter spend 
 the greater part of their lives on the frontiers and is the Indian 
 country. Weeks at a time are passed in scouting against their 
 treacherous foe, enduring every hardship, and daily risking life 
 itself, to open the way for the pioneer and settler. Yet, what 
 is their reward? When the papers come to them from the 
 regions of civilization, they find themselves stigmatized in 
 
JULY 215 
 
 editorials, and even in speeches on the floor of Congress, as 
 the drones of society, living on the government, yet a useless 
 encumbrance and expense. 
 
 But, one by one, how many lay down their lives in this 
 cause ! Without counting those who sink into the grave from 
 sickness produced by unwholesome climates, exposure and 
 hardships, how many more actually meet their deaths on the 
 battle field ! During the last season alone, Taylor, Gaston, 
 Allen and Van Camp have thus shed their blood, and every 
 year the list increases. Yet they fall in battle with an obscure 
 enemy, and little are their sufferings appreciated by the 
 
 "gentlemen 
 
 Who live at home at ease." 
 
 r "a Tx ,l id •* Lawrence Kip. 
 
 From Army Life on the racific; 
 
 Red field, New York: 1859. 
 
 NAPOLEON'S DYING SOLDIER 
 
 Fast drives the thickening snow; 
 
 In great white clouds it drifts along the way, 
 
 Sweeping into its engendering breast 
 
 My wasted comrades to their alien rest ; 
 
 And they, poor ones, open their lips and smile 
 
 To feel the chilling breath strike at their hearts the while. 
 
 Oh, Land of awful things, 
 
 That you my wretched body should retain ! 
 
 Strewing the grave of him who helpless dies 
 
 With tears of blood wrung from his comrades' eyes. 
 
 And are the sons of France decreed to sleep 
 
 Forgot beneath the soil of Russia's frozen steep? 
 
 Sweet France, Queen of my heart! 
 If but for once mine eyes might see your vales 
 Blushing among their roses crimson glow ; 
 But here, O God ! amid the scudding snow 
 My wearied soul will slumber to the drum — 
 The bonds of death are strong — I cannot come. 
 
 Agnes S. Taylor. 
 
 ABOUT SWORDS 
 
 It often takes two swords to keep 
 Another in its sheath asleep. 
 
 Lorenzo Sosso. 
 From "Wisdom of the Wise". 
 
216 JULY 
 
 THE GREAT PANORAMA 
 
 In July is the glory of the apricot time, when the luscious 
 golden fruitage hangs so thickly upon the trees that one may 
 count eight, ten, fourteen clustered together so closely that they 
 seem as if trying to emulate the grape in their arrangement of 
 growing. But there is tragedy in the apricot crop more than 
 in any other. If Nature is too lavish one year, the price goes 
 down to fourteen dollars a ton, picked and delivered. If it is 
 scanty in one place or another, then you sell them for one hun- 
 dred dollars a ton. To own your own apricot trees and pick 
 and eat them yourself, ripe one at a time, "till you have con- 
 sumed seventeen 'cots," is said to restore a dyspeptic to rug- 
 ged health. 
 
 A. E. 
 
 WARS AND WISHES 
 
 I wish all wars were over, 
 
 And in wishes there is weight, 
 And if all the world so wished it, 
 
 There would be no room for hate; 
 For what we wish and what we will 
 
 Are three-fourths human fate. 
 
 George Douglas. 
 From "S. F. Chronicle" ; 1916. 
 
 THE LITTLE LAD 
 
 To me it's always the little lad 
 
 Afraid to speak his name. 
 But he was one of the first to go, 
 
 When his heart received the flame. 
 
 He used to steal from the shadowy room, 
 
 And over the lighted stair, 
 If dismal tales were being told. 
 
 But he won the Croix de Guerre. 
 
 He clutched my hand when the thunder broke. 
 
 He paled at the lightning's glance. 
 But he met the Teutons face to face, 
 
 And fell with the sons of France. 
 
 Agnes Lee. 
 
 From "The Mountain Realty, Joseph /. Bamber, Editor; 
 
"A GREAT THOUGHT NEVER DIES" 
 
 No matter where uttered a great thought never dies. It 
 does not perish amid the snows of mountains or the floods of 
 rivers or in the depths of valleys. For a time it may seemingly 
 be forgotten, but it is somewhere embalmed in memory, and 
 after a while reappears on the horizon like a long gone star 
 returning on its unchanging orbit, and on its way around the 
 endless circles of eternity. 
 
 Calvin B. McDonald. 
 From "Story of the Files of California" ; 
 San Francisco: 1893. 
 
 IN A HAMMOCK 
 
 Carelessly singing, carelessly swinging, 
 
 Now in the sunshine, now in the shade — 
 What could be fairer, what could be rarer 
 Than bird-song, day-dream and flower-bloom together, 
 All growing out of the sunshiny weather, 
 Filling their happiness just as they fade? 
 
 Branches hang over me, green leaflets cover me, 
 Whispering their secrets of wood-love sweet, 
 
 Fluttering and calling, floating and calling, 
 
 Setting in visions of cloudland palaces 
 
 Pouring out wine from the sun-land chalices, 
 Kissing my face with their shadows fleet. 
 
 Up in the world of sky, out where the echoes die, 
 
 Soareth a gray hawk, atilt for prey, 
 Circling and sinking, carelessly drinking 
 Draughts of the infinite — how it brims over! 
 
 Summer's own children alone know the way. 
 
218 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Somewhere a grief-note out of a dove-throat 
 
 Troubles the silence like falling tears, 
 Somewhere a memory comes with a cry 
 Calling the past from its shadowy curtain, 
 Parting the mists from its visions uncertain, 
 Breathing the breath of the vanished years. 
 
 Swifter the swallows fly, longer the shadows lie, 
 
 While I swing idly twixt shadow and shine; 
 Nothing of summer-bliss, surely can balance this 
 Service of bird-note and incense of heather, 
 Perfect content and cups of glad weather, 
 Nothing I care when all these are mine. 
 
 From "Story of the Files of California"; 
 San Francisco: J 893. 
 
 Kate M. Bishop. 
 
 TO MRS. JANE LATHROP STANFORD 
 
 ON HER SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, AUGUST 25, 1898 
 
 To you beneath life's reddening sunset ray, 
 Seeing what visions with reverted eyes ! — 
 Hope, joy, and anguish, boundless sacrifice, 
 
 And faith triumphant on the Dolorous Way; 
 
 To you, in sign of all words cannot say, 
 Thankful at least to know your sorrow lies 
 Safe locked now with dead years' sanctities, 
 
 This friendly token let us bring today. 
 
 For us, still sorrow that your years creep on; 
 For you, but gladness. The world's claim is quit — 
 Fulfilled, and nobly. Happy, who can sit 
 
 At eventide and look back to the dawn 
 
 Saying, Not empty has the day withdrawn. 
 Wait for the sunset; peace comes after it. 
 
 Alphonzo G. Newcomer. 
 Accompanying a framed copy of 
 Abbott Thayer's "Caritas". 
 
AUGUST 219 
 
 THE SEQUOIAS 
 
 God set seven signs upon this land of ours 
 
 To teach, by awe, mankind His wondrous powers; — 
 
 A river sweeping broadly to the sea ; 
 
 A cataract that thunders ceaselessly; 
 
 A mountain peak that towers in heaven's face ; 
 
 A chasm deep-sunk toward the nether place; 
 
 A lake that all the wide horizon fills ; 
 
 A pleasant vale set gem-like in the hills ; 
 
 And worthy younger brother of all these, 
 
 The great Sequoia, king of all the trees. 
 
 A cradle, song and bed the waters meant; 
 
 The others, playground, grave and monument; 
 
 All wonderful, but cold and hard and dead; 
 
 The trees alone, like man, with life are fed, 
 
 Like him have felt the stir to rise from earth, 
 
 To toil, — to strive to heights of greater worth, — 
 
 To breast the storms and know the North wind's rage, 
 
 And pass traditions down from age to age. 
 
 O'er fourscore spans of human life they see, 
 
 And whisper of their tales to you and me. 
 
 Some men have worshipped 'neath their mighty beams — 
 
 Some men have dreamed and told the world their dreams ; 
 
 Some men have lain most humbly at their feet 
 
 And sunk into the tired child's slumber sweet; 
 
 Some men — men? — have you seen plants wilt and worse, 
 
 Their base engirdled by the cut-worm's curse ? — 
 
 Such men with axe and saw have gnawed and gnawed 
 
 And felled to earth what never back to God 
 
 Their lives can raise, nor sons, nor grandsons raise, 
 
 Through penance of a thousand arbor-days. 
 
 And all for what? To thatch some petty cell? 
 God keep me roofless ere 'neath such I dwell ! 
 To make our homes a work of finished art 
 Shall we cut out some great Sequoia's heart? 
 Still may my pencil be for ever more 
 If it be splintered from Sequoia core! 
 Shall vandals sack his temples and lay low, 
 And no one for His altars strike a blow? 
 Avaunt ! grant to these great trees nobler death, — 
 The earthquake or some mighty tempest's breath. 
 
 z? r- i-r • at- i . i- . • " Charles Elmer Jenney. 
 
 rrom California Nights Entertainment ; 
 
 Edinburgh: Valentine and Anderson. 
 
220 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 ALLOYED 
 
 How easy 'tis to wish a lady joy; 
 
 Nothing so cheap is offered without fears — 
 Joy, like rare metal, needs must have alloy 
 
 To lend it substance unto useful years; 
 
 So thou wilt find no joy unmixed with tears. 
 
 There is, I think, in every pleasing note, 
 
 Struck from the harp of life, a minor strain, 
 
 That keeps it in the memory afloat 
 Unto a time it may be heard again — 
 Though angel-weft into a new refrain. 
 
 Like that rare wax which the perfumers use 
 To hold in ward each fine and subtle scent, 
 
 That otherwise a presence would refuse 
 In perfect essences, for beauty blent, 
 All things seem strangely held for good intent. 
 
 Sorrow holds joy; the coarse retains the fine; 
 Age fosters beauty; Hope is life endured 
 
 Unto an ending, which is proof and sign 
 
 That by itself its own worst ills are cured — 
 By earthly things the heavenly are assured ! 
 
 r- .,/, ,, r kjt - »» Frank Rose Starr. 
 
 From Golden Era Magazine ; 
 
 June, 1885. 
 
 QUAIL 
 
 Softly ! See, far ahead, across our way, 
 
 Those silent forms pass swiftly out of sight ; 
 
 So noiseless that the breezes seem affright, 
 Breathless a moment ere the leaves they sway. 
 In all their war-paint's glorious array, 
 
 With feathered head-dress nodding in the light, 
 
 They glide before us like a vision bright, 
 And as a vision, swiftly are away. 
 But now and then among the vines and brush 
 
 A dusky form seems darting to and fro — 
 Was that a waving scalp-lock on the rush? 
 
 What is it stirs beside that bush, there, low? 
 
 Then lightning-like and thunder-loud, and oh ! — 
 The heart stands still — ah ! — valley quail at flush ! 
 
 Charles Elmer Jenney. 
 From "California Nights' Entertainment" ; 
 Edinburgh: Valentine and Anderson. 
 
AUGUST 221 
 
 BARE BROWN HILLS 
 
 I did not love them overmuch 
 
 Till I had turned away, 
 But now they glimmer thro' my dreams, 
 
 They haunt the summer day — 
 The low brown hills, the bare brown hills 
 
 Of San Francisco Bay. 
 
 My heart ached for their barrenness, 
 Their browns veined thro' with gray; 
 
 No tree where some sweet Western bird 
 Might sit and sing his lay — 
 
 But low brown hills and bare brown hills 
 Of San Francisco Bay. 
 
 Not one slim blade of living green 
 
 To make the soft slopes gay; 
 No dim, secluded forest dells 
 
 Where one might kneel and pray — 
 But low brown hills and bare brown hills 
 
 Of San Francisco Bay. 
 
 Tell me the secret of this charm 
 
 That ever, night and day, 
 From greener lands and sweeter lands 
 
 Draws thought and dream away. 
 To the low brown hills, the bare brown hills 
 Of San Francisco Bay. 
 
 Ella Higginson. 
 By permission 
 
 From "When the Birds Co North Again"; 
 The McMillan Company), London, 1912. 
 
 WAITING FOR THE RAIN 
 
 Oh ! the earth is weary waiting, 
 
 Waiting for the rain — 
 Waiting for the freshening showers, 
 
 Wakening all her slumb'ring powers, 
 With their dewy moisture sating 
 
 Thirsty hill and plain — 
 O, the earth is weary waiting, 
 
 Waiting for the rain. 
 
 Sister Anna Raphael. 
 From "Chaplet of Verses.** 
 
222 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE CROWNING OF MISS COOLBRITH 
 
 It was while the Exposition of the Panama-Pacific International 
 world's fair was in progress in San Francisco in 1915, that many 
 literary lights appeared here to unite in an Author's Congress. And 
 on June 30th was held a ceremony unique in the annals of California. 
 
 Benjamin Ide Wheeler, President of the University of California, 
 presided, a representative of Governor Hiram Johnson, Arthur Arlett, 
 arrived with a special message to deliver to President Wheeler. 
 
 James D. Phelan, a Native Son of the Golden West, and a 
 United States Senator, gave an address, expressing the regard of the 
 people of California for Miss Ina Coolbrith, and telling of the honors 
 showered upon her abroad, and asking that the poet be given her 
 rightful title at this time and at this place. 
 
 Thereupon President Wheeler called the name of Miss Coolbrith. 
 And she stood before that great audience in all her simplicity and all 
 her greatness. She was robed in handsome black brocade satin, 
 embroidered in silver, with point lace about the corsage and sleeves. 
 Her crown was her own silver hair. She stood there like a queen, 
 full of grace and majesty. At the sight of this dearly-beloved home- 
 woman thus exalted, tears began to flow from many eyes, and sobs, 
 half-suppressed, were heard amid the stillness. 
 
 Always shy, always retiring, always a slave to her home-duties, 
 always one who had battled with the wolf at the door, to see her 
 thus exalted by the sheer genius of her poetic art, gave a new glimpse 
 into life in California. Was it possible that anything so exquisite as 
 poetry should be recognized and honored thus, in a land given over 
 to the story of gold and grain, fruits and flowers, as its chief products? 
 
 Presenting her with a laurel wreath, President Wheeler addressed 
 her in these words: 
 
 "Upon thee, Ina Coolbrith, by the power vested in me by the 
 Governor of the State of California, by common consent of all the 
 guild of those who write — upon thee, sole living representative of the 
 golden age of California letters, coadjutor and colleague of the great 
 spirits of that age, thyself well worthy by natural right to hold place 
 in their forward rank, upon thee I lay this poetic crown and name thee, 
 our Poet Laureate." 
 
 In response Miss Coolbrith gave answer thus: 
 
 "It is with pride and gratitude that I feel the honor you would 
 confer upon me, yet I can but voice my realization of my unworthi- 
 ness. Senator Phelan has spoken justly of the little I have published. 
 By me Poetry has been regarded not only as the supremest of arts, 
 but as a divine gift, for the best-use of which its recipient should be 
 fitted by education, time, opportunity. None of these have been mine. 
 The 'higher education' was not open to me in my youth, and in a life 
 of unremitting toil later leisure and opportunity have been denied. So 
 my meagre output of verse is the result of odd moments, and only 
 done at all because so wholly a 'labor of love.' 
 
 "I feel that the honor extended me today is meant not so much 
 because of any special merit of my own, as in memory of that wonder- 
 ful group of early writers with whom it was my fortune to be affiliated 
 and of which I am the sole survivor, and for those who have passed 
 away, and for my sister-women I accept this laurel with deep grati- 
 tude and deeper humility," and turning to President Wheeler, she said, 
 "I thank you." 
 
 From "Grizzly Bear Magazine"; 
 August, 1915. 
 
AUGUST 223 
 
 HOME INFLUENCE IN EARLY CALIFORNIA 
 
 The other diversions offered the people were about on a 
 par with the drinking saloon and gaming table ; but with the 
 growth of home influence men began to long for better things. 
 They began to be interested in the development of the great 
 resources of the country. Men sent for their families, and 
 young men began to look for wives. As soon as they made up 
 their minds to settle permanently in the country, their conduct 
 underwent a great change for the better. They were inter- 
 ested in the establishment of schools and churches, a better 
 observation of the Sabbath, and whatever they thought would 
 improve social conditions. In spite of dissipating and disorgan- 
 izing influences, the main stock of society was strong, vigorous, 
 and progressive; and with the same energy with which they 
 had plunged into earlier excesses, the Americans now set about 
 the establishment of order, guided by an enlightened experience 
 and the instinct of right. In a community which contained 
 contributions from all the nationalities of Europe, Asia, Amer- 
 ica, and the islands of the sea, the men of the United States 
 dominated by numbers, by right of conquest, by energy, shrewd- 
 ness, and adaptability. From the worst elements of anarchy 
 was evolved social order. With a freshly-awakened pride of 
 country, which made every citizen jealously and disinterestedly 
 anxious that California should acquit herself honorably in the 
 eyes of the nation at large, the prejudices of sect and party 
 were disclaimed, and all united in the serious work of forming 
 
 the commonwealth. 7 L c , . niJ , 
 
 Zsoeth o/f inner Liar edge. 
 
 From "The Beginnings of San Francisco" ; 
 
 San Francisco: 1912. 
 
 PICO 
 
 Last of thy gallant race, farewell! 
 
 When darkness on his eyelids fell 
 
 The chain was snapped — the tale was told 
 
 That linked the new world to the old ; — 
 
 The new world of our happy day 
 
 To those brave times which fade away 
 
 In memories of flocks and fells, 
 
 Of lowing herds and mission bells. 
 
 He linked us to the times which wrote 
 
 Vallejo, Sutter, Stockton, Sloat, 
 
 Upon their banners — times which knew 
 
 The cowled Franciscan, and the gray 
 
 Old hero-priest of Monterey. 
 
224 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 In his proud eye one saw again 
 
 The chivalry of ancient Spain; 
 
 The grace of speech, the gallant air, 
 
 The readiness to do and dare. 
 
 And he was ready; and his hand 
 
 For love of this, his motherland, 
 
 Was quick to strike and strong to lead; 
 
 He served her in her hour of need 
 
 And, loving, served her as he knew. 
 
 What better proof, though unconfessed, 
 
 Than those old scars upon his breast? 
 
 Once these broad fields which slope away 
 
 Asleep in verdure, zone on zone, 
 
 With countless herds, were all his own. 
 
 Once from his white ancestral hall. 
 
 A lavish welcome ran to all. 
 
 Today the land which gave him birth 
 
 Allots him but a plot of earth — 
 
 A tomb where winter roses creep 
 On Santa Clara's crumbling wall; 
 Fit place, perhaps, for one to sleep 
 Who knew and loved her best of all. 
 
 So ends in rest life's fitful day. 
 He saw an era pass away. 
 He touched the morning and the noon 
 Of that sweet time which, all too soon, 
 To twilight hastened when the call 
 Of Fremont from her mountain wall 
 Provoked the golden land to leap 
 New-vestured from her age-long sleep. 
 
 The train moves on. No hand may stay 
 The onward march of destiny; 
 But from her valleys, rich in grain, 
 From mountain slope and poppied plain 
 A sigh is heard — his deeds they tell, 
 And, sighing, hail and call farewell. 
 
 Daniel S. Richardson. 
 From "Trail Dust" ; 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, 1908. 
 
AUGUST 225 
 
 "THE NATIONS OF THE WEST" 
 
 The Nations of the West are grouped around that prairie 
 wagon, drawn by two oxen. In the center stands the Mother 
 of Tomorrow, a typical American girl, roughly dressed, but 
 with character as well as beauty in her face and figure. On 
 top of the wagon kneels the symbolic figure of "Enterprise", 
 with a white boy on one side and a colored boy on the other, 
 "Heroes of Tomorrow". On the other side of the wagon 
 stand typical figures, the French-Canadian trapper, the Alaska 
 woman, bearing totem poles on her back, the American of 
 Latin descent on his horse, bearing a standard, a German, an 
 Italian, an American of English descent, a squaw with a 
 papoose, and an Indian chief on his pony. 
 
 r »tl r* * n » l onn D - B^V- 
 
 From The City of Domes ; 
 
 San Francisco: John J. Neivbegin, 1915. 
 
 MUIR OF THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 A lean, wild-haired, wild-bearded craggy man, 
 Wild as a Modoc and as unafraid, 
 A man who went his way with no man's aid, 
 Yet mild and soft of heart as any maid. 
 
 Sky-loving, stalwart as the sugar-pine, 
 Sweet, simple, fragrant as that towering tree, 
 A mountain man, and free as they are free 
 Who tread the heights and know tranquility. 
 
 A man whose speech knew naught of studied art, 
 But careless straying as the stream that flows, 
 And full of grace, poetic as the rose 
 That to the wind its pure song-petals throws. 
 
 A relish of the larger life was his, 
 With reverence rapt and wonder and deep awe 
 For any beauty Nature's brush might draw, 
 A man of faith who kept each primal law. 
 
 The skylands brown, the blest sky-waters blue 
 He haunted, and he had a curious eye 
 For glaciers, where his bold feet dared to try 
 The dizziest summits and their threats defy. 
 
226 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 A coarse and stinted fare to him was rich 
 
 So it were seasoned with the savory 
 
 Sweet airs, while his glad eye was feasting free 
 
 Upon the blue domes of Yo Semite. 
 
 He made his bed amid the sheltering rocks 
 Or where the lowly, blood-red snow-plant blooms, 
 Where sleep more sweetly comes than ever comes 
 In the stale heated air and dust of rooms. 
 
 Unarmed he faced the grizzly in the wood, 
 Birds trilled him friendly notes from tree-tops tall; 
 The ouzel, thrush, and quail and whimsical 
 Qray squirrel miss him, for he loved them all. 
 
 Gone is the traveler of the unseen trail 
 To seek that wilder beauty which defied 
 His eager earthly quest — gone with his Guide 
 To find it there beyond the Great Divide ! 
 
 Bailey Millard. 
 
 From "San Francisco Examiner", August 15, 1916; 
 
 Read to the Sierra Club at its meeting in 
 
 Muir Woods, August 12, 1916. 
 
 THE MEMORY OF THE PIONEERS 
 
 The memory of the Pioneers will never pass ; the tradi- 
 tions of Sutter's ^Fort and Coloma and Table Mountain and 
 Poker Flat will live forever. The very odor of the balsam 
 of pines, the scent of wild azaleas, the gleam of banks of red 
 sandstone, live in the pages of our history, while the eloquence 
 of Starr King and Baker will . survive as long as upon the 
 broad domain of California the heart of a patriot will beat 
 with love. 
 
 John F. Davis. 
 
 ABOUT LANGUAGES 
 
 It is said that in a shop-window in France is a sign thus : 
 "English Spoken American Understood"; which reminds us of 
 the native daughter who said she could speak five languages: 
 San Francisco, San Bruno, Mission and Potrero, and could 
 make herself understood in Alameda. 
 
 George Douglas. 
 From "Bits for Breakfast"; 
 S. F. Chronicle, September, 1918. 
 
AUGUST 227 
 
 PORT TOWNSEND 
 
 Above the waters of the Inland Sea 
 Whose tides like rushing troops of cavalry, 
 Omnipotent, bear down from Ocean's breast; 
 And surge and roar and leap from crest to crest, 
 Until exhausted on Olympia's sands. 
 This city of the Sound resplendent stands. 
 ******** 
 
 Oh, silent night, in soft September air! 
 
 Oh grand and lovely Sound beyond compare ! 
 
 The crescent moon has vanished in the West, 
 
 And all the stars are mirrored in thy breast. 
 
 Above from violet sky, the Pleiades 
 
 Reflect their brilliance in the glassy seas ; 
 
 Orion holds his gleaming saber high ; 
 
 His jeweled belt with splendor lights the sky; 
 
 While Aldebaran shines with ruddy glow, 
 
 And Sirius flashes diamonds from below. 
 
 1 As down the smooth but rapid tide they steer 
 The shadows of the forest disappear. 
 And pulse of engine, sound of busy mill, 
 No more are heard ; but all is hushed and still. 
 
 Leonard S. Clark. 
 An extract 
 
 From "Overland Monthly" ; 
 November, 1893. 
 
 DRIVING THE LAST SPIKE 
 
 Under the desert sky the spreading multitude was called 
 to order. There followed a solemn prayer of thanksgiving. 
 The laurel tie was placed, amidst ringing cheers. The golden 
 spike was set. The trans-American wire was adjusted. Amid 
 breathless silence the silver hammer was lifted, poised, dropped, 
 giving the gentle tap that ticked the news to all the world. 
 Then blow on blow, Governor Stanford sent the spike to place ! 
 A storm of wild huzzas burst forth ; desert rock and sand, plain 
 and mountain echoed the conquest of their terrors. The two 
 engines moved up, touched noses ; and each, in turn crossed 
 the magic tie. America was belted ! The great Iron Way was 
 finished. 
 
 Sarah Pratt Carr. 
 From "The Iron Way" 
 A. C. McClurg & Co., 1907. 
 
228 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE FIRST SHIP TO ENTER SAN FRANCISCO BAY 
 
 To Lieutenant Ayala was designed the survey of the Bay 
 of San Francisco. Owing to contrary winds progress was slow 
 and it was not until August 5th, that they approached the en- 
 trance to the port. * * * At nine the tide was out so 
 strongly that the ship was driven to sea, but at eleven o'clock 
 the tide turned and it drew near the coast, the captain approach- 
 ing the entrance with caution, taking frequent soundings. At 
 sunset the launch was seen coming from the port but the flood 
 tide was too strong and she was forced back. Night was now 
 coming on; an anchorage must be found and the San Carlos 
 stood in through the unknown passage. Rock cliffs lined the 
 narrow strait and the inrushing tide dashing against rock pin- 
 nacles bore the little ship onward. In mid-channel a sixty 
 fathom line with a twenty pound lead failed to find bottom. 
 Swiftly ran the tide and as day darkened into night the San 
 Carlos sailed through the uncharted narrows, passed into its 
 inner portal, and opened the Golden Gate to the commerce of 
 the world. Skirting the northern shore the first ship cast 
 anchor in the waters of San Francisco Bay at half-past ten 
 o'clock on the night of August 5th, 1775, in twenty-two fathoms, 
 off what is now Sausalito. 
 
 Zoeih Skinner Eldredge. 
 From "The Beginnings of San Francisco,'' 1912. 
 
 CHINESE CURIO 
 
 Wong Ning stands in his usual place with that wise look 
 he always assumes when about to indulge in legendary lore 
 about "one home China". And thus he speaks : "You know 
 why the little cat, the little dog always keep the eye shut for 
 nine days? Why, the calf no keep him shut at all?" 
 
 "Why, no, Wong Ning; why is it?" 
 
 "I hear 'on home, China' that when little cat first born, 
 she say to the mother, 'Mother Cat, what kind of world this?' 
 And the mother say, 'Velly poor world this ; have velly hard 
 time. The master pull the tail; the children throw too many 
 stone, dlown in the water. Velly hard world you come.' The 
 little dog say, 'Mother Dog, what kind of world this?' just the 
 same like the little cat. And the mother say, 'Not good world 
 — have velly hard time. Get plenty kick; sometime no get 
 anythin' eat. Velly poor world you come.' And the little cat, 
 the little dog keep the eye shut and cly, cly for nine days 
 because such a bad world." 
 
 "But when the little calf say, 'Mother Cow, what kind of 
 
AUGUST 229 
 
 world this?' the mother say, 'Velly nice world this. Have 
 plenty to eat ; no work ; master take velly good care all your 
 life. Velly good world you come.' 
 
 "And the little calf open the eyes quick." 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From "Golden Era Magazine" ; 
 August, J 884. 
 
 LIFE IN BODIE IN 1865 
 
 These jolly miners were the happiest set of bachelors 
 imaginable, with neither chick nor child to trouble them ; 
 cooked their own food, did their own washing; mended their 
 own clothes; made their own beds; and on Sundays cut their 
 own hair, greased their own boots and brushed their own coats, 
 thus proving to the most positive direct evidence that woman 
 is an unnecessary and expensive institution, and ought to be 
 abolished by law. I have always maintained, and do still 
 contend, that the constant interference, the despotic sway, the 
 exactions and caprices of the female sex ought no longer to be 
 tolerated, and it is with a glow of pride and triumph that I 
 introduce this striking example of the ability of men to live in 
 a state of exemption from all these trials and tribulations. 
 True, I must admit that the honest miners of Bodie spent a 
 great deal of their leisure time in reading yellow-covered 
 novels and writing love-letters ; but that was only a clever 
 device to fortify themselves against the insidious approaches 
 of the enemy. 
 
 /. Ross Browne. 
 From "Harper s Monthly ", September, 1865; also 
 from "Complete Guide to Mono County Mines", 
 by Joseph Wasson. 
 
 AN EARLY SPANISH SCENE 
 
 YVe were followed in a moment by the Governor, adjusting 
 his collar and smoothing his hair. As he reached the doorway 
 at the front of the house he was greeted with a shout from 
 assembled Monterey. The plaza was gay with beaming faces 
 and bright attire. The men, women and children of the people 
 were on foot, a mass of color on the opposite side of the plaza, 
 the women in gaudy cotton frocks girt with silken sashes, 
 tawdry jewels and spotless camisas, the coquettish reboso 
 draping with equal grace faces old and brown, faces round and 
 olive, the men in glazed sombreros, short calico jackets and 
 
230 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 trousers, Indians wound up in gala blankets. In the fore- 
 ground were caballeros and dons on prancing, silver-trapped 
 horses, laughing and coquetting, looking down in triumph 
 upon the duenas and parents who rode older and milder mus- 
 tangs and shook brown, knotted fingers at heedless youth. The 
 young men had ribbons twisted in their long black hair and 
 silver eagles on their soft gray sombreros. Their velvet serapes 
 were embroidered in gold; the velvet knee-breeches were laced 
 with gold or silver cord over fine white linen; long deer-skin 
 botas were gartered with vivid ribbon ; flaunting sashes bound 
 their slender waists, knotted over the hip. The girls and 
 young married women wore black or white mantillas, the silken 
 lace of Spain, regardless of the sun which might darken their 
 Castilian fairness. Their gowns were of flowered silk or red 
 or yellow satin, the waist long and pointed, the skirt full; 
 jeweled buckles of tiny slippers flashed beneath the hem. A 
 few Americans were there in the ugly garb of their country — 
 a blot on the picture. 
 
 Gertrude Aiherton. 
 From "The Dooms-Woman" ; 1893. 
 
 THE GRAND CANYON FROM AURORA TO 
 BODIE BLUFF 
 
 One fine morning in September we set forth on our expe- 
 dition. The rugged cliffs along the road cropped out at every 
 turn like grim old castles of feudal times, and there were frown- 
 ing fortresses of solid rock that seemed ready to belch forth 
 murderous streams of fire upon the head of any enemy that 
 might approach. I was particularly struck with the rugged 
 grandeur of the scenery in the neighborhood of Fogus' quartz- 
 mill. * * * 
 
 We stopped a while at the foot of the grade to visit the 
 magnificent quartz-mills of the Real Del Monte and Antelope 
 mining companies, of which I had heard so much since my 
 arrival in Aurora. Both of these mills are built of brick on 
 the same plan, and in the Gothic style of architecture. Noth- 
 ing finer in point of symmetrical proportion, beauty and finish 
 of the machinery, and capacity for reducing ores by crushing 
 and amalgamation, exists on the Eastern slopes of the Sierras. 
 I had little expected to find in this out of the way part of the 
 world such splendid monuments of enterprise. * * * Pass- 
 ing several other mills as we proceeded up the canyon, we 
 entered a singularly wild and rugged pass in the mountains 
 
AUGUST 231 
 
 where it seemed as if the earth had been rent asunder by some 
 convulsion of nature for the express purpose of letting people 
 through. It reminded me of the Almannajan in Iceland, which 
 was evidently produced by the contraction of the lava as it 
 cooled and dried. Whatever way it happened, the road thus 
 formed is a great convenience to the traveling public. 
 ******** 
 
 (In description of a trip to Mono Lake the following is 
 added:) 
 
 "A soft delicious air, fragrant with odors of wild-flowers, 
 and new-mown hay, made it a luxury to breathe. High to 
 the right, tipped by the glowing rays of the sun, towered the 
 snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada. In the west and 
 south, grand and solitary — monarchs among the mountain- 
 kings — stood Castle Peak and Mount Dana as if in sublime 
 scorn of the puny civilization which encircles their feet. These 
 mighty potentates of the wilderness, according to the geolog- 
 ical survey of Professor Whitney, reach the altitude of 13,000 
 and 13,500 feet, respectively. 
 
 /. Ross Browne. 
 From "Harper's Monthly", September, J 865; also 
 jrom "Complete Guide to Mono County Mines", 
 by Joseph Wasson. 
 
 A TRIP TO THE TOP OF MOUNT TAMALPAIS 
 
 Personnel: Chaperon, Poets, Blossoms and Guide 
 
 Prose is lonesome in the presence of poetry. The at- 
 mosphere that circles at the foot of Mount Tamalpais is laden 
 with the tune which gives the poet inspiration. Up from the 
 waters, across the vine-clad hills and valleys, speeds to a meet- 
 ing the hushed music of the winds, the psalm of Nature. 
 
 The heart of the poet is light, the foot of the poet is free, 
 and even the children, the blossoms, measured their tread in 
 iambics. I jogged along in prose. * * * The children 
 loitered by the way to weave round their ringers the silken 
 thread that the gossamer spider hangs on blades of grass. 
 The poets paused to peep up through the trees, admiring the 
 tints that break out here and there in splendor, and are inter- 
 ested in the fungi that spring up, of every size and hue, from 
 slender scarlet on the decaying log to the bold toadstool that 
 the children call "the lunch table for the fairies of the moun- 
 tain." A deer sped across the trail. * * * Two poets re- 
 mained, too weary to proceed further. The hot sun sent down 
 
232 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 rays that pierced like needle-points. All beauty was forgotten. 
 The chaperon and the blossoms reached the mountain road, 
 then turned back to quaff from the spring. * * * The climb 
 through the underbrush was taken. The physical and the 
 esthetical waged a war. The love of beauty triumphed. My 
 hot thirst for water was abated by the approaching view of 
 the Pacific. The last rock was scaled. I stood on the top 
 with arms outstretching like a cross. Nature had lifted me 
 above the level of vegetation and cast aside the mountain's 
 drapery of fog. 
 
 I could see where wheat fields, groves and orchards meet 
 the waters of the great salt sea, and the little villages of wild, 
 romantic beauty, half hidden by the oak trees and the willows. 
 Just beyond the Golden Gate I could see Sutro Heights, with 
 its classic beauty, a landmark of the endless waste beyond. 
 
 There are panoramas of the Hudson, and the Rhine, but 
 there are none to equal the cycle of Tamalpais, where the 
 human vision leaps from city to city, from bay to bay, from 
 village to village, from lake to lake, from mountain to moun- 
 tain, from ocean to infinite space. 
 
 Harr Wagner. 
 From "Story of the Files of California" ; 
 San Francisco: 1893. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO STARR KING 
 
 As the man plodded down Geary street, he came to an old 
 building of gray stone, whose walls were half buried beneath 
 a dense growth of English ivy which framed the arched door- 
 way. Some meeting was being held inside, and through the 
 stained-glass windows the light fell in brilliant patches on 
 the moist green sward, reaching the outlines of a low Gothic 
 tomb, where all that was mortal of Starr King had been placed 
 by loving hands, in sight of the church that had been the 
 scene of his unselfish ministrations. In his extremity of need 
 the desolate man outside, clung to the iron palings, while his 
 heart cried aloud to the friend of his boyhood days. But no 
 answer came from the silent sleeper. 
 
 Flora Haines Longhead. 
 From "The Man Who Was Guilty"; 
 Boston: Houghton, Mifflin Company, 1886. 
 
AUGUST 233 
 
 A THOUGHT UPON LAKE TAHOE 
 
 To a wearied frame and tired mind what refreshment there 
 is in the neighborhood of this lake ! The air is singularly 
 searching and strengthening. The noble pines not obstructed 
 by underbrush, enrich the slightest breeze with aroma and 
 music. Grand peaks rise around, on which the eye can admire 
 the sternness of everlasting crags and the equal permanence 
 of delicate and feathery snow. Then there is the sense of seclu- 
 sion from the haunts and cares of men, of being upheld on 
 the immense pillars of the Sierra at an elevation near the line 
 of perpetual snow, yet finding the air genial, and the loneli- 
 ness clothed with the charm of feeling the sense of the mystery 
 of the mountain heights part of a chain that links the two 
 polar seas, and of the mystery of the water poured into the 
 granite bowl, whose bounty finds no outlet into the ocean 
 but sinks again into the land. * * * The whole of the vast 
 surface of the lake * * * is a mass of pure splendor. 
 When the day is calm, there is a ring of the lake, extending 
 more than a mile from shore which is brilliantly green. Within 
 this ring the vast center of the expanse is of a deep, yet soft 
 and singularly tinted blue. * * * They do not shade into 
 each other; they lie as clearly defined as the course of glowing 
 gems in the wall of the New Jerusalem. 
 
 Thomas Starr King. 
 From "Christianity and Humanity" ; 
 Boston: Houghton, Mifflin Company, J 863. 
 By George Wharton James, 1098 N. Raymond Ave., 
 Pasadena, California, 1915. 
 
 A PICTURE OF THE LAKE TAHOE REGION 
 
 After leaving the fertile valley of the Sacramento and 
 rising into the glorious foothills of the Sierras, every roll of 
 the billows of the mountains and canyons wedged in between 
 is redolent of memories of the argonauts and emigrants. Yon- 
 der are Yuba, Dutch Flat, the North Fork, the South Fork (of 
 the American River), Colfax, Gold Run, Midas, Blue Canyon, 
 Emigrant Gap, Grass Valley, Michigan Bluff, Grizzly Gulch, 
 Alpha, Omega, Eagle Bird, Red Dog, Chips Flat, Quaker Hill 
 and You Bet. Can you not see these camps, alive with rough- 
 handed, full-bearded, sunburned, stalwart men, and hear the 
 clang of hammer upon drill, the shock of the blast, the wheeling 
 away and crash of waste rock as it is thrown over the dump 
 pile? 
 
234 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 And it is in the very bottom of this majestic scenery that 
 Lake Tahoe lies enshrined. Its entrancing beauty is such that 
 we do not wonder that the triumphant monarchs of the "upper 
 seas" cluster around it as if in reverent adoration, and that 
 they wear their vestal virgin robes of purest white in token of 
 the purity of their worship. 
 
 Thoughts like these flood our hearts and minds as we 
 reach Truckee, the point where we leave the Southern Pacific 
 cars and change to those of the narrow gauge for Tahoe 
 Tavern on the very edge of the lake. This ride is of itself 
 romantic and beautiful. The river of the Truckee is never 
 out of sight, and again and again it reminds one in its foaming 
 speed of Joaquin Miller's expressive phrase: 
 
 "See where the cool white river runs." 
 
 George Wharton James. 
 From "The Lake of the S£p"; 
 Pasadena, California, 1915. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO LAKE TAHOE 
 
 Oh ! the exquisite beauty of this lake — its clear waters, em- 
 erald green, and the deepest ultramarine blue; its pure shores, 
 rocky or cleanest gravel, so clean that the chafing of the waves 
 does not stain in the least the bright cleanness of the waters; 
 the high granite mountains with serried peaks which stand 
 close around its very shore to guard its crystal purity — this 
 lake, not among, but on the mountains, lifted six thousand 
 feet towards the deep-blue over-reaching sky whose image it 
 reflects ! * * * All these produce a never-ceasing and ever- 
 increasing sense of joy, which naturally grows into love. There 
 would seem to be no beauty except as associated with human 
 life and connected with a sense of fitness for human happiness. 
 Natural beauty is but the type of spiritual beauty. 
 
 Joseph Le Conte. 
 From "The Lake of the Sfcp"; 
 by George Wharton James, 
 Pasadena, California, 1915. 
 
 A SIERRA SNOW-PLANT 
 
 From afar they had a glimpse of the beautiful blue-green 
 lake of Tahoe, but went on, upward. Presently the party 
 came upon a jagged place of broken rocks in the midst of a 
 thick covering of pine-needles, where was growing a tall thick 
 
AUGUST 235 
 
 stem of watermelon pink, studded from top to root with grace- 
 ful bells and bracts of the same color. 
 
 Murielle fell down beside it, calling to them all in a tri- 
 umphant tone, "Oh, I have found a snow-plant — I've found a 
 snow-plant." And with a broken pine-bough she dug away 
 the earth, revealing below a great tuberlike root of the delicate 
 pink, which she declared went down endlessly. She broke it 
 off a foot below, saying, "I have never succeeded in reaching 
 the end of a root yet, and I won't worry with this one. Isn't 
 it a beauty? Every bell is perfect. Have you ever studied 
 snow-plants, Mr. Earl?" 
 
 "No," he said smiling, "I am just commencing." She 
 looked up quickly. "This is my first lesson, I mean," he 
 added. "They are of strange growth, I have heard." "Well, 
 they are strange plants to me," she continued. "I am con- 
 vinced that they belong to the fungus family, even if the 
 botanies do say 'the heath family.' They grow suddenly and 
 they wither over night, sometimes, and they are fleshy like a 
 fungus, too." 
 
 "What? Does a fungus grow with such regularity and 
 beauty?" he objected. 
 
 "Not generally, of course," she admitted. "But you surely 
 won't try to make me believe it is just a common exogenous 
 plant ! This, you must remember, is an extraordinary fungus." 
 "Could it not be a parasitic plant, springing from some pecul- 
 iarity in a pine-root, or some underground stem?" he suggested. 
 "That might explain the length of its root." 
 
 "Possibly," replied Murielle thoughtfully, "I wonder why I 
 never thought of it before. You have only commenced the 
 study, Mr. Earl, yet you are ahead of me. I feel as if I were 
 in the primary class." 
 
 "You must remember that I have all the benefit of your 
 study to begin with. Will it wilt before we get it to the hotel?" 
 Murielle laughed. "Now you show how superficial your knowl- 
 edge is. Any one could see this is your first experience. Why, 
 I intend to take that plant home with me to San Francisco, 
 to exhibit for a month to come." 
 
 "How? You certainly can't press it in a book, a great big 
 tuber like that." He seemed mystified. 
 
 "No, I shall pack it in ice and it will keep fresh and full 
 for weeks." He whistled to express his surprise. 
 
 "Put it in the lunch-basket, please," she said to him, "it 
 is too heavy to carry in vour hand — rather too bulky, I should 
 say." 
 
 "Too delicate, you mean," he added mischievously ; "my 
 
236 AUGUST 
 
 hands are not exactly icy. I am afraid it would wilt very 
 soon in my care." 
 
 Ella Sterling Mighels. 
 From "The Little Mountain Princess"; 
 (first novel written by a native Calif ornian) ; 
 Boston: Loring, 1880. 
 
 NIGHT ON SHASTA 
 
 How very close to heaven it seems up here, 
 When noiseless night her velvet curtain drops ! 
 I dare not raise my head above the copse 
 Lest I should bump some star, they are so near. 
 How dark below; above, how dazzling clear! 
 The moon, just risen, sails the sky and stops 
 Resplendent, in the dark firs' stunted tops — 
 But where the goddess of the silver spear? 
 
 Sweet heathen ! She has not the hardihood 
 To hunt so close the very throne of God ; 
 Her beauty cannot charm this sacred wood ; 
 She dares not tread upon such hallowed sod; 
 In some Ionian vale she conquers still, 
 But not upon this vast sidereal hill. 
 
 Ralph Bacon. 
 
 THE GREAT PANORAMA 
 
 In August comes a glory unlike any other to the land- 
 scape. I remember a row of plum or prune trees of the silver 
 and the blue, alternating, where the fruitage was so heavy that 
 the branches turned downward and hung upon the very ground, 
 making a gorgeous screen in decorative design of peacock 
 tints. It was my very own, on my little baby-ranch up at 
 Silver Hill in Hayward that this wonder came to pass. I 
 used to get up at four o'clock in the morning to go out and 
 gaze upon it from the sheer love of beauty. And meanwhile 
 I enjoyed tasting the sweet ripe gems of this Aladdin-like tale 
 of a garden — and gained new life and strength in the midst 
 of such perfection. 
 
 A. E. 
 
 WHO GOETH SOFTLY 
 
 Who goeth softly, safely goes, 
 Wisdom walks on velvet toes. 
 
 Loronzo Sosso. 
 
THE MINER'S SONG OF LABOR 
 
 The eastern sky is blushing red, 
 
 The distant hill-tops glowing; 
 The brook is murmuring in its bed, 
 
 In idle frolics flowing; 
 'T is time the pickaxe and the spade, 
 
 And iron "torn" were ringing, 
 And with ourselves, the mountain stream, 
 
 A song of labor singing. 
 
 The mountain air is cool and fresh, 
 
 Unclouded skies bend o'er us, 
 Broad placers, rich in hidden gold, 
 
 Lie temptingly before us ; 
 We ask no magic Midas' wand, 
 
 Nor wizard-rod divining, 
 The pickaxe, spade and brawny hand 
 
 Are sorcerers in mining. 
 
 When labor closes with the day, 
 
 To simple fare returning, 
 We gather in a merry group 
 
 Around the camp-fire burning; 
 The mountain sod our couch at night, 
 
 The stars shine bright above us, 
 We think of home and fall asleep, 
 
 To dream of those who love us. 
 
 John Swett 
 
 A FAIR EXCHANGE 
 
 Time is money ; I have plenty of the former to exchange 
 for a little of the latter. 
 
 Mark Twain. 
 
238 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 A PERFECT DAY 
 
 I will be glad today; the sun 
 Smiles all adown the land; 
 
 The lilies lean along the way; 
 
 The full-blown roses, red and white, 
 In perfect beauty stand. 
 
 The mourning-dove within the woods 
 Forgets, nor longer grieves; 
 
 A light wind lifts the bladed corn, 
 And ripples the ripe sheaves ; 
 
 High overhead some happy bird 
 Sings softly in the leaves. 
 
 The butterflies flit by, the bees; 
 
 A peach falls to the ground; 
 The tinkle of a bell is heard 
 
 From some far pasture-ground; 
 The crickets in the warm, green grass 
 
 Chirp with a softened sound. 
 
 The sky looks down upon the sea, 
 Blue, with not anywhere 
 
 The shadow of a passing cloud; 
 The sea looks up as fair — 
 
 So bright a picture on its breast 
 As if it smiled to wear. 
 
 A day too glad for laughter — nay, 
 Too glad for happy tears ! 
 
 The fair earth seems as in a dream 
 Of immemorial years : 
 
 Perhaps of that far morn when she 
 Sang with her sister spheres. 
 
 It may be that she holds today 
 Some sacred Sabbath feast; 
 
 It may be that some patient soul 
 Has entered to God's rest, 
 
 For whose dear sake He smiles on us, 
 And all the day is blest. 
 
 Ina Coolbrith. 
 
 From "Songs from the Golden Gate"; 
 Boston: Houghton, Mifflin Company), J 895. 
 
SEPTEMBER 239 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 I am Ariel freed of a master; 
 
 I am Puck lacking Oberon's ban; 
 When the lotus is ripe, hark my Pandean pipe, 
 
 For I'm Peter the godchild of Pan. 
 I am Iris, my brush is a rainbow: 
 
 Endymion awakened am I; 
 I'm the breast of the tree Hamadryad I be — 
 
 With Sequoia I tickle the sky! 
 
 O, I'm secret of life-giving rivers; 
 
 I am balm that exhales from Health's cave; 
 Consumed in each kernel, I live on eternal, 
 
 I am Master of Life, I'm its Slave. 
 From the battlements of the Sierra 
 
 The Pandean pipe I swing free, 
 And my far-floating tune, in the stillness of noon, 
 
 Weaves a spell from the peaks to the sea. 
 
 Rufus Steele. 
 Copyright; P. F. Collier & Son, 1909. 
 
 A SONG OF WORK 
 
 There is no idleness in all this moving world 
 
 That lives and flourishes. 
 
 For idleness is death, 
 
 It nourishes 
 
 Its lorn existence with the dying breath, 
 
 It hovers spectre-like round tombs and graves, 
 
 It lies in mouldy vaults and dank forgotten caves, 
 
 With rotting skulls that crumble 'neath the hand, 
 
 It skulks and falters thro' the living land, 
 
 And ever cries and cries 
 
 In its death throe as it lies. 
 
 But work and toil is life ! 
 
 There's a glory in the strife, 
 
 There's a vigor in the strain, 
 
 There's a promise in the pain 
 
 Of work, work, work ! 
 
 Oh the men that never shirk 
 
 Life's appointed task, 
 
 And the women who ne'er ask 
 
 If the work will ever end — 
 
 Oh the trees that never bend 
 
 'Neath the pressure of the storm, 
 
 Oh the lusty upright form, 
 
 Oh the ever busy brain, 
 
240 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Ever striving to attain 
 More, more, more 
 Of the world's unstudied lore! 
 Hear the anvil and the hammer 
 How they bandy forth their clamor, 
 Hear the ceaseless bells that ring, 
 Hear the reapers toil and sing — 
 Hear the buzz and hum 
 Of the engines, never dumb 
 In the sawmill, with the shrilling 
 Of the lumber 'neath the plane ; 
 It is crying out in pain 
 That the heartless steel is killing, 
 Killing every forest tree, 
 Large and free. 
 Hear the sailors making sail, 
 Hear their chantey in the gale, 
 As they pull, pull, pull. 
 Till the flapping sail is full. 
 See the clerk forever writing, 
 See the businessman inditing 
 Letters that will make his fortune, 
 While his creditors importune. 
 All are busy — some with good and some with evil- 
 Shrewd connivings with the devil 
 Busy some with midnight revel — 
 Such is life — all incomplete and growing, 
 Working, heaving, thrusting, throwing — 
 Working out God's destined plan, 
 Working for the betterment of man, 
 Working through the aeons fierce and strong, 
 Bursting forth with gladness into song. 
 
 Charles A. Keekr. 
 
 ALL WORK IS PRAYER 
 
 All work is prayer beneath the sun ; 
 
 The laborer is God's true priest : 
 Will he not ask, "What have ye done?' 
 
 Of those who only play and feast? 
 
 The world is one great hive of toil; 
 
 Man's ministry through ages past 
 Has glorified the common soil 
 
 To raise God's altar there at last. 
 
GALAXY 13.— POETS, PROSE-WRITERS, PUBLIC SPEAKERS, 
 
 Charles Keeler 
 
 D. S. Richardson 
 
 Mariana Bertola 
 
 Clarence Urmy 
 
 Mrs. I. Lowenberg 
 Richard Edward White 
 
 Josephine Martin 
 Fred Emerson Brooks 
 
 Charles Phillips 
 
 James Hopper 
 
 Louis Robertson 
 
 Alice Rose Power 
 
 241 
 
GALAXY 14.— HISTORICAL AND SCIENTIFIC WRITERS 
 
 Noah Brooks 
 
 H. H. Bancroft 
 
 Zoeth S. Eldredge 
 
 Josiah Royce 
 
 Charles Howard Shinn 
 J. M. Hutchings 
 
 John Hittell 
 Charles Nordoff 
 
 J. Ross Browne 
 
 John Muir 
 Theodore Hittell 
 John P. Young 
 
 242 
 
SEPTEMBER 243 
 
 No other shrine his worship needs; 
 
 No other prayer for Jew or Turk, 
 Gentile, or men of various creed, 
 
 Except the glorious prayer of work. 
 
 Work ! noble, pure, devout — baptized 
 By man alone, the living prayer: 
 
 Work sanctified ! but equalized, 
 
 So that each one shall do his share. 
 
 No kings ; no beggars : none so great 
 As to despise the hands that toil 
 
 To build the true Fraternal State 
 In every land, or every soil. 
 
 O ye who strive to break the ban, 
 Still laboring from year to year 
 
 To bring equality to man, 
 
 Work on ! work on ! the time is near. 
 
 Lorenzo Sosso. 
 
 SCIENCE 
 
 The winds of heaven trample down the pines 
 
 Or creep in lazy tides along the lea; 
 Lead the wild waters from the smitten rock, 
 
 Or crawl with childish babble to the sea; 
 But why the tempests out of heaven blow, 
 Or what the purpose of the seaward flow, 
 No man hath known, and none shall ever know. 
 
 Why seek to know? To follow nature up 
 
 Against the current of her course, why care? 
 Vain is the toil; he's wisest still who knows 
 
 All science is but formulated prayer — 
 Prayer for the warm winds and the quickening rain, 
 Prayer for sharp sickle and for laboring swain, 
 To gather from the planted past the grain. 
 
 Ambrose C. Bierce. 
 From "Golden Era* ; December, 1883. 
 
244 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 EXTRACT FROM EARLY POEM ON MECHANIC ART 
 
 Mechanics ! to your hands we owe 
 Whatever we behold below, 
 From Nature taken, and designed 
 To suit the changing - human mind. 
 And more, Americans ! our State, 
 So young, and yet so proudly great! 
 
 ******** 
 
 What need to praise upon my part, 
 
 The genius of Mechanic Art? 
 
 She speaks — from quarries, woods and mines, 
 
 Behold like light a city shines. 
 
 She waves her wand — the seas are white 
 
 With ships impatient in their flight. 
 
 Her finger traces, and its course 
 
 Is followed by the iron horse; 
 
 Through the deep seas from which the heart 
 
 In wildest fantasy will start 
 
 She looks, and lo ! the magic wire 
 
 Transports her messages of fire. 
 
 For her the blacksmith swings his sledge, 
 
 The builder grinds his hatchet's edge, 
 
 All workmen labor as she says, 
 
 All matter her behest obeys, 
 
 All shapes are facile at her nod, 
 
 From the rude cabin-logs and sod 
 
 To temples to the living God. 
 
 Edward Pollock- 
 Delivered at the opening of the First Industrial Exhibition, 
 September 7, 1857. 
 
 A MESSAGE FROM ADLEY H. CUMMINS 
 
 There is an engraving hanging on a wall in this city of 
 San Francisco, an engraving which thousands have stopped 
 to admire and study. It is like the voice of one crying in the 
 wilderness — like the eloquent voice of the desert preacher. It 
 represents, I think, the ruins of Persepolis. Stately columns 
 and graceful pillars rise on every side; in the foreground a 
 flight of marble steps is pictured. It is midnight and moon- 
 light on the desert. In that bright light which many have 
 observed to illumine such solitudes, a vivid evidence of life 
 appears. Those halls are no longer tenantless, silent and for- 
 saken. A king and his queen have deigned to visit them. 
 
SEPTEMBER 245 
 
 Ages ago, one who was pleased to term himself the King 
 of Kings — whose reign extended from the Golden Horn to 
 Samarcand, from the Hydaspes to the Aegean — was wont to 
 pace those corridors in luxury and pride; but up those marble 
 steps now pace in solitary grandeur the king of beasts and his 
 consort, and his roar sounds out the requiem of the departed 
 State. 
 
 And yet within that city and all the countless towns along 
 that line of latitude there was a time when life was sweet to 
 the human inhabitants; when mothers looked with holy joy 
 upon the budding promise of youth ; love looked into the eyes 
 of love and told in silence, or in soft and tender words, that 
 old, old story, which man has ever told his mate, and will 
 continue so to do as long as 
 
 Myrtles grow and roses blow 
 And morning brings the sun; 
 
 where sorrow-stricken people with breaking hearts laid away 
 their dead to rest and asked, "When shall it please God that 
 we meet again?" 
 
 The young, the bright, the beautiful, the mourned and the 
 mourner have alike passed away, and the state and majesty of 
 their country have departed. Why so? Because the Cor- 
 rupter came to dwell with them; because wealth accumulated 
 and MEN decayed. The rich became richer, the poor poorer. 
 Y\ nile the one rioted in ill-gotten opulence, the other pined 
 away in infinite pain. So alongside the name of that nation, 
 upon a blank space in the page of history is written : "This 
 nation became so vile and infamous that it was no longer fit 
 to live; it therefore died." 
 
 The sword of vengeance is ready drawn for any other 
 nation which permits such a state of society. The executioner, 
 though not in sight, will appear at the critical moment, and 
 smite the worthless head from the infamous trunk. 
 
 From "The San Franciscan" ; 1884. 
 
 FRATERNITY 
 
 I sing of Human Brotherhood, the sentiment divine 
 That views a brother mortal's ills as if those ills were mine ; 
 That of the good or ill of life will either lend or borrow. 
 And with his neighbor share his joy or share his neighbor's 
 sorrow. 
 
246 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Alas! that man from Eden's way so soon should step aside — 
 That the first-born of all mankind should be a fratricide. 
 Alas ! through all the centuries that man with man was striving 
 In endless feuds and bloody war instead of peace contriving. 
 
 From age to age, in every land, man's history has stood 
 
 A chronicle of human woe, writ in fraternal blood; 
 
 Nation 'gainst nation, man 'gainst man, through all its crimson 
 
 pages, 
 In deadly enmity arrayed — the story of the ages. 
 
 But through the cruel centuries were prophets, bards and seers, 
 Who caught a glimpse of better days amid the darkling years, 
 When mighty men of hand and brain should use their God-like 
 
 power 
 To elevate the weak and poor, and not crush him lower — 
 
 When men should grasp each other's hands, and seek each 
 other's good, 
 
 And join themselves in loyal bands of Knightly Brotherhood — 
 
 When woman should at last be free from her enthralled sub- 
 jection, 
 
 And stand upon an equal plane of Mutual Protection. 
 
 Hail we the happy days for which the ancient bards did pray, 
 That usher in the gospel of the New Fraternity ; 
 That teaches men the blessedness of loving and forgiving, 
 And in the place of war and death gives peace and joyful living. 
 
 Hail to the men of every guild — "Mason," "Odd Fellow", 
 
 "Friend", 
 "Red Man," "Forester," "Workman," "Knight," in whom thy 
 
 virtues blend; 
 Who see in earth's lowly child a sister or a brother, 
 And recognizes that "love of God" is "love for one another". 
 
 Fraternity! Fraternity! What human tongue or pen 
 
 Can estimate the great "good will" which thou hast brought 
 
 to men — 
 What joy and comfort thou hast brought unto the poor and 
 
 sighing ! 
 What unrecorded ministries unto the sick and dying! 
 
 Ah ! not till the last trump proclaims that time shall cease to be 
 Will it be known in earth or heaven how much we owe to thee. 
 
SEPTEMBER 247 
 
 Then when the books are opened and the angels tell the story, 
 Heaven's vaults shall echo to the song that celebrates thy glory. 
 
 Sam Booth. 
 From "Poems by Sam Booth" ; 
 Neal Publishing Company, 66 Fremont Street, 
 San Francisco. 
 
 "GET LEAVE TO WORK" 
 
 Get leave to work — 
 
 In this world 't is the best you get at all ; 
 
 For God in cursing gives better gifts 
 
 Than man in benediction. God says sweat 
 
 For foreheads, men say crowns, and so we are crowned ; 
 
 As gashed by some tormenting circle of steel 
 
 Which snaps with a secret spring — get work, get work, 
 
 Be sure it is better than what you work to get. 
 
 A Memory Gem. 
 Cherished fragment quoted by a Pioneer Woman, 
 Mrs. M. M. Bay, of Hayward. 
 
 THE UNSOLVED PROBLEM 
 
 Of the unsolved problems that have agitated the human 
 mind from time immemorial, the most important has been to 
 make just provision for the poor. Intellectual and philanthropic 
 giants have grappled with this most vital problem in vain. 
 For it is the duty of every one to ameliorate the condition of 
 the poor without impairing the self respect of the recipient. 
 Dignity of manhood can be acquired and maintained only by 
 means of honest labor, not by subsisting on the earnings or 
 generosity of the benevolent. "While all have a right to 
 exist," yet it must always be remembered that "Every right 
 involves a corresponding duty." * * * 
 
 The great teacher, Paul, said, "He that will not work shall 
 not eat." In spite of the march of civilization with its inven- 
 tions, machinery, and tremendous improvements, the army of 
 the poor steadily increase, assuming colossal proportions. How 
 shall they gain their bread? There is no problem of today 
 more worthy of the thought of man than this — how shall the 
 unemployed be turned away from despair and led into proper 
 channels of activity for the good of not only themselves, but 
 also for the world's good? 
 
248 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Metternich wisely and truly observes, "There are no more 
 political questions, there are only social questions." We are 
 standing on the brink of a volcano, and no number of soup- 
 houses will repress the smouldering fires ; it requires more 
 direct, substantial aid. Some plan must be devised by the body 
 politic to make men self-sustaining. Sporadic charity amounts 
 to nothing save temporarily, for that alone, while the cause still 
 remains untouched, for each tomorrow brings its own hunger 
 afresh. Every dollar given to an association to provide work 
 — work in any shape for the unemployed — is the initiation of 
 a commendable effort to elevate the condition of the poor. 
 This attempt is not an iconoclastic one, not tearing down with- 
 out building up ; it is simpty substituting the workshop for the 
 soup-house. If we make the people independent of charity; 
 but dependent upon labor, there will rise up a nation in that 
 place, strong in principle and action — the essential elements 
 of a free and powerful race. 
 
 In a certain canton in Switzerland there is already a 
 society started on these lines, taking for its motto this prin- 
 ciple, "Labor is the best largesse". A number of persons 
 subscribe so much annually for the purchase of raw material, 
 usually cotton, flax, hemp, thread, which is given to be worked 
 up for pay, and the product is either sold or distributed amongst 
 the subscribers at a fair price. I read recently that thirty-one 
 persons died of actual starvation in London last year, not one 
 having applied to the parish authorities for relief. It is even 
 more our duty to reach this deserving class to preserve them 
 to the world, than the merely thriftless who are willing to 
 accept charity, and by supplying work to know that it is pos- 
 sible to gather all in, both the worthy as well as the unworthy 
 poor. 
 
 There is no doubt that nothing can be done without labor; 
 but it must not be forgotten that nothing can be done without 
 capital. They are certainly dependent upon each other. We 
 all, the rich and poor, are mutually inter-dependent. Each 
 needs the other. 
 
 Preventive charity by endeavoring to provide work for 
 the masses is the great thing to be accomplished. Neither 
 trades-unions, mechanical inventions, nor other great discov- 
 eries of hitherto unknown forces, nor elemosynary institutions 
 have decreased pauperism. Charity demoralizes because it 
 eliminates the stamina and self-respect — work elevates man. 
 
 Exceptions should be made in regard to the giving of alms 
 and providing institutions. Indulgence is claimed for the 
 children, the infirm and the aged, and even the maintenance of 
 
SEPTEMBER 249 
 
 the latter could be avoided and their independence secured, as 
 in some parts of Europe where there is a compulsory insur- 
 ance for old age which works with excellent results. 
 
 It is not the "Man with the Hoe'' that cries to the world. 
 but the man "Without the Hoe"', who wants work and there is 
 none. The "hoe" does not make the man the "Brother of the 
 Ox", but the brother of the man who will rise with new 
 conditions. 
 
 Organized associations and public workshops where needy 
 persons can apply and obtain work and must work, not organ- 
 ized charities, are what are required. Work is not demoral- 
 izing, but develops "individual freedom" — the goal we all should 
 seek. 
 
 Mrs. I. Lorvenberg. 
 From "The Unsolved Problem" ; 
 
 read before the California Federation of Women s Clubs, 
 Los Angeles, 1899. 
 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 Heaven in its bounty, friends unto me sent ; 
 From some I borrowed and to others lent. 
 Xow this I say : If thou wouldst keep a friend, 
 Of him then borrow — wouldst thou lose him, lend. 
 
 Charles Henry Webb. 
 From "With Lead and Line"; 
 Cambridge: Houghton, Mifflin Company, J 90 1 . 
 
 THE AUTHORS' CARNIVAL 
 
 The Authors' Carnival, given at Mechanics' Pavilion in 
 1879 for the benefit of the various hospitals of the city was by 
 far the most elaborate and successful of any entertainment 
 given in San Francisco up to that time. The prominent char- 
 acters from the works of eminent authors were represented by 
 many of the ladies and gentlemen of the most exclusive circles 
 of society, and the grand procession with which the evening's 
 entertainment was opened proved the most gorgeous and 
 attractive in the splendor and variety of the costumes worn 
 by the participants that has ever been seen in the city. Mr. 
 Smyth Clark, then a prominent member of the Bohemian Club, 
 and myself, owing to our striking resemblance to each other, 
 were chosen to represent the Cheeryble Brothers of Charles 
 
250 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Dickens's "Nicholas Nickleby", and by reason of the similarity 
 of our features, size and costume, we were considered quite a 
 prominent feature of the parade. To those now living who 
 took part in that delightful work of the Authors' Carnival, I 
 wish to say that I only hope their recollection of the scenes and 
 events of that season is as pleasing to them as it has ever 
 been with me. 
 
 George Tisdale Bromley. 
 
 From "The Long Ago and the Later On" ; 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, 1904. 
 
 HISTORICAL 
 
 To the little city of Jackson, belongs the honor of being 
 the birthplace of the noble Order of Native Daughters of the 
 Golden West, the great sisterhood of native-born California 
 women which has grown from its humble beginning in the foot- 
 hills of Amador County to a mighty army of earnest workers 
 for the civic and social development of our wonderful Western 
 Empire on the shores of the Pacific. This distinctively Cali- 
 fornia organization was founded in Jackson on Saturday, Sep- 
 tember 11, 1886, as result of a call issued to native-born Cali- 
 fornia women by Miss Lilly O. Reichling, to whom the Grand 
 Parlor has accorded special honor as the Founder of the Order. 
 
 NOTE ON "THE MAN WITH THE HOE" 
 
 A great sensation followed the publishing of the poem, 
 "The Man With the Hoe", in the "San Francisco Examiner", 
 under the direction of the editor, Bailey Millard, himself a lit- 
 terary man who was the first to recognize its greatness. Not 
 understanding the true meaning of this magnificent word- 
 painting, which many conceived to be intended as a slight to 
 the farmer, a great storm of protest arose. It even went so far 
 as to bring forth an offer of three money-prizes to any poet or 
 poets who would successfully give answer, championing the 
 cause of the worker in agriculture. Thousands competed, with- 
 out adding to the riches of literature, and three well-known 
 poets won the money. It is only those who have gazed on the 
 celebrated painting of the great master of that art, who seem 
 able to understand the poem. The poem was inspired by the 
 painting which shows a poor French peasant at work in a 
 turnip-field, in the days leading up to the horrors of the French 
 
SEPTEMBER 251 
 
 Revolution. After looking at this canvas you are better able 
 to conceive of the reasons for the ferocities of that terrible 
 epoch in the history of France. The poor wretch is exhausted, 
 ill-fed, without one gleam of hope, yet digging away mechan- 
 ically at his dreary labor. His mouth hangs open, he is the 
 result of ages of oppression and the tyranny of kings. There 
 has never been anything but despair and hunger and misery for 
 the generations for which he stands, now a sinister and tragic 
 form of dumb agony. There is the menace prophetic for all 
 time, as portrayed by the brush of the great painter as a warn- 
 ing not only to France but to all the world forever. And here 
 is the poem inspired by the painting to stand as a warning not 
 only to France but to all the world forever. It took a great 
 poet to understand a great painter and to interpret the message 
 to us all. It is not a protest against the farmer, as some ignor- 
 ant Americans conceive it to be; it is a protest against oppres- 
 sion. It is a symbol of what comes to pass as result of any 
 oppression whatever. Let each one take it to himself, even 
 in smaller degree, and not bear on so heavily to the burdens of 
 either sister or brother in the great human family. This is 
 what the great poet and the great painter are trying to tell us 
 by this poem and by this painting. Yet this is not all of this 
 peculiarly Californian episode by means of which the poem 
 came into being. It must be told that the painting itself, 
 masterpiece as it is, belongs in California. It was brought here, 
 as the property of Mr. and Mrs. William H. Crocker and 
 shared with the public by them, in loan exhibitions and at the 
 World's Fair at Portland, Oregon, in 1905, to the great benefit 
 of the people, generally. It was on one of these occasions that 
 the poet, too poor to own the painting, himself, beheld the 
 masterpiece, by the generosity of this art-spirit which belongs 
 to our wealthy classes. He stood and beheld and gave forth 
 to the world his interpretation. 
 
 Already a poet of mature years, yet until then his name 
 was known only to a few of his brother-writers. But one of 
 these realized the greatness of the poem and it was he who 
 dared to publish and proclaim it. It has been my pleasure in 
 New York circles to hear Bailey Millard introduce the poet, 
 Edwin Markham, preparatory to his reading "The Man With 
 the Hoe". 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 
252 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE MAN WITH THE HOE 
 
 Bowed with the weight of centuries, he leans 
 Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, 
 The emptiness of ages in his face, 
 And on his back the burden of the world. 
 Who made him dead to rapture and despair, 
 A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, 
 Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? 
 Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? 
 Whose was the hand that slanted back his brow? 
 Whose breath blew out the light within his brain? 
 
 Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave 
 To have dominion over sea and land ; 
 To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; 
 To feel the passion of Eternity; 
 
 Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns 
 And pillared the blue firmament with light? 
 Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf 
 There is no shape more terrible than this — 
 More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed- 
 More filled with signs and portents for the soul — 
 More fraught with menace to the universe. 
 
 What gulfs between him and the seraphim ! 
 Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him 
 Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? 
 What the long reaches of the peaks of song, 
 The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? 
 Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; 
 Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop ; 
 Through this dread shape humanity, betrayed, 
 Plundered, profaned, and disinherited, 
 Cries protest to the Judges of the World, 
 A protest that is also prophecy. 
 
 O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, 
 
 Is this the handiwork you give to God, 
 
 This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? 
 
 How will you ever straighten up this shape; 
 
 Touch it again with immortality; 
 
 Give back the upward looking and the light; 
 
 Rebuild in it the music and the dream ; 
 
 Make right the immemorial infamies; 
 
 Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? 
 
SEPTEMBER 253 
 
 O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, 
 How will the Future reckon with this Man? 
 How answer his brute question in that hour 
 When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? 
 How will it be with kingdoms and with kings — 
 With those who shaped him to the thing he is — 
 When this dumb Terror shall reply to God, 
 After the silence of the centuries? 
 
 Edwin Mar^ham. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE HOODLUMS 
 
 It was a strange sight in early days or nights to observe 
 the cluttering up of the San Francisco docks with boys of all 
 ages who chose to make their homes there in preference to 
 remaining under shelter with their elders. They roamed at 
 will and enjoyed their freedom for a long time and no one 
 interfered. The ships that came in were a fascinating study 
 to them, and the sailors greeted them heartily. The climate 
 was such that they knew no difference in the seasons and 
 adapted themselves easily, being hardy young creatures, bent 
 on having their own way, regardless of what happened. One 
 day, several men of prominence observed what was going on 
 and began to inquire about the matter. "Oh, they are just 
 huddle-ums all together," said one, "you can't do anything 
 with them." 
 
 From this, the term "hoodlums" is said to be derived — 
 although in England a similar word is used to express a certain 
 class there of a more criminal nature, "hoolighans" — by which it 
 would appear that the same root-word applied to both is the 
 outcome of a similar thought. As years passed, these young 
 creatures were joined by others — spoiled darlings of indulgent 
 mothers in many cases, who "spun not", yet who were arrayed 
 in the habiliments of fashion of a peculiar sort of their own. 
 And together, the idle and the outcasts joined forces and became 
 a weird element in the social life of San Francisco not to be 
 forgotten. The hoodlum and his girl were easily recognizable 
 from all other classes. They assumed an air of jauntiness and 
 defiance against social customs and while undoubtedly "tough 
 customers", yet they belonged to the soil, climate and produc- 
 tions of San Francisco. They were not ignorant ; they were 
 far from being like the sodden criminal class. In some instances 
 they were graduates of the grammar-schools of the city, and 
 "sophisticated" to the nth degree. 
 
 They lived off of the benevolent, kindly ones who were in 
 
254 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 the majority in those days, and even stories are told how a 
 number of these unregenerates and youthful rogues played 
 their tricks on Moody and Sankey and other leaders of religious 
 movements, for the conversion of the people of San Francisco, 
 and came forward at the revivals and repented publicly for the 
 sake of the material benefit which was showered upon them, 
 only to "backslide" the next day, and return to their fellows 
 to brag of the adventures they had had "wid dem pious". 
 
 They evolved a vernacular all their own, startling and 
 peculiar. 
 
 They had their own standard of honor. If one of them 
 was stabbed by his best friend, he refused to recognize him 
 when brought to his bedside in the hospital. "Wot d'ye take 
 me fur?" he would growl. 
 
 One day an old woman appealed to one of these fellows 
 to fix a key that had broken off in the lock. "Dat was de best 
 day in my life fur I got a life-job from dat key. An' I kep' 
 it fur my mascot for many a year — till it got burned up in 
 de fire — 'cause I got to be a key-man from dat day — and mended 
 everybody's keys all over de city. All de old women give me 
 jobs mendin' dere keys." 
 
 He is the only one left alive, the last one of all the old 
 hoodlums of the waterfront days, and that is because he was 
 naturally industrious, and naturally honest, for even today, 
 there are those who wait for him to appear to supply them with 
 keys for their locks, as they have done for forty years past. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From "Life in California*. 
 
 AN AUTOGRAPH ON THE HILLSIDES 
 
 As for the literary test being applied at our gates, to the 
 incoming man who knows how to make things grow, I assure 
 you there is no autograph so powerful in this country as the 
 one made by the plow and harrow in growing grain and fruits 
 on our hillsides. In a very large and true sense the farmer is 
 a poet. See what he has written out there on the landscape — 
 greater works than Dante, or Shakespeare or Browning. 
 
 Bailey Millard. 
 From "Orchard and Farm" ; 
 San Francisco, 1917. 
 
SEPTEMBER 255 
 
 COMING HOME 
 
 Tell me something, you who know, 
 
 Have you ever felt the thrill — 
 Homeward speeding through the snow — 
 
 Truckee — westward, down the hill? 
 Do you know that hammer stroke 
 
 Somewhere underneath the vest, 
 When the ties begin to smoke 
 
 As she plunges to the west? 
 
 Far aback the deserts lie — 
 
 Splintered rock and canyon brink — 
 Dreary wastes of alkali, 
 
 Sage and sand and Humboldt Sink. 
 All have vanished ! — home draws near ; 
 
 We have crossed the great divide; 
 We are speeding with a cheer 
 
 Down the home-stretch to the tide. 
 
 O, the wildness of the way! 
 
 O, the call of bird and stream ! 
 O, the lights and shades that play 
 
 Where the winding rivers gleam ! 
 Throw her open ! Donner Lake 
 
 Slumbers in the cup below; 
 All the pine trees are awake 
 
 Shouting to us as we go. 
 
 Don't you see the fern-tips there 
 
 Where the bank is lush and green? 
 Can't you see the poppies flare 
 
 Through the manzanita screen? 
 Throw her open ! From the wall 
 
 Nod the lilies as we pass, 
 And a thousand wild things call 
 
 From the shadows in the grass. 
 
 Whoop ! She shivers on the rail ; 
 
 How the canyons laugh and roar 
 When she hits the curving trail 
 
 Tipping downward to the shore ! 
 Far below the valley sleeps, 
 
 Warm and tender; I can see 
 Where the Sacramento creeps 
 
 Willow-bordered to the sea. 
 
256 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 I know that sunny land; 
 
 I can hear the med'larks call; 
 
 1 can see the oak tree stand 
 
 Where the wheat grows rank and tall. 
 Give her headway! When a son 
 
 Rushes to his mother's heart — 
 All his toil and wandering done 
 
 And her loving arms apart. 
 
 Nothing matters. Give her steam ! 
 
 Sun and wind and skies conspire. 
 Love to him is not a dream 
 
 Who has touched the heart's desire. 
 Love to him new meaning brings 
 
 Who has felt his bosom thrill 
 When across the line she swings, 
 
 Truckee — westward, down the hill. 
 
 Daniel S. Richardson. 
 From "Trail-Dust; A Little Round-up of Western Verse" ; 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, J 908. 
 
 TO A. E. 
 
 My soul through births and deaths processioned on 
 
 The Progress-way, ambition-spurred but, oh, 
 It glides so swiftly since you brought the dawn 
 And made white-lilied aspirations grow ! 
 
 P. V. M. 
 From "Out of a Silver Flute"; 
 New York, 1896. 
 
 A MESSAGE FROM THE NATIVE DAUGHTERS OF 
 THE GOLDEN WEST 
 
 It is June again. We meet for the business of our organi- 
 zation. This year in coming, we come with a new tenderness 
 in our hearts, a deeper sense of comradeship. More than ever 
 before we recognize the strength that lies in the unity of 
 interest, ideas, labors and obligations. One year ago the war- 
 clouds were darkly gathering, and yet we of the country and 
 of the cities, large and small, were sleeping and rising and 
 working and laughing as if this were the "same sweet earth 
 in which we had our birth". Today there are more of us wear- 
 ing over our hearts the service-pin — one star, perhaps more 
 
SEPTEMBER 257 
 
 than one ; we think war ! we breathe war ! we live war ! as 
 someone has said we must — if we shall win ! 
 
 We are remembering the thousands who will lie upon the 
 battlefield, today and tomorrow and every day of the "Great 
 Year of Doom" and we think of our California boys of Cali- 
 fornia mothers (and aunts, too, I know I love my boy as 
 devotedly as any mother could) who may be "swept to the 
 void by battle's iron broom". 
 
 We are all fired with pulsing, passionate, purposeful patri- 
 otism, ready, willing, eager to do everything we can do in 
 every way that we can — hoping, praying, working for that 
 great day which shall bring Victory and Freedom ! To every- 
 one of us has there come at times the inclination, or tempta- 
 tion, to forget all the things which it has taken us years and 
 years to build up. In our desire to prove our loyalty, in our 
 ambition to demonstrate our executive ability or our medical 
 of mechanical skill or our mathematical genius a little nearer 
 the scene of action, we are almost forced to forget that, no 
 matter how great our sacrifices or how keen our enthusiasm 
 for all things military, our efforts shall be for naught if we 
 neglect our civic responsibilities or fail to keep to our standard 
 in all lines of welfare work — if we succeed not in Holding-the- 
 HOME LIXES; if we remember not that the children are the 
 best foundation of the world's future — the Hope of the Xation 
 and must first of all be considered ; their protection, their devel- 
 opment, their growth guaranteed in this land, and every other 
 land. 
 
 YVe must be ready to carry on with even greater zest (if 
 for no other reason than the practical one of what we have 
 begun we must finish) the well organized constructive work 
 undertaken by the two orders of the Xative Sons of the Golden 
 West and the Xative Daughters of the Golden West — for the 
 finding of homes for children who haven't any — those children 
 who want above everything else in the wide world to feel that 
 they belong to somebody! * * * 
 
 Sometimes the men-folks to whom we give our children 
 begin to apologize for living in the country. I always feel 
 like putting my hand on the arm of such a one and saying, 
 "Don't worry ; the little fellow you take to your heart and 
 home will never be sorry for the days in the real country. He 
 will look back when he is a man, with delightful memories to 
 the time when he was a boy and enjoyed the freedom of the 
 woods and fields, and rode the horse and walked on stilts as 
 high as the shed or the barn, and jumped ditches, and played 
 prisoner's base, and went swimming and looked for eggs — and 
 found the first Johnny-jump-ups — and saw the red roosters — " 
 
258 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 My ! my ! I wouldn't give up the memories of my fun in 
 the country in old Amador for all the world! 
 
 Mary E. Brusie. 
 From "Report of Committee on Homeless Children'; 
 Given at Assembly of Grand Parlor, 
 Santa Cruz, June, 1918. 
 
 A MESSAGE FROM STEPHEN M. WHITE 
 
 While the Pioneer man was breaking the wilderness, and suffering 
 privations, what Was the Pioneer Woman doing? The only church we 
 knew was around our mother s k n z e $- 
 From an oration given in the California Building, 
 Chicago, 1893. 
 
 ABOUT THE PIONEER MOTHER 
 
 There lies on my desk a letter in which, among other 
 things, the writer says that there will be a meeting next Satur- 
 day, at which the talk will be about the Statue of the Pioneer 
 Mother, and about that mother's life, and how she taught civic 
 virtue in "the church around her knees," to quote the quaint 
 phrase of the letter itself. A portion of Mr. George Hamlin 
 Fitch's essay entitled, "The Greatest English Classic — the 
 Bible", is to be read, and some things that I have had occasion 
 to write about our forefathers and foremothers also, which is 
 indeed an honor that is appreciated to the full. 
 
 ********** 
 
 It has been said that the lives of the Puritan mothers were 
 undoubtedly harder to bear than the lives of the Puritan fathers, 
 because the mothers had to endure the same hardships as the 
 fathers endured and in addition, had to endure the fathers. 
 But the men whose axes blazed the trails of civilization through 
 the forests of the First West, and the sons who crossed the 
 plains were not men of Puritan austerity and gloom, though 
 there ran in the veins of many of them, indeed, the blood of 
 that famous breed. The large liberty of the wilderness spoke 
 into the hearts of the Pioneers a kindlier faith, a more catholic 
 tolerance. * * * 
 
 Among the many fine characteristics of this strong and adventurous 
 race of men one stands out in white light — their unaffected reverence of 
 women in the homely and beautiful aspect of wife and mother. They 
 carried this reverence almost to the point of the fantastic — and no knight 
 of chivalry s ancient day Was more prompt to lay lance in rest to avenge 
 insult to his lady-love than were these men prompt with fist or pistol to 
 
SEPTEMBER 259 
 
 defend the good name and honorable repute of plain Betsy or Jane. He 
 took his life carelessly in his hand who talked lightly of the Pioneer's 
 womankind. They were good and brave women, and all that we have 
 that is worth having in our own characters, as well as all this wonderful 
 civilization which now stands, so splendid, so magnificent, where stretched 
 the wilderness their hands helped to subdue, we owe to their goodness 
 and to their bravery. * * * 
 
 "We are apt to think of states as though they were founded 
 on war and conquest, and their glories and happiness as secured 
 by the arms and the valor and the toil of their men. But in 
 truth the happiness and glory of a people is always in ratio 
 to the virtues and the valor of its women. It is upon * * * 
 the supreme and sacred function of motherhood that the edifice 
 of the republic securely rests. Xot in its ships of battle nor in 
 its armies nor in its riches nor in its numbers is the nation's 
 final strength, but in the character of its women. * * * 
 Taken as a whole, the generation which sprang from these 
 daughters of the wilderness was a race full of vigor, inheriting 
 not alone bodily strength, but that large and magnanimous 
 strength of mind and dauntlessness of spirit which their 
 fathers and their mothers wore as a sign upon their hands and 
 as frontlets between their eyes. Xor was the wilderness always 
 harsh and its face austere. It offered to those hardv adven- 
 turers the LIBERTY which they prized above all gifts, and 
 the promise of that abundance with which it was to blossom 
 under their subduing hands. It wrought into the very fibres 
 of their being an admirable largeness of soul. 
 
 They possessed a valiant simplicity and went about the 
 most heroic tasks with no notion that they were doing anything 
 out of the ordinary; and chiefly they did their work whether 
 in the field or in the neighborhood senates or in the battle or 
 in the kitchen or at the wash-tub or facing matters of life and 
 death — these warrior men and women of whom no bard has 
 ever yet sung the noble epic — with a stubborn faith in their 
 own endurance and a high unchallenging trust in the Provi- 
 dence which they believed to hold them in the hollow of its 
 Almighty hand. 
 
 So they came by rough roads and thorny ways from the 
 firesides of their old homes, scattered over many states and 
 foregathered in the new land, and in the courage of their 
 simple hearts and the strength of their strong hands, they 
 wrought the mighty fabric of those commonwealths in which 
 we live, surrounded by the innumerable comforts of a happy 
 society. 
 
 The Pioneer mothers did not alone travail in birth with 
 us who are their children; they brought forth upon their knees 
 
260 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 and nourished with their own milk the states themselves. And 
 the glory of the Republic is their glory; its renown their 
 renown ; its greatest story their story. 
 
 With the stones and the mortar of their innumerable 
 hardships, their sufferings, their valor, their self-denial and 
 their faith, the approving providence of God built this very 
 temple of orderly and lawful LIBERTY to which we men and 
 women draw for shelter and safety. The fire upon its altars 
 they kindled. And while that fire burns, from generation to 
 generation, the tale of the virtues and the sacrifices and the 
 achievements of our simple and heroic mothers shall not die 
 on the lips of men. 
 
 Phil Frances. 
 From "San Francisco Call" ; 
 September, 1912. 
 
 AN INCIDENT OF HUNT'S HILL 
 
 No writer has given a better picture of the attiude of the 
 early men toward their women-folks than has Phil Francis, in 
 the preceding article. It is quite true, as he says, that the 
 early men of California were quick to resent any slight put 
 upon plain Betsy or Jane, their wives — the mothers of the 
 little families of that time. Such is clearly told in the words 
 of an eighty-five-year-old Pioneer woman when she gave me 
 the incident of Hunt's Hill — which is an unwritten bit of 
 history. 
 
 The women of the mining-camps lived far apart, and 
 often took their children and went to spend the day with each 
 other, while the men-folks came to take them home, after 
 supper. It was the one bit of social life left to them in the 
 new country. It so happened that on a certain day, she, Mrs. 
 Larkin, by name, then in her first youth, took her babe in 
 arms, with the little fellow by the hand, to enjoy an outing 
 thus. Unpleasant as it was, she had to pass by a certain 
 locality where was a house of very rough females who knew 
 no law or order. Timidly she made her way along, as fast 
 as she could with her small burdens, trying to hurry past the 
 place. At sight of her, these lawless beings came out and 
 accosted her, and swore and called her by every opprobrious 
 epithet known to man. Endeavoring to terrorize her, they 
 threatened her with what they would do if she ever ventured 
 that way again, although there was no other road to take, save 
 that one. At last, she managed to get past and hurried on her 
 way, in a state of mind not easily to be described. 
 
SEPTEMBER 261 
 
 Arriving at her friends house, she told her what had hap- 
 pened. And her friend's husband swore it was time the men 
 had something to say at Hunt's Hill ; that it was a pity a 
 mother and her children could not go along the road there, 
 without such an insult as that. When Mr. Larkin arrived to 
 take home his little family, he found several other husbands-and- 
 fathers there, ready and waiting to take up the case, and pres- 
 ently a committee was formed. They sallied forth, armed, 
 and had audience of the keeper of the bagnio, and gave him two 
 hours in which to leave town, himself and the inmates. 
 
 Xo horses could be procured. It was four miles to the 
 next town. Presently was seen the sight of a scattered pro- 
 cession of beings, each with a bundle, composed of a skirt full 
 of contents tied up, and borne on the back, trudging on foot 
 to the next town ; and never did they, or any like them, ever 
 come back to Hunt's Hill. The walking was good. The 
 weather was fine. There was no hardship in the matter what- 
 ever. They arrived in an hour or so, in the long twilight of a 
 summer evening, and found new quarters. 
 
 However, it took the genius of a Bret Harte to supply a 
 gorge in the mountains in the grip of the ice-king, and an inno- 
 cent pair caught in the storm, and a gambler who bravely shot 
 himself to give his share of the food to the others in order to 
 make a tremendous tragedy out of this incident. All the sym- 
 pathy is played upon in order to create an atmosphere of com- 
 passion and pity for the unfortunates thus brought to a tragic 
 end. But it is a fact that the innocent mothers and children 
 of Hunt's Hill were the ones who suffered, rather than the 
 denizens of that place, now celebrated and immortalized under 
 the name and title of the "Outcasts of Poker Flat". It never 
 happened thus, except in the weird depths of Bret Harte's own 
 mind as a fancy sketch. But the outside world has grieved over 
 these imaginary victims and has never heard or known of the 
 mothers and children, and their hardships in the early days of 
 California in holding the State for civilization. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 
 THE NIGHTS OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Night-time in California. Elsewhere men only guess 
 At the glory of the evenings that are perfect — nothing less ; 
 But here, the nights, returning, are the wond'rous gifts of God- 
 As if the days were maidens fair with golden slippers shod. 
 
262 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 There is no cloud to hide the sky; the universe is ours, 
 
 And the starlight likes to look and laugh in Cupid's haunted 
 
 bowers. 
 Oh the restful, peaceful evenings! In them my soul delights, 
 For God loved California when He gave her her nights. 
 
 Alfred James Waterhouse. 
 
 ELIZABETH SAUNDERS 
 
 Supremest player — Nature's counterpart, 
 
 With grace to lure the tear-dews from the eye. 
 And from the breast to draw the unconscious sigh 
 
 Or from the ribs make boisterous laughter start. 
 
 She wheedled Nature with such exquisite art: 
 Each character-ideal, set so high, 
 She did not act but seemed to typify, 
 
 The very pulse of genius and the heart. 
 
 She played her parts with such consummate skill, 
 They differed in their glory every one — 
 
 Like Autumn tapestry spread upon the hill — 
 A bit of Nature-painting God has done. 
 
 All elder Californians reckon still, 
 
 Her light out-shone the "stars", as doth the Sun. 
 
 Fred Emerson Broods. 
 Written for "Literary California". 
 
 IN PRAISE OF THE EARLY CALIFORNIA CATTLE 
 
 AND HORSES 
 
 In speaking of these animals I cannot refrain from saying 
 a word as to the native California horse. In the far south of 
 the state there be some few of them left (1888). Here in the 
 north there are none. For service on the road there are good 
 horses — even fine ones, but for work across country in the long 
 day-in and day-out gallop, in the rodeo and fight with the wild 
 bull we have none of them left. Who would trust himself 
 mounted on one of our modern horses to lasso and overcome 
 a wild steer on a hillside of forty-five degrees of slope? Yet 
 on the California horses, miscalled mustangs — which they were 
 not — the old Californian could do it, and tie him hand and foot 
 and kill him or do whatever might be required, and the horse 
 would lean over and keep the reata taut till the vaquero could 
 
SEPTEMBER 263 
 
 dismount and tie the beast's legs and make it helpless. Then 
 if it was desired to take the captive home alive, the ranchero 
 availed himself of the old tame ox, which being yoked to the 
 prisoner by the inflexible Spanish yoke, would walk off home 
 with him to let his blood cool in the corral and make the flesh 
 fit for food. 
 
 I knew a horse, a white California stallion belonging to a 
 ranchero, the lands of whose rancho are within sight of the 
 place where I now write (Alameda). His big black eyes and 
 dark skin, round, well-ribbed body, flat legs, hoofs black and 
 like flint and tail nearly reaching the ground and spreading 
 out like a fan, marked him as a horse whose service should 
 have been prized, but the poor fellow had been deposed from 
 his position in the manada, and his place filled by a very fine 
 blooded American stock horse. He thus became the saddle- 
 horse of a friend of mine, a fair rider, weighing about one 
 hundred and eighty pounds, and the two had many a contest 
 for neither the horse nor the man liked to surrender — each 
 had some temper of his own which it was not safe to stir too 
 rudely. 
 
 An extensive survey was in progress by a United States 
 surveyor, whereby to fix the exterior lines of this rancho. 
 These lines ran over a very rough country. For about two 
 weeks this horse had been in the duties of the survey and in 
 exploration. It was severe service. One evening it was found 
 necessary to send to San Francisco to the United States Sur- 
 veyor-general's office for additional instructions. This horse 
 had been hard at work all day, and was ridden rapidly home — 
 eight miles — and put into the stable. Before being cool enough 
 to be fed or watered, alarm was given that the manada or band 
 of horses, wild mares and colts — which numbered several hun- 
 dred — had broken the foot-hill fences and was widely scattered 
 on the plain among the squatter's grain. This meant that every 
 one of these animals upon which a squatter could draw a bead 
 would be shot. It also meant that every available horse must 
 be taken and ridden till the estrays could be collected and driven 
 for miles back into the hill pastures. 
 
 It may be noted that then the whole plain of Alameda 
 county from San Pablo to near San Jose more than forty miles 
 in length by two or three in width, was one vast grain-field, 
 without fences except the hill-foot fence which kept the cattle 
 up in the rolling pasture lands. 
 
 This horse was taken and ridden by an American, weigh- 
 ing about one hundred and seventy-five pounds. The wheat 
 was standing breast-high, and the work of collecting a large 
 drove of unbroken horses, mares and colts, scattered as they 
 
264 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Avere, over an extensive space, was very severe and continued 
 until half past two A. M. The stallion was returned in worse 
 condition than before. As day broke, many animals were 
 observed dotted about among the wheat-fields which had been 
 missed in the dark. Nearly every horse on the place was tired 
 out with the previous night's service. This one was again 
 taken by an Indian vaquero, a hard rider, and ridden as such 
 fellows ride till after midday. On returning, it was found 
 necessary to send to a village about fifteen miles distant. A 
 young man, the son of the ranchero, was sent, mounted on this 
 same horse. On that night some kind of a celebration was 
 being held, and this young man attended it, leaving the horse 
 tied to the fence till midnight. On arriving at home the horse 
 was put into the corral without further care on the part of the 
 rider, but the man who had ridden him on the night before rose 
 from his bed and dried, watered and fed him. 
 
 Meanwhile the person who was using the horse on the 
 survey had gone to San Francisco and returned. He arose 
 about daylight, found his stallion well-cared for, and in apparent 
 good condition, and knowing nothing of the hard work of the 
 preceding thirty-six hours, mounted and rode off to the sur- 
 veyor's camp, the horse showing no mark of any unusual ser- 
 vice. What one of our horses, today, would remain alive to the 
 end of such a piece of work? 
 
 Jacob Wright Harlan. 
 From "California, '46 to '88"; 
 San Francisco: Bancroft Company, 1888. 
 
 "WILD-COWTH"— AN INCIDENT 
 
 The early humorists of California were not confined to 
 the brilliant group, so well known to later readers, from the 
 books published by them. Not only did John Phoenix and J. 
 Ross Browne add to the gayety of the Pacific Coast, and 
 Artemas Ward and Orpheus C. Kerr before Mark Twain ap- 
 peared, but there were others, such as Charles Henry Webb, 
 under the pen-name of "J onn Paul," and Joseph Wasson, con- 
 nected with the daily press. Besides a number of such writers 
 as these, there was a general waggishness prevailing amongst 
 the miners themselves, which led to many a quip-and-turn, 
 which gave a certain grotesquerie to their speech. Many of 
 these men were graduates of Bowdoin, Yale, Harvard, Oberlin 
 and other colleges. As an offset to the digging for gold 
 attended by continuous fortune and misfortune, mostly the 
 iatter, which dogged their steps with never-ending malignancy, 
 
SEPTEMBER 265 
 
 they were forced to become philosophers out of sheer obsti- 
 nancy against Fate. So they fell to amusing themselves with 
 small things by the way, and thus the current of speech of 
 the coast tjecame "Phoenixized" in more ways than one ; for 
 a school of original wags added to these terms in their daily 
 talk, regardless of the press. 
 
 Taking notice of the fact that the "Eaglets of America" 
 over in France find their pleasure in talking to the children 
 there, reminds me of the way these grim men of early days in 
 California and Nevada conversed with the little boys and girls 
 of the mining-camps. 
 
 They were meditative men, much given to thinking, when 
 not working and seeking the ever-illusive gold, or trying to 
 find nepenthe in cards and drink to ward off despair. As I 
 think of it now, they always wanted to impress on us — the 
 young — how to get ahead of the world and escape their own 
 misfortunes. So it was nearly always a homily which they 
 gave us — simple as an Aesop's fable to us, but containing a 
 deeper understanding to the other men in the group, hitting 
 off some foible of one of them, or paying back some grudge, 
 as a double-edged knife turned around in a sensitive spot. 
 
 I remember one day something like this happening, when a 
 good friend of ours was telling us how to keep out of trouble. 
 
 "Now Bub and Ella, whatever else you do, keep away from 
 Spanish cattle — they can't be depended on like other cattle. 
 They're wild to begin with and wild to end with. They have 
 no sense of honor — when you see them coming, waving their 
 horns and rolling their eyes — just give them the road and 
 clear the track. It's no use trying to be kind and polite with 
 them — not at all ! Just get out and strike for the tall timber — 
 and climb a tree as high as you can." 
 
 "But," I demurred, "there are no trees here, only sage- 
 brush and rocks and mountains and hills — " 
 
 "All righty! you just go and climb a hill and hide behind 
 a rock till they get by — don't stop to reason with Spanish cat- 
 tle — it's waste of breath." 
 
 "But how'll we know they are Spanish cattle?" my little 
 brother inquired. Our friend gave a derisive chuckle. "By 
 their horns, my son, by their horns — you can never mistake 
 them — you can tell those uncowth creatures always — wherever 
 they are; indeed I may say, those 'wild-cowth' creatures that 
 get in everywhere, and have no manners and no honor ! Give 
 them the road and part company with them. For the only 
 thing they are fit for — is the slaughter-house." 
 
 At this point, one of the group (a very disagreeable fellow 
 to us, particularly) arose and went within. Presently he came 
 
266 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 out and passed up the road and he had his blanket on his 
 back. Our friend murmured, "Wild-cowth, that's all, but we 
 prefer his room to his company. 
 
 During the many years that have followed, I have not 
 forgotten that homily. Many has been the time that I have 
 come into contact with Spanish cattle, but discreetly I have 
 retired and let them have the road. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 
 From "Life in California" ; J 884. 
 
 TO THE OX 
 
 I see thee standing firmly as an oak 
 In contemplation of the field and sky, 
 With resignation in thy plaintive eye, 
 
 Though thy broad back has felt many a stroke ; 
 
 And though thy mighty neck beneath the yoke 
 Day after day, that passed unvarying by, 
 Hath bowed and strained until the stars were nigh 
 
 Since labor-rousing Dawn the hills awoke. 
 
 Helper of man, true brother of the soil, 
 
 That has with him the paths of progress made 
 Through wilderness trembling with surprise — 
 Great symbol thou of Patience and of Toil 
 
 To whom earth's children have such homage paid 
 That poets lift thee to immortal skies. 
 
 Edward Robeson Taylor. 
 From "Lavender and Other Verse"; 
 San Francisco: Paul Elder, Publisher. 
 From "Life in California". 
 
 THE JUDGMENTS OF LABOR 
 
 LABOR DAY, 1896 
 
 O world of great achievements! It is truthful, it is well 
 That here the judgments of thy toil in sacred song we tell. 
 
 Here, where the rocks are riven with the brightest of thy springs, 
 And Columbia's peerless Eagle in mighty freedom wings, 
 
 We heed the mandate echoed from Eden's flame-barred gate — 
 Upon the labor of our hands the daily bread shall wait. 
 
SEPTEMBER 267 
 
 Not the bay-leaves of the Roman, nor the Greek's twined laurel bough, 
 Were so proudly worn as Labor's dews upon the freeman's brow. 
 
 Labor! Thou bold, rough comforter of many a weary hour, 
 Well dost thou soothe the restless heart with thy insistent power. 
 
 Labor! What words can catalogue thy deeds stupendous roll? 
 Thine is the tempered steel in fire, the artist's hands control; 
 
 Thine the quarry's solid granite, made smooth and polished fine, 
 And the stately dome high lifted by the plummet and the line. 
 
 Labor! What of thy martyrs! Where the Isthmus rails were laid, 
 Thy banners were the cerements where many a grave was made. 
 
 And thy name hath been the watchword of the miner lost to life, 
 Who heareth o'er his living grave the wailing of his wife. 
 
 What of the bells' loud ringing upon the midnight air! 
 
 The roof-tree flames out-springing, as a panther from his lair! 
 
 Call and beckon to the fireman, and 'tis in thy name he strives 
 With Death, in awful conflict, for precious human lives. 
 
 Where the forge's flame is glowing, while the smitten anvil rings, 
 Or where, to groaning mast-trees the storm-bound sailor clings. 
 
 And when the moon is setting, and the stars before the dawn, 
 Pale as Endymion, at his case the printer still works on. 
 
 For the babe that rests encradled on its sleeping mother's breast, 
 Love, the watch-fire ever burning, thy name and force attest. 
 
 These are thy martyrs, Labor, the heroes of all time, 
 Beneath thy standard dying, they make thy name sublime. 
 
 And oh! ye hands long perished by distant flowing Nile, 
 
 What wrought ye, Time hath cherished — the Sphinx's mystic smile, 
 
 The lonely chambered pyramids — yea, long thy strength was lent, 
 To build for all the ages, Labor's grand monument. 
 
 Labor! What are thy triumphs! Behold, the bright prow leaps 
 Out of dock, full-finished, into the dark-blue deeps — 
 
 Where once the weary mariners, Columbus and his band, 
 
 Watched eagerly the green branch float, which welcomed them to land. 
 
 Behold the locomotive! Which dares the mountain height, 
 
 And sways across the canyon, while the watcher's cheek is white — 
 
 And the boldest heart grows gentler, with a sense that Death is near, 
 If fail the eye or swerve the hand, of the steadfast engineer. 
 
 Edison! Fulton Franklin! How might we swell the train! 
 
 Of hand and thought, so deftly wrought, the workers of the brain. 
 
268 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Longfellow! Dickens! Ingelow! Holding the talents ten, 
 
 Their songs are graved within our hearts, the laborers of the pen. 
 
 Thine exalted cause is freest where the Starry Banner gleams, 
 Thou sceptre of the nation! Most eloquent of themes! 
 
 And naming all thy glories, the dearest that we bless, 
 The mightiest and the grandest, is America's Free Press. 
 
 Gabriel Furlong Butler. 
 Note. — The author was but sixteen years of age when 
 this poem was written. — The Gatherer. 
 
 THE PICTURE OF A DESERTED GARDEN 
 
 Yesterday, just when the sun was going down, I went for 
 a walk in the Deserted Garden. It lies on the top of a quiet 
 hill, which rises gently from a regular nest of busy streets. 
 There was a house there once — a great house with broad steps 
 leading up from the street in a kind of arcade, and there were 
 porches and conservatories and sun-parlors, and inside, all the 
 doors were made of rosewood, and the handles of the doors 
 were made of beaten silver. The floors were of oak, the ceil- 
 ings were high and lofty and there were old-fashioned chande- 
 liers with glittering prisms of glass that shone in a thousand 
 colors when the gas was lit. There were curious dressing- 
 rooms with quaint old bowls of marble inlaid in colors all done 
 in Florence far across the sea and brought with great care 
 and expense out here to California. The story of the house 
 shows long processions coming and going; first a great 
 merchant when there were gay parties that filled the old 
 mansion to overflowing, but illness and death came up the 
 great steps and knocked with imperative knuckles upon the 
 wide door of solid rosewood, and the great merchant sold the 
 house and went away. Then followed a sea-captain, but he 
 died and his family with him and others came — and again 
 others. 
 
 There were weddings in the great rooms and once, they 
 say, there were ten-thousand baby roses hung in garlands in 
 the great sun porch — that was when there was a christening. 
 Crepe was hung upon the silver door-knob — for death would 
 as soon turn a silver handle for his entry as one made of 
 wood or porcelain and then the old house was deserted. 
 
 It stood in the midst of its wonderful gardens, lonely and 
 pathetic always as if it were standing on tiptoes to look down 
 the street and see when some of the family were coming home 
 again to open the dark shutters and throw wide the door and 
 
SEPTEMBER 269 
 
 let in the California sunshine like a benediction. The winds 
 beat against the doors, the fogs wrapped the old house in a gray 
 veil spangled with silver, and the rain streamed down upon 
 the decaying roof, and one day the place was sold and it was 
 told that the gardens were to be made over into city lots. 
 They tore down the old house, sold the rosewood doors and 
 the old fashioned mirrors and the marble mantels that had 
 gone out of fashion. They cut down the laurel trees and 
 burned the jasmine and the fuchsias and heliotrope to the 
 ground. But the property is not sold after all — not yet. 
 
 The heliotrope has sprung up again, the geraniums have 
 made themselves into a hedge, the honeysuckle and sweet 
 alyssum cling together and run along the walk till they are 
 like a fragrant carpet of white and purple, and everywhere the 
 roses burgeon and bloom in riotous perfumery. 
 
 From the top of the old garden there is a glimpse of the 
 blue bay of San Francisco, and of the steamers and the ferries 
 passing like white birds across the water. It is strange to 
 stand where the old house stood and hear the voices of the 
 fishermen singing far, far below, and watch the shadows fall 
 purple and mystical over Telegraph Hill, and see on the other 
 side, the sun sink into the great Pacific, and to wonder what 
 has become of all the people who were born and christened 
 and married in the old house, and where those are who 
 laughed and made merry there, and whether all the tears are 
 dried for those that wept. 
 
 The blooms seem to say there is no death. Afar they 
 wander, some of them in strange lands beyond the alien seas, 
 and some in great cities to the East, and some are old that 
 once were young, and some perhaps are sad that once were 
 gay, but in that old garden they once knew and loved, the roses 
 are blooming as fresh as if there was no such thing as death 
 or change in all the earth. 
 
 Wherever they wander — those who once lived in the great 
 house, one thing is sure. They will never find a more beautiful 
 spot in the world than they left behind them here in San Fran- 
 cisco at the top of the quiet hill which rises so quietly from the 
 
 busy streets. at 
 
 Annie Laurie. 
 
 From "The Call and Post" ; 
 
 June 10, 1918. 
 
270 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO IRVING M. SCOTT 
 
 THE BUILDER OF THE "OREGON" 
 
 There has never been a battleship so fondly remembered 
 by the Californians as the "Oregon", which was built in the 
 Union Iron Works and launched in our port, to achieve adven- 
 tures that brought us glory for all time, in her going forth. 
 The last to arrive, after her long trip around the coast of South 
 America by way of Cape Horn at the scene of conflict in Cuba 
 during the Spanish war, yet it was the Oregon and her captain 
 that led the way in that brilliant naval victory. It was the 
 story of the hare and the tortoise reaffirmed. Every body 
 knows the name of that warship and the builder, Irving M. 
 Scott, one of our Pioneer men of affairs, who directed wisely 
 everything to which he turned his attention. His was a broad 
 domain, for he was an orator, as well as being a builder. He 
 was a power for good in public works of all kinds, a patron of 
 art, a faithful friend to the lesser ones as well as to the higher 
 ones. Let it be said of him, with all his gifts and honors and 
 riches and splendid manhood, he had the modesty of true great- 
 ness. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From "Life in California'. 
 
 THE WHEAT OF SAN JOAQUIN 
 
 A thousand rustling yellow miles of wheat, 
 
 Gold-ripened in the sun, in one 
 
 Vast fenceless field. The hot June pours its flood 
 
 Of flaming splendor down, and burns 
 
 The field into such yellowness that it 
 
 Is gold of Nature's alchemy; and all 
 
 The mighty length and breadth of valley glows 
 
 With ripeness. 
 
SEPTEMBER 271 
 
 Then a rolling of machinery, 
 And tramp of horse and scream of steam 
 And swishing sighs of falling grain, 
 And sweaty brows of men ; and then — 
 The Samson of the valleys lieth shorn. 
 
 Madge Morris. 
 
 THE CAYOTE 
 
 Along about an hour after breakfast we saw the first wolf. 
 If I remember rightly, this latter was the regular Kayote (pro- 
 nounced ky-o-te) of the farther deserts. And if it was, he was 
 not a pretty creature, or respectable either, for I got well 
 acquainted with his race afterward, and can speak with confi- 
 dence. The cayote is a long, slim, sick-and-sorry-looking 
 skeleton, with a grey wolf-skin stretched over it, a tolerably 
 bushy tail that for ever sags down with a despairing expression 
 of forsakenness and misery, a furtive and evil eye, and a long 
 sharp face, with slightly lifted lip and exposed teeth. He has 
 a general slinking expression all over. The cayote is a living, 
 breathing allegory of want. He is always hungry. He is 
 always poor, out of luck, and friendless. The meanest creatures 
 despise him, and even the fleas would desert him for a veloci- 
 pede. He is so spiritless and cowardly that even while his 
 exposed teeth are pretending a threat, the rest of his face is 
 apologizing for it. And he is so homely! — so scrawny, and 
 ribby, and coarse-haired, and pitiful. When he sees you he 
 lifts his lip and lets a flash of his teeth out, and then turns 
 a little out of the course he was pursuing, depresses his head 
 a bit, and strikes a long, soft-footed trot through the sage-brush, 
 glancing over his shoulder at you, from time to time, till he is 
 about out of easy pistol range, and then he stops and takes 
 a deliberate survey of you ; he will trot fifty yards and stop 
 again — another fifty and stop again ; and finally the grey of 
 his gliding body blends with the grey of the sage-brush, and 
 he disappears. 
 
 It is considered that the cayote, and the obscene birds, and 
 the Indian of the desert testify their blood kinship with each 
 other in that they live together in the waste places of the eart 1 - 
 on terms of perfect confidence and friendship, while hating all 
 other creatures and yearning to assist at their funerals. He 
 does not mind going a hundred miles to breakfast, and a hun- 
 dred and fifty to dinner, because he is sure to have three or 
 
272 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 four days between meals, and he can just as well be travelling 
 and looking" at the scenery as lying around doing nothing and 
 adding to the burdens of his parents. 
 
 Mark Twain. 
 From "Roughing It". 
 
 A GOLDEN WEDDING IN 1881 
 
 The first party of white emigrants to California by way of 
 Missouri, did not find a path, they cut one and this was the one 
 in which the ill-fated Donner party followed two years later. 
 This first party of emigrants which started on the 24th day of 
 May, 184;4, to make their way to the Pacific coast consisted of 
 three generations of Murphys, and their quest was climate. 
 
 This they found in Santa Clara county where they estab- 
 lished themselves and won honors, riches and renown. Their 
 cattle roamed upon a thousand hills. Their hospitality was 
 equal to that of the Spanish dons. 
 
 When in 1881 the subject was broached of celebrating 
 the golden wedding anniversary of Martin Murphy and his 
 wife, the genial old man said, "Don't talk to me of cards of 
 invitation, just invite everybody — they will all be welcome". 
 And so three carloads of guests arrived from San Francisco 
 alone, while every sort of vehicle brought them from far and 
 near in the adjoining counties to Santa Clara, until three 
 thousand men, women and children had assembled to do honor 
 to the occasion, and to offer congratulations to the worthy 
 couple. 
 
 In the grove were built dinner-tables, dancing platforms, 
 band stands, refreshment buffets, carving tables and other 
 preparations for the entertainment of guests. At one side of 
 the dancing-platform beneath a natural oak, stood the aged 
 and happy couple receiving the congratulations which poured 
 in upon them. * The white-haired bride looked charmingly quaint 
 in black brocade of antique fashion, black lace shawl and soft 
 white cap. The bridegroom of seventy-four was straight, stal- 
 wart and dark; unflecked by even a single silver hair. Sus- 
 pended from a branch of the oak tree overhead was a magnifi- 
 cent wedding bell composed of tuberoses, geraniums and 
 pansies. 
 
 No description of this splendid historic scene would be ade- 
 quate that failed to do justice to the preparations made in 
 producing the barbecued meats for the providing for the needs 
 of the inner man thus assembled. For the feast was provided 
 
SEPTEMBER 273 
 
 a dozen sheep, a dozen porkers, a half dozen of beeves, fatted, 
 all of them for the occasion ; the selected of countless flocks, 
 droves and herds, choice, fat and young. A trench had been 
 dug, 115 feet long, 4 faet deep and 4 feet broad. From that 
 moment all the preparations were conducted under the imme- 
 diate management of the chief of the barbecue and his assist- 
 ants. A most picturesque person in the broadest sombrero is 
 this same chief of the barbecue, master of ceremonies, even 
 though his name is merely Smith. He has reduced the art of 
 barbecues to a science. At midnight Sunday, Smith and his 
 Mexicans took charge of affairs, lighted a fire in the entire 
 length of the trench and carefully fed it till six in the morning. 
 
 Scientifically fed was the fire, for the seven cords of wood 
 used must leave no charred nor smoky embers, nothing but 
 glowing coals frosted with clean burnt white ashes. The sides 
 and bottom of the trench were heated to almost a red heat. 
 Then the quartered beef and the whole sheep and pigs were 
 placed on to cook. Each piece — there were seven carcasses of 
 beef, ten of sheep and ten of pork placed on at once — was 
 spitted with two rods of iron, the ends of which rested on either 
 bank of the trench. Each piece, too was seasoned with a coat- 
 ing of salt and pepper and basted at each turning. The basting 
 was contained in a kettle over an adjoining fire, and consisted 
 of melted butter, seasoned with care by the chief. The chief 
 with a small mop and a can of basting, moved from spit to 
 spit, and with the confidence of long experience, moistened the 
 rich smelling sides of the browning carcasses with the care 
 that an artist applies the finishing touches to his exhibition 
 painting. His assistants turned the spits or with small brooms 
 sprinkled water on the coals beneath the pieces which were 
 browning too fast. This process continued from six in the 
 morning until noon, when the chief turned over his charge to 
 the carvers. They demonstrated the result to be perfectly 
 cooked meats not a drop of whose juices had escaped; tender, 
 rich flavored, unsurpassable. To taste of this product is to be 
 born over again to a new sensation never known before, pos- 
 sibly never to be known again. 
 
 The preparation for the feast was as lavish in every other 
 department as that presided over by the knight of the barbecue. 
 Bread by the wagon load, salads by the bushels, red wine and 
 champagne for the uncorking, beer by the keg, punch by the 
 barrel were supplied, generously to the thousands present, 
 besides fowl and fruits and many other things too numerous to 
 mention. 
 
 Dancing and music were followed by dinner, and dinner 
 was followed by speeches of notables, among whom were 
 
274 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 General P. W. Murphy, Senator Gwin, Judge Evans and others. 
 Toasts were given to the bride and groom, and the valley of 
 Santa Clara echoed to the merry voices and good cheer of that 
 wonderful day as the caravans of guests slowly returned to their 
 homes to the north, south, east and west, and day faded into 
 night. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 Condensed from daily newspaper; 
 July 19, 1881. 
 
 TO SANTA NIEBLA, OUR LADY OF THE FOGS 
 
 There are Californians who waver in their allegiance to 
 the climate of California. Sometimes the climate of San 
 Francisco has made me cross. Sometimes I have thought that 
 the winds in summer were too cold, that the fogs in summer 
 were too thick. But whenever I have crossed the continent — 
 when I have emerged from New York at ninety-five degrees, 
 and entered Chicago at one hundred degrees — when I have 
 been breathing the dust of alkali deserts and the fiery air of 
 sage-brush plains — these are the times when I have always 
 been buoyed up by the anticipation of inhaling the salt air of 
 San Francisco Bay. 
 
 If ever summer wanderer is glad to get back to his 
 native land, it is I, returning to my native fog. Like that 
 prodigal youth who returned to his home and filled himself 
 with husks, so I always yearn in summer to return to mine, 
 and fill myself up with fog. Not a thin insignificant mist, but a 
 fog — a thick fog — one of those rich August fogs that blow in 
 from the Pacific ocean over San Francisco. 
 
 When I leave the heated capitals of other lands and get 
 back to California uncooked, I always offer up a thank-offering 
 to Santa Niebla, Our Lady of the Fogs. Out near the Presidio, 
 where Don Joaquin de Arillaga, the old comandante, revisits 
 the glimpses of the moon, clad in rusty armor, with his Spanish 
 spindle-shangs thrust into tall leathern boots — there some day 
 I shall erect a chapel to Santa Niebla. And I have vowed to 
 her as to an ex-voto a silver fog-horn, which horn will be 
 wound by the winds of the broad Pacific, and will ceaselessly 
 sound through the centuries the litany of Our Lady of the 
 Fogs. 
 
 Every Californian has good reason to be loyal to his native 
 land. If even the Swiss villagers, born in the high Alps, long 
 to return to their birthplace, how much the more does the 
 exiled Californian long to return to the land which bore him. 
 
GALAXY 15.— ORATORS, DIVINES AND STATESMEN 
 
 Stephen M. White 
 Thomas Starr King 
 
 John F. Davis 
 Ferdinand C. Ewer 
 
 Horatio Stebbins 
 James D. Phelan 
 Thomas Guard 
 Junipero Serra 
 
 Adley H. Cummins 
 
 Joseph Sadoc Alemany 
 
 Thomas Fitch 
 
 Newton Booth 
 
 275 
 
GALAXY 16.— POETS AND PROSE-WRITERS 
 
 Jack London 
 
 George Hamlin Fitch 
 
 Ella Higginson 
 
 Gertrude Atherton 
 
 Kate Douglas Wiggin 
 Frank Norris 
 Wallace Irwin 
 Gelett Burgess 
 
 Will Irwin 
 Edward R. Taylor 
 
 George Sterling 
 Herman Whittaker 
 
 276 
 
SEPTEMBER 277 
 
 There are other, richer, and more populous lands, but to the 
 Californian born, California is the only place in which to live. 
 And to the returning Californian, particularly if he be native- 
 born, the love of his birthplace is only intensified by visits to 
 other lands. 
 
 Jerome A. Hart. 
 From "Argonaut Letters". 
 
 THE SPELL OF THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 I have been looking from this rock ten hundred thousand years. 
 
 I have not moved since God Eternal made a million spheres. 
 I saw the sun swing into place, 
 The myriad stars pause high in space; 
 I saw the moon drift from the blue 
 And brighter grow, on nearer view ; 
 I heard God's voice in mighty sweep 
 Call mountains from the shoreless deep ; 
 He drew them up against the sky 
 And hung His feathery clouds on high. 
 I saw Him from the mountain seams 
 Pour sparkling, bubbling, crystal streams. 
 His cooling breath was on my face — 
 And winds possessed unmeasured space ! 
 He blessed the earth — and forests sprang. 
 He spoke — and feathered choirs sang. 
 These granite rocks are organ keys 
 His rivers play, and every breeze 
 That whispers to the listening ear 
 Sings in the anthem: "God is Here!" 
 
 Rife Goodloe. 
 
 TOLERANCE 
 
 What know you of my soul's inherent strife 
 
 By that calm faith, untried, which Wells in thine? 
 
 How can you from the kn°v>ledg e of your life 
 Write out a creed for mine? 
 
 Madge Morris Wagner. 
 From "Golden Era Magazine" ; 1885. 
 
278 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 ABOUT THE CRICKETS OF SILVERADO 
 
 Crickets were not wanting. I thought I could make out 
 exactly four of them, each with a corner of his own, who 
 used to make night musical at Silverado. In the matter of 
 voice, they far excelled the birds, and their ringing whistle 
 sounded from rock to rock, calling and replying the same thing, 
 as in a meaningless opera. Thus, children in full health and 
 spirits shout together, to the dismay of their neighbors; and 
 their idle, happy deafening vociferations rise and fall, like the 
 song of the crickets. I used to sit at night on the platform, 
 and wonder why these creatures were so happy; and what was 
 wrong with man that he did not also wind up his days with 
 an hour or two of shouting; but I suspect that all long-lived 
 animals are solemn. 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson. 
 From "The Silverado Squatters" '. 
 
 THE CRICKET 
 
 The twilight is the morning of his day — 
 
 While Sleep drops seaward from the fading shore 
 With purpling sail and dip of silver oar, 
 
 He cheers the shadowed time with roundelay, 
 
 Until the dark east softens into gray. 
 
 Now as the noisy hours are coming — hark! 
 His song dies gently — it is getting dark — 
 
 His night with its one star is on the way! 
 
 Faintly the light breaks over the blowing oats — 
 
 Sleep, little Brother, sleep: I am astir. 
 Lead thou the starlit night with merry notes, 
 
 And I will lead the clamoring day with rhyme 
 We worship Song, and servants are of. her — 
 I in the bright hours, thou in shadow-time. 
 
 Edwin Markham. 
 From "Readings from the California Poets" ; 
 San Francisco, 1893. 
 
 THE NOBLEST LIFE 
 
 The noblest life — the life of labor, 
 The noblest love — the love of neighbor. 
 
 Lorenzo Sosso. 
 From "Wisdom of the Wise". 
 
SEPTEMBER 279 
 
 THE GREAT PANORAMA 
 
 In September we have an orgie of peaches — peaches of not 
 only exquisite flavor and comfort to the inner man, but also of 
 a beauty transcendent. At the solstice time one should hold 
 a little ceremonial in honor of this beauty and grace of the sea- 
 son. There is something about a peach-tree that should make 
 it honored. Freestones, clingstones, mountain and other variety 
 follow one after another — each giving joy and flavor to life. 
 While the sight of them feasts the eye with their yellow and 
 pink tinting, like topaz and coral combined by a Master Artist. 
 
 S. E. 
 
 ON THE PRESIDIO HILLS 
 
 Bare of all save bending grasses, 
 
 Fleurs-de-lis, 
 And a wind that lightly passes 
 
 From the sea, 
 O, today I would be dreaming 
 Where the lances green are gleaming — 
 Where the lonely mists are lifting, 
 And the salt, salt winds are drifting 
 
 From the sea! 
 
 Silent save for bird notes falling 
 
 Full and free, 
 ....And a wind that's ever calling 
 
 To the sea. 
 O, today I would be resting 
 Where the meadow-lark is nesting — 
 Where the fleurs-de-lis are growing, 
 And the salt, salt winds are blowing 
 
 From the sea! 
 
 Yes, I'm dreaming of the shining 
 
 Fleurs-de-lis, 
 And a wind that's softly pining 
 
 For the sea — 
 Of the grass in waving motion 
 On the wild hills by the ocean, 
 Where the lark its flight is winging 
 And the wind is singing, singing 
 To the sea! 
 
 Martha T. Tyler. 
 From "Overland Monthly* ; 
 September, 1898. 
 

 THE PASSING OF TENNYSON 
 
 We knew it, as God's prophets knew ; 
 
 We knew it, as mute red men know, 
 When Mars leapt searching heaven through 
 
 With flaming torch that he must go. 
 Then Browning, he who knew the stars, 
 Stood forth and faced the insatiate Mars. 
 
 Then up from Cambridge rose and turned 
 Sweet Lowell from his Druid trees — 
 
 Turned where the great star blazed and burned, 
 As if his own soul might appease. 
 Yet on and on, through all the stars, 
 
 Still searched and searched insatiate Mars. 
 
 Then staunch Walt Whitman saw and knew; 
 
 Forgetful of his "Leaves of Grass," 
 Lie heard his "Drum Taps," and God drew 
 
 His great soul through the shining pass, 
 Made light, made bright by burnished stars, 
 Made scintillant from flaming Mars. 
 
 Then soft-voiced Whittier was heard 
 To cease; was heard to sing no more; 
 
 As you have heard some sweetest bird 
 The more because its song is o'er. 
 
 Yet brighter up the street of stars 
 
 Still blazed and burned and beckoned Mars. 
 
 And then the king came; king of thought, 
 King David with his harp and crown. . 
 
 How wisely well the gods had wrought 
 That these had gone and sat them down 
 
 To wait and welcome mid the stars 
 
 All silent in the sight of Mars. 
 
 
OCTOBER 281 
 
 All silent. . . So, he lies in state. . . 
 
 Our redwoods drip and drip with rain. . . 
 Against our rock-locked Golden gate 
 
 We hear the great and sobbing main. 
 But silent all. . . He walked the stars 
 That year the whole world turned to Mars. 
 
 Joaquin Miller. 
 From "Story of the Files of California' ; 
 San Francisco, 1893. 
 
 BRET HARTE 
 
 What jewel shines in California's round 
 Above the cunning of the scales to weigh, 
 Beyond all dollar-value men can lay 
 
 Upon the gilded things their hands have found? 
 
 Is it her radiant mountain peaks that sound 
 The note of glory to their deathless day, 
 Or verdurous, tree-lined valleys that convey 
 
 Her streams with crystalline, rare beauty crowned? 
 
 Ah, no ! 'Tis he who does the heart entrance 
 
 With all the wonders of that great romance, 
 His own imagination makes sublime ; 
 
 'Tis he who gives, by his bewitching art, 
 Eternal breathing to that virgin time 
 
 Which tried the essence of men's souls — Bret Harte. 
 
 Edward Robeson Taylor. 
 From "Overland Monthly" ; December, 1914. 
 
 THE FIRST RAIN 
 
 Last night the moody sky burst forth in tears ; 
 Through the wide silence of the darkened air, 
 The long chill drops descended everywhere ; 
 
 As, on the heart, sometimes, fall gloomy fears, 
 
 And memories of sorrow-laden years ; 
 
 But in the morn the world awoke from sleep, 
 And smiled and whispered, "It is good to weep." 
 
 John E. Richards. 
 
282 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 WALKING THROUGH THE MUSTARD 
 
 As Father Salvierderra proceeded he found the mustard 
 thicker and thicker. The wild mustard in Southern California 
 is like that spoken of in the New Testament, in the branches 
 of which birds of the air may rest. Coming out of the earth, 
 so slender a stem that dozens can find starting-point in an inch, 
 it darts up, a slender straight shoot, five, ten, twenty feet, with 
 hundreds of fine feathery branches locking and interlocking 
 with all the other hundreds around it, till it is an inextricable 
 network like lace. Then it burst into yellow bloom still finer, 
 more feathery and lacelike. The stems are so infinitesimally 
 small and of so dark a green, that at a short distance they do 
 not show, and the cloud of blossom seems floating in the air; 
 at times it looks like golden dust. With a clear blue sky be- 
 hind it, as it is often seen, it looks like a golden snow-storm. 
 The plant is a tyrant and a nuisance — the terror of the farmer; 
 it takes riotous possession of a whole field in a season; once 
 in, never out; for one plant this year, a million the next; but 
 it is impossible to wish that the land were freed from it. Its 
 gold is as distinct a value to the eye as the nugget gold is in 
 the pocket. 
 
 As he went upon his way he soon found himself in a 
 veritable thicket of these delicate branches. * * * It was 
 a fantastic sort of dilemma and not unpleasing. Except that 
 the Father was in haste to reach his journey's end, he would 
 have enjoyed threading his way through the golden meshes. 
 Suddenly he heard faint notes of singing. He paused — listened. 
 It was the voice of a woman. It was slowly drawing nearer. 
 * * * Peering ahead through the mustard blossoms, he saw 
 them waving and bending. * * * The notes grew clearer; 
 light steps were now to be heard. * * * In a moment more 
 came, distinct and clear to his ear, the beautiful words of the 
 second stanza of St. Francis' inimitable lyric, "The Canticle 
 of the Sun:" 
 
 "Praise be to thee, O Lord, for all thy creatures, and espe- 
 cially for our brother, the Sun — who illuminates the day, and 
 by his beauty and splendor shadows forth unto us thine." 
 
 "Ramona," exclaimed the Father, his thin cheeks flushing 
 with pleasure. "The blessed child !" And as he spoke her face 
 came into sight set in a swaying frame of the blossoms, as she 
 parted them lightly to the right and left with her hands, and 
 half crept, half danced through the loop-hole openings thus 
 made. * * * Ramona's beauty was of the sort to be best 
 enhanced by the waving gold which now framed her face. 
 
OCTOBER 283 
 
 * * * Her hair was like her Indian mother's, heavy and 
 black, but her eyes were like her father's, steel-blue. 
 
 She cried out joyfully, "Ah, Father, I knew you would 
 come by this path," and she sprang forward and sank on her 
 knees before him, bowing her head for his blessing. 
 
 Helen Hunt Jackson. 
 From "Ramona; A Story"; 
 Boston: Little, Brown & Company, 1911. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO THE AUTHOR OF "RAMONA" 
 
 "H. H." 
 
 Proud California! bend thy head, 
 And measure, reverently, thy tread; 
 
 And plant thy tallest pine to wave 
 Above the gentle stranger's grave! 
 
 ****** 
 A rose has dropped into the sea, 
 
 And drowned; — 
 But every wave that washed the lea, 
 
 Or swept the ocean round, 
 Came back and brought upon its crest 
 A sweetness from the rose's breast. 
 
 A song bird on the summit crown 
 
 Of self-denied, 
 Fell slowly fluttering, fluttering down, 
 
 And died; — 
 But all the hills and valleys rung 
 With music of the songs it sung. 
 
 A woman's soul has crossed the size 
 
 Of mortal sight — 
 A woman's hands, a woman's eyes 
 
 Are shut in night; — 
 But all along the way she came 
 Are springing blessings on her name. 
 
 O rose! O bird! O woman's heart! 
 
 Dead heart — dead flower — and silent bird, — 
 Ye gave us but the fainter part 
 
 Of songs ye heard: 
 The solemn nights have sung to thee, — 
 
284 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 The tree, and winds and moaning sea; 
 The mighty silences of space 
 Closed round and taught thee face to face ! 
 No land may claim thee to enshrine, 
 Thou art the world's — the world was thine. 
 
 Madge Morris. 
 San Francisco: September, 1885. 
 
 HELEN HUNT JACKSON 
 
 "H. H." 
 
 What songs found voice upon those lips, 
 What magic dwelt within the pen, 
 
 Whose music into silence slips, 
 Whose spell lives not again ! 
 
 For her the clamorous today 
 
 The dreamful yesterday became ; 
 
 The brands upon dead hearths that lay 
 Leaped into living flame. 
 
 Clear ring the silvery Mission bells 
 Their calls to vesper and to mass ; 
 
 O'er vineyard slopes, thro' fruited dells, 
 The long processions pass; 
 
 The pale Franciscan lifts in air 
 
 The Cross above the kneeling throng; 
 
 Their simple world how sweet with prayer, 
 With chant and matin-song! 
 
 There, with her dimpled, lifted hands, 
 Parting the mustard's golden plumes, 
 
 The dusky maid, Ramona, stands 
 Amid the sea of blooms. 
 
 And Alessandro, type of all . . 
 
 His broken tribe, for evermore 
 An exile, hears the stranger call 
 
 Within his father's door. 
 
 The visions vanish and are not, 
 
 Still are the sounds of peace and strife, 
 
 Passed with the earnest heart and thought 
 Which lured them back to life. 
 
OCTOBER 285 
 
 O sunset land ! O land of vine, 
 And rose, and bay! in silence here 
 
 Let fall one little leaf of thine, 
 With love, upon her bier. 
 
 Ina Coolbrith. 
 
 PIONEER AND OLD SETTLERS' DAY 
 
 It was a wonderful pilgrimage, led by Alexander P. Mur- 
 gotten of San Jose, on that day, October 16, 1915, when the 
 Pioneers and the Old Settlers were met at the gates of the 
 Panama-Pacific International Exposition, by the officials thereof, 
 and a grand march was formed, six abreast, to be escorted to 
 the California Building! A band preceded them and to inspir- 
 ing music of the olden time, marched they all, a thousand and 
 more, gathered thus for the occasion from practically every one 
 of the fifty-two counties of the State. 
 
 Hundreds of Pioneers, who had not seen each other for 
 years, met again on this day. As they marched there was a 
 solemnity upon them all, for they knew it was, doubtless, the 
 last gathering that would thus assemble them together — they 
 who had come to this land in 1849, or before, or near that date, 
 who were thus marching together, six abreast, their heads 
 crowned with silver and their hearts full of memories of the 
 early days and the thousands of those who had departed to 
 the Beyond in these intermediate years. 
 
 Scattered throughout the marching throng were wives and 
 daughters arrayed in the elegant heirlooms of the past — 
 rich East Indian shawls of camel's hair or cashmere, and beau- 
 tiful crepe shawls of spotless white, or of bright embroideries, 
 with long, swaying fringes, or wearing scarves and bonnets of 
 the early Victorian era, which gave a new idea of the dignity 
 and elegance of that time, for some of these rich webs from 
 the looms of India and China were paid for in California gold, 
 requiring five hundred or even a thousand dollars for the pur- 
 chase of them. Nothing was too good for the brides of the 
 miners in those days. Wonderful bags and reticules and hand- 
 some fans and other souvenirs of the past were placed proudly 
 on exhibition that day to speak for the women of the early times. 
 
 And so they marched, six abreast, a noble host, under the 
 leadership of Alexander P. Murgotten (the editor for twenty 
 years of "The Pioneer Magazine"), to show to all the world 
 their high hearts and enthusiasm and their loyalty to the land 
 which they had served from their youth up to this day of days. 
 
286 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 And marching with them were the native sons and daughters 
 whose final duty it is to take their places when they are here 
 no more. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 
 From "Life in California, 1 
 October 16, 1915. 
 
 LET THIS DREAM BE TRUE 
 
 Softly o'er the dark lagoon 
 
 Winds of evening sigh; 
 Softly falls the fountain's tune 
 
 Where the breezes die; 
 Night is ours, my dreams, I cry, 
 Night is ours; but ah, too soon 
 
 Must my dreaming die! 
 
 What will morning bring to me 
 
 In this leafy shade — 
 Only a sweet memory 
 
 Of a fairy glade? 
 Night is ours, my lovely dream. 
 Night is ours; but ah, so soon 
 
 Must my dreaming fade? 
 
 Nay! Let Greed his vandal hand 
 
 From this vision stay! 
 Other dreams of fairy land 
 Vanish with the day; 
 Let this dream no man undo! 
 While the winds of fancy play, 
 Let this dream be true! 
 
 Charles Phillips. 
 
 From "San Francisco Call and Post" ; 
 
 October 14, 1915. 
 
 This lyric was sung at the Exposition as a part of the 
 
 Fine Arts Preservation Day programme. . 
 
 EDWIN BOOTH 
 
 In vision I behold by Avon's side 
 
 The mighty Shakespeare, and a wondrous train — 
 The vast creations of that matchless brain — 
 
 Walked with him through the dusk of eventide. 
 
 Slowly the dim procession, solemn-eyed, 
 Therewith the tawny Moor, and Cawdor's thane, 
 
OCTOBER 287 
 
 And, soul most sorrowful, the princely Dane, 
 Passed and repassed into the shadows wide, , 
 Then with a sense of overmastering awe, 
 
 And listening heart that scarcely seemed to stir, 
 I woke; to lapsing centuries of time, 
 To the thronged walls, and blaze of lights, and saw 
 Not Shakespeare, but his grand Interpreter, 
 Than thought's great master only less sublime. 
 
 Ina Coolbrith. 
 From "Songs of the Golden Gate"; 
 Houghton, Mifflin & Company, 
 Boston and New York, 1895. 
 
 EDWIN BOOTH, THE EXPRESSION OF 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 It is a dastard thing that time has done in laying his with- 
 ering hand so heavily upon Edwin Booth. The great actor 
 seemed to be one of "the few, the immortal men that were not 
 born to die", if one may paraphrase something too great to 
 bear a change, and consequently to have immunity from the 
 ghoulish hand of decay. 
 
 To the greater part of us he is a memory only ten years 
 old, and ten years ago he was still so young that youth was one 
 of the manifold graces of his wonderful Hamlet. 
 
 When, therefore, the curtain rolled up slowly, even sol- 
 emnly, on Monday night — or it may have seemed so in the 
 breathless hush of expectancy — and the Hamlet looked mourn- 
 fully out upon us from the lineaments of an old man, there 
 was not a heart that did not throb with a moment's pain. Cu- 
 riously enough, it did not strike people as being exactly wrong. 
 There is but one Hamlet, and his name is Edwin Booth. But 
 people have been talking it over — and taking a melancholy 
 comfort in it, too — and wondering vaguely if nothing could be 
 done. Booth has ruthlessly sheared his hyperian locks, which 
 were, for so many years, distinctive of him, and their impa- 
 tient shake belonged to Hamlet quite as much as the fitful clap- 
 ping of his brow. 
 
 One would say of another man that he had cut his hair, 
 but it does not seem quite the phrase to apply to Booth, who 
 is the romantic figure of the day, so far as the stage is con- 
 cerned. The thought comes that he is shorn like a new Absa- 
 lom, and every one who has loved his Hamlet cannot help but 
 sigh for his lost locks. The swarth of his dark, Oriental face 
 
288 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 would seem to take kindly to pigments, and what can restore 
 the lustre of his marvelous eyes? * * * Shakespeare was 
 his creator, but with Edwin Booth, Hamlet was born, and with 
 Edwin Booth Hamlet will die. For look you, this is not acting 
 that we have been wondering over. There is no smell of the 
 midnight oil on this pale, dark, mystic-looking man. These 
 clear, meaningful readings are not the tortured evolutions of 
 the student's study, for Edwin Booth is not a student, and 
 there is no strain of pedantry in any translation of his. There's 
 a laugh for the commentators and a flip of the fingers for the 
 interpreters when Edwin Booth is a Hamlet. There are no 
 new readings to startle you ; no tricksy business to distract 
 you. Edwin Booth is the expression of Shakespeare. He does 
 not step alone into the inky cloak and cross-garters of the mel- 
 ancholy Dane. He steps into his fighting soul, and the complex 
 Hamlet, who has tortured a thousand students, is as clear as 
 morning light to this genius who gives body to a book-wraith 
 that has been waiting for him almost three hundred years. 
 And therefore it is that Hamlet was born with Edwin Booth. 
 And it is meet and fitting this time that Hamlet grow old, and 
 we cry, "Ah, the pity of it!" But we shall look with exquisite 
 tenderness upon every time-seam in his face, upon every glint 
 of gray in his locks, upon every fire that still flashes in his eye. 
 
 Mary Therese Austin. 
 From "Our Betsy £."; 
 From San Francisco Argonaut. 
 
 THE REVIEW OF AN ENTHUSIASTIC CRITIC 
 
 Turn to another column if you think I'm about to describe for you the voice of 
 Galli-Curci. For who shall catch in words the phantasy of rainbows arched above 
 falling waters, moon-lit? There's no such thing. Very well, then, there's no such 
 thing as Galli-Curci's voice until Galli-Curci sings — and then there is the miracle of 
 rainbows by moonlight. 
 
 Perhaps, if you remember Tetrazzini's luscious voice, you will glimpse something 
 of the truth about Galli-Curci, if I say that this Italian-Spanish prodigy is Louisa 
 refined. She is Tetrazzini spiritualized. If you recall the pearls — white pearls — that 
 came from the throat of Melba, you may feel something close to truth concerning 
 Galli-Curci if I tell you that this latest gift of God to melody is Melba made tender. 
 The pearls are turned to tears, now — tears of happiness and sweet sadness. 
 
 When Galli-Curci sings, the world slips away. Visions come before you of loved 
 ones who are gone, and you wonder, can there be such singing up there where Gabriel 
 stands and where Israfael sweeps his lyre? You doubt it and are sad that you may 
 not touch a vanished hand and press it in token of a spiritual joy mutually felt. 
 
 Of course I willingly admit that Galli-Curci is but a woman. That's just it. She 
 is as feminine as a shepherdess on a china cup. Even more so. Perhaps she has a 
 temper. I don't know anything about that. But when Galli-Curci sings she is trans- 
 figured. She is no longer a woman. She is womanhood. She is tender, arch, cajoling, 
 scolding, loving, pure, fickle, or superb, just as her song provides. 
 
 While I may not describe her voice, it is possible to indicate some of the phenom- 
 ena which accompany its spiritual manifestations. 
 
 She sings with the same amount of effort that is visible in a babe's breathing when 
 the lullaby and the sandman have done their peaceful work. Like the banners on Poe's 
 palace, her voice "floats and flows." It is as unlabored as a sigh. Whether the tone 
 be at one extreme or the other of the gamut of her range, makes no difference. It is 
 found unerringly as to pitch, without consciousness, and it is to flatter all larks to say 
 it is as free as their meadow songs. Octaves, sixths, awkward, augmented intervals, 
 
OCTOBER 289 
 
 thrills, embroideries of all kinds are accomplished subconsciously. There is not even 
 the theatricalism of a Tetrazzini who picks up her handkerchief while singing a top 
 tone in order to prove how easily she does it. Galli-Curci seems quite unconscious of 
 her own consummate mastery, and so is deliciously free from any attempt to prove it. 
 
 Her vocal agility is not disclosed with the vanity of an acrobat on a trapeze — with 
 bows and flourishes and condescending smiles. She approaches her cadenzas, her scales 
 and her skips with the modest manner of one determined to make them all beautiful. 
 The result of it is — perfection; or as close to it as mortal is likely to reach. Linlike 
 all other singers of this type of song, Galli-Curci attacks her duty like a musician and 
 a poet. She makes of the most florid of passages something spiritual — the spirit is 
 identified as Beauty. 
 
 And now for good news. Galli-Curci sings again at the Civic Auditorium next 
 Sunday afternoon. Composers and soloists rise one at a time. Once in a generation 
 there appears a prodigy whose art draws back the veil briefly and you catch a glimpse 
 of something not made for words, but celestial and pure and holy. Even this will 
 Galli-Curci do for you when she sings. 
 
 "Our" Walter Anthony. 
 From "The San Francisco Chronicle" ; 
 May 13, 1918. 
 
 DID THE EARLY MAYANS WORSHIP NUMBERS? 
 
 The concept is so novel that, at first thought, it seems ab- 
 surd. But at second thought, would it be so ridiculous for us 
 even to venerate them? — the only true, infallible and absolute 
 things we know of, or at least the only ones we can compre- 
 hend. Eliminating all superstitious influences — I know of no 
 object of veneration to which the mind of man should as readily 
 turn as to mathematics — the single force whose constant pres- 
 sure by manifold ways elevates from savagery. The Maya 
 nation had nothing in the shape of revelation to affect them 
 and so gravitated, according to their own inclination, to a form 
 of worship of their own. The one thing that impressed them 
 was that they had arisen from savagery through their discovery 
 of the power of numbers. And that the science of numbers was 
 what had kept on elevating them, till it finally achieved an ap- 
 parently superhuman triumph in the perfection of their mar- 
 velous calendars. 
 
 What wonder, then, that they ascribed to the numerals 
 superhuman powers and deified them? Other peoples have 
 sanctified objects for a thousandfold less reason. 
 
 Let the reason be what it may, that they did deify num- 
 bers and make them objects of worship is certain. By the fea- 
 tures, breast-plates and ornaments of the idols, taken in con- 
 nection with other numeral signs surrounding them, it is easy 
 to distinguish the god 4, the god 13, the god 20, and so on. 
 But the favorite or greatest god, the one to whom they built 
 everywhere the most and the largest monuments, was the god 1. 
 
 This is unmistakable, from the fact of the identity of the 
 face and the ornaments with that of 1 in the series of face nu- 
 
290 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 merals. And it is probable, too, that 1, being the basis of all 
 numeration, should come to be looked upon as the Primal 
 Number — the First Great Cause. 
 
 Research may yet show that all systems of religion were 
 originally built upon a similar plan of numeral worship. If 
 polytheistic, there need be no limit to the number of gods; if 
 monotheistic, it is only necessary to suppose that all but the 
 principal deity have been eliminated and that the god 1 has 
 become the One God. 
 
 Joseph Thompson Goodman. 
 Editor of the Virginia Enterprise and of the San Franciscan, 
 From "Archaic Maya Inscriptions' ; published in Fleet Street, 
 London: Taylor & Francis, 1895. 
 
 AU REVOIR 
 
 "Ah me," the tender zephyrs sigh, 
 And back again they gently turn 
 
 To bid the flowers and leaves good-bye, 
 To kiss again the fading fern, 
 
 Once more to steal some perfume sweet 
 
 And lay it at the Summer's feet, 
 Dear Summer gliding past. 
 
 The cricket's song at close of day 
 
 Hath lost its cheery, blithesome tone, 
 
 And mournfully and far away 
 
 It sounds with wood-dove's plaintive moan; 
 
 And loving birds are hushed and still 
 
 That wooed the Summer from the hill, 
 The Summer dying fast. 
 
 The boisterous breezes of the Fall, 
 Frost-laden, sweep with rudest rush, 
 
 Familiarly to toy with all 
 The leaves, which scarlet blush 
 
 And die for shame to think that they 
 
 Perforce the zephyr's love betray 
 To winter's wanton boy. 
 
 Poor withered bits of color brown, 
 
 So bright and green on Summer's day, 
 
 By angry Boreas now torn down, 
 Are whirled in rustling clouds away; 
 
 And sobs the gentle early rain 
 
 To see the gladsome Summer wane, 
 The Summer full of joy. 
 
OCTOBER 291 
 
 'Tis sad to see the Summer go, 
 
 'Tis sad to lose of kith or friend, 
 And yet 'tis better ordered so, 
 
 'Tis best our earthly joys should end 
 Though Summer, aye, through LOVE depart, 
 They'll come again to cheer the heart — 
 Sans sadness, sans alloy. 
 
 P. V. M. 
 From "Out of a Silver Flute"; 
 inspired tp Viva Cummins Doan. 
 
 COMFORT TO BE FOUND IN GOOD OLD BOOKS 
 
 No book has lived beyond the age of its author unless it 
 was filled with that emotional quality which lifts the reader 
 out of this prosaic world into that spiritual life whose dwellers 
 are forever young — unless it were full of this spiritual force 
 which endures through the centuries. The words of the Bib- 
 lical writers, of Thomas a Kempis, Milton, Bunyan, Dante and 
 others, are charged with a spiritual potency that move the 
 reader of today as they have moved the countless generations 
 in the past. 
 
 Could one wish for a more splendid immortality than this, 
 to serve as the stimulus to ambitious youth long after one's body 
 has moldered in the dust? Even the Sphinx is not so endur- 
 ing as a great book, written in the heart's blood of a man or 
 woman who has sounded the deeps of sorrow only to rise up 
 full of courage and faith in human nature. * * * 
 
 Now that this perennial spirit of youth is gone out of my 
 life, the beauty of it stands revealed more clearly. * * * 
 
 And so in this roundabout way, I come back to my library 
 shelves to urge upon you who now are wrapped warm in do- 
 mestic life and love to provide against the time when you may 
 be cut off in a day from the companionship that makes life 
 precious. * * * Cultivate the great worthies of literature 
 even if this means neglect of the latest magazine or the newest 
 sensational romance. Be content to confess ignorance of the 
 ephemeral books that will be forgotten in a single half year, 
 so you may spend your leisure hours in genial converse with 
 the great writers of all time. * * * The vital thing is that 
 you have your own favorites — books that are real and genuine, 
 each one brimful of the inspiration of a great soul. Keep these 
 books on a shelf convenient for use, and read them again and 
 again until you have saturated your mind with their wisdom 
 and their beauty. 
 
292 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 So may you come into the true Kingdom of Culture whose 
 gates never swing open to the pedant or the bigot. So may 
 you be armed against the worst blows that fate can deal you 
 in this world. 
 
 George Hamlin Fitch. 
 From the Introduction to "Comfort to be Found in 
 Good Old BooJ?s", "which originally appeared in the 
 Sunday book page of "San Francisco Chronicle". 
 
 THE BUILDERS 
 
 Who built the fabric of our State? 
 
 Who reared the Temple of her Fame? 
 Who are the great, the truly great, 
 
 Whose deeds the ages shall proclaim? 
 
 Behold the builders and the work they wrought! 
 
 Baker, the voice divine in Freedom's cause, 
 And Field, the master architect of laws, 
 
 And King, the star-crowned king of noble thought. 
 
 These laid the rock foundations, deep and strong, 
 Whereon the toilers wrought, the structure rose 
 
 With walls and colonnades of stately prose, 
 And minarets and towers of glorious song. 
 
 Behold the builders, working each his will, 
 In verse or story limned with rarest art; 
 
 Twain, Stoddard, Markham, Atherton and Harte, 
 The rugged Miller and the cultured Sill. 
 
 And lo! among the rest, their work adorning, 
 Walked one of gentle and unstudied grace, 
 
 Who wrought all day with ever upturned face, 
 
 And song more clear than meadow larks at morning. 
 
 Sing on, oh sweet Musician, sing again ! 
 
 The builders pause and cluster close around you ; 
 And while with love wreaths they have bound and 
 crowned you, 
 
 They listen breathless for another strain. 
 
 These build the fabric of our State 
 
 And rear the temple of her fame; 
 These are the great, the truly great, 
 
 Whose deeds the ages shall proclaim. 
 
 John E. Richards. 
 
I 
 
 OCTOBER 293 
 
 ALONG SHORE 
 
 She wore a dark Gainsborough hat, 
 
 And smiled — and so did I. 
 The weather — it was this and that — 
 
 The moon was in the sky — 
 
 The tide was out, along the sands 
 
 We met, en promenade, 
 And talked of this and other lands, 
 
 And meetings long delayed. 
 
 "You seem," said she, "in somber mood, 
 
 If Hope hath taken flight 
 'Tis said her vows may be renewed 
 
 Before the court of Night." 
 
 "May then a virtue be distrained 
 
 From darkness, mist and sea? 
 If so," I said, " 'twere little gained 
 
 To life's philosophy ; 
 
 For there are things we fain would know 
 
 By soul-asserted right, 
 And whence those causes come and go 
 
 That lock them from our sight." 
 
 "I marked," she said, "in all my ways 
 
 Through other lands and climes 
 The various meeds that Homage pays 
 
 To errors of the times, 
 
 And though we wander or abide 
 
 We cannot bind, in sooth, 
 Those incongruous forms that glide 
 
 'Twixt error and the truth. 
 
 There are the longings of the soul 
 
 For happiness on earth, 
 And that surmise which shrouds the goal, 
 
 Or milestone — known as Death. 
 
 Life, with its little petty spite, 
 
 Its achings and unrest ; 
 The thoughts by day, the dreams by night, 
 
 Oppressing the oppressed ; 
 
 Remorse, omission and its sin ; 
 
 The salt of bitter tears ; 
 The dread almoner lurking in 
 
 The shade of coming years. 
 
 The agonies a heart may feel, 
 
 Bowed o'er a cherished dust, 
 The emptiness of that appeal, 
 
 Devoid of meaning — 'trust.' 
 
 October's sable wreath of thought 
 
 The heart would fain defer; 
 Of one who was and now is not — 
 
 Thy yearning love for her — 
 
 You go too far, I see, and grieve 
 
 But for the lack to know 
 Those entities that might relieve 
 
 A philosophic woe. 
 
 And have what little hope you may, 
 
 You keep the same aloof — 
 As one whose all is vacancy. 
 
 Your soul is question-proof. 
 
 A wrongful strife — to break the seat 
 
 Between thy God and thee ; 
 And that there is — He will reveal 
 
 Its hidden mystery." 
 
294 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 "In truth, you are a wondrous maid 
 To have such flow of speech ; 
 
 How hast thou read my mind," I said, 
 "Give answer, I beseech." 
 
 "More have I read than I have told, 
 And that I keep — In sooth, 
 
 'Tis said 'twere better to withhold 
 A moiety of truth." 
 
 "Aye — so 'tis said," I made reply, 
 
 "Yet Wisdom at her best 
 Is little else than theory 
 
 And shadow dispossessed — 
 
 And so this life. In cold disdain, 
 
 From woes not understood, 
 I tear myself from self, to gain 
 
 The compensating good. 
 
 What is the soul? concurrent state, 
 
 Organic memory — 
 A process — which is life-create 
 
 Of that we feel, and see; 
 
 And not a unit, substantive, 
 
 Since, when we pass away, 
 Its parts dissolve; these cannot have 
 
 Re-issuance or sway. 
 
 E'er death this soul I fain would free 
 
 From the illusive wheel, 
 And fix its true identity 
 
 With that it doth reveal, 
 
 Which is a reality, divine, 
 
 A Universal Soul — 
 Of which 'tis part — and thus combine 
 
 The atoms in the whole. 
 
 To know and gain entire release 
 From that which was and is — 
 
 To be distrait — yet share the peace 
 Of finite unities. 
 
 The meed is beatific rest, 
 
 Detachment, harmony, 
 Desire extinguished — Self possessed 
 
 Of self-hood — and yet free. 
 
 " 'Some secrets may the poets tell, 
 For the world loves new ways, 
 
 To tell to deep ones is not well — 
 It knows not what he says.' " 
 
 The maid spoke on, "So thou wouldst reach 
 
 Thy dreary mountain height 
 In spite of clouds and mists that teach 
 
 'Faith lieth not in Sight.' 
 
 Afloat within the atmosphere 
 
 Are storms and clouds and rain ; 
 
 These are not lost— they disappear, 
 To reappear again ; 
 
 The sensate photosphere of mind 
 Hath rushing clouds and storms 
 
 That part in haste and are combined 
 In ever changing forms. 
 
 We often think us to dissolve 
 
 Their subtleties — 'Tis vain — 
 The mind lacks width to them resolve 
 
 To elements again ! 
 
 So silence is the golden mean 
 That should encompass thought 
 
 That dares the tides that writhe between 
 The known and the forgot. 
 
OCTOBER 295 
 
 Lo ! there is genius, lacking will, 
 
 And sensibility, 
 Without the intellect to fill 
 
 Its void with energy; 
 
 So there remains a conscious hate, 
 
 A latent violence 
 Against the world, against our state, 
 
 And life, and its portents. 
 
 'Tis true, the high and loving soul 
 
 Is dangered of great griefs, 
 And Wisdom, though she gain the whole, 
 
 Mourns burden of beliefs. 
 
 Hope is the all, the only — hope, 
 
 Abstract, yet life-possessed ; 
 Tho' far the anguished soul may grope, 
 
 Here only, can it rest ! 
 
 Philosophy seems all-combined 
 
 The future to defy — 
 Lo, Death — We cast it to the wind, 
 
 Clasp simple Hope — and die." 
 
 The gateway closed our random chat, 
 
 She, smiling, said "Good-bye" — 
 The weather — it was this and that — 
 
 The moon was in the sky. 
 
 Frank Rose Starr. 
 From "San Diego Sun' ; November 15, 1882. 
 
 THE LADY OF MY DELIGHT 
 
 Alice Meynell has her soul to keep, and right circumspectly 
 does she keep it. Her white thoughts she holds in constant 
 sight, and however gayly they run and leap, they do not gambol 
 wantonly like the unshepherded thoughts of the base poets who 
 unfrock themselves in the sight of Heaven by blaspheming their 
 divine ordination. Alice Meynell is the poet of sanctifying grace. 
 She brings no "mortal sin into the shrine of song." Into that 
 tender breast the "chastest stars may peep", and angels, too. 
 She is a vestal matron in the temple of poetry, the unstained 
 singer of an impure day; and we must cleanse our souls before 
 we are worthy to kneel with her at the altar where she offers 
 her spotless lilies of song. £<WJ p ^^ 
 
 From "The Lantern'; San Francisco, June, 1915. 
 
 THE MANTLE OF PERFECT INNOCENCE 
 
 He made no response as she concluded the story of her 
 adventure, of having visited a convict at San Quentin to take 
 him a birthday gift from his crippled little girl, who was slowly 
 dying. The promise he was about to exact from her never again 
 to subject herself to such peril was hushed upon his lips. A 
 
296 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 swift conviction seized him that even in these corrupt days, the 
 mantle of perfect innocence is more invulnerable than an armor 
 
 Flora Haines Longhead. 
 From "The Man Who Was Guilty" ; 
 published in "San Franciscan ", 1885. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO ILLUSTRIOUS NATIVE SONS AND 
 NATIVE DAUGHTERS BY AN ADOPTED SON 
 
 A story of achievement is told in the beautiful art-glass 
 portraits to be seen in the circular windows of the Native Sons' 
 Hall in San Francisco. For each one of these is occupied by 
 the face of fair woman or brave man who is known abroad as 
 well as at home for some special gift that marks each one out 
 from amongst his or her fellows or sisters. The men and the 
 women who were born in California under rugged Pioneer 
 conditions had a fortunate adventure. To be born here is 
 enough, but when added to this beneficial and delightful expe- 
 rience is given the added achievement of fame in Art, Music, 
 Drama and Literature or Science, then one is doubly honored. 
 The distinction of being here placed is worthily won. How- 
 ever, the tribute to the native son and native daughter who 
 are not yet enrolled in this hall of fame should not be over- 
 looked. Perhaps 
 
 "They were born with Time 
 In advance of their time." 
 Many of these are known and urged for place amongst the illus- 
 trious ones, but to gain the guerdon they must be made known 
 to the outside world as well as in their native state. 
 
 Who, then, are these who have won the plaudits of the 
 multitude and are thus set on high? In studying the names 
 of those who have been selected, you are at once impressed 
 with the fact that brilliant achievement is not limited to sex, 
 religion, race, poverty, wealth, formal education or scholastic 
 environment. Each individual gazing down upon us has found 
 an open door to opportunity. And hardly two of them have 
 traveled the same path to the open door. 
 
 Here is to be seen the classic face of Mary Anderson, 
 known world-wide for her part in drama ; next follows that of 
 the song-bird, Sybil Sanderson, noted for her creating of hero- 
 ines in opera and of the realm of music ; the features of Ger- 
 trude Atherton, delicately set forth in the stained-glass, tell of 
 one whose life has been full of activity in her favorite pursuit 
 
OCTOBER 297 
 
 of letters, and who has added to the literature of the world ; 
 high light and beautiful pose reveal to us the uplifted glance 
 of Maude Fay, who is also an exponent of opera and music; 
 Douglas Tilden is here as the exponent of Sculpture; Ernest 
 Peixotto represents Art, as does also Jules Pages; Jack Lon- 
 don, that original genius, who gazes upon the world with eye- 
 sight keen for things no one else sees, is the one chosen to 
 stand for Literature; David Warfield, the portrayer of sym- 
 pathetic creations in theatric representations, is the actor par 
 excellence, chosen to typify the Drama ; David Belasco, the 
 wizard of scenic representation, shines from his high place as 
 the producer of Drama ; Richard Walton Tully, with his gifts 
 in making visual his works of the imagination, is accorded his 
 place as the creator of Drama; Dennis O'Sullivan, whose voice, 
 like that of some bird, "is heard the more because its song is 
 o'er", is the one chosen to represent Music ; John T. Mont- 
 gomery, whose life-work has been devoted to deeper study than 
 mere books, is claimed for Science; Stephen Mallory White, 
 late United States Senator, whose words flowed like spoken 
 music, is there to speak for Oratory; James Duval Phelan, 
 also United States Senator, the public-spirited citizen and 
 kindly friend to many charitable enterprises, who has spoken 
 for Verdi, for Robert Emmet, Robert Burns, for Sir Roger 
 Casement, and for our own United States with true and earnest 
 eloquence, is another Native Son known world-wide as an ex- 
 ample of Oratory. 
 
 This grouping together of our illustrious natives of the 
 State of California is an effort in the right direction. Their 
 creative art knows no boundary lines. There is no geographical 
 limit to be placed upon the art, drama, music, literature or 
 science that they have added to the world. Just as the Pioneers 
 blazed the trail for the steel-shod cavalry of commerce to cross 
 the Sierras, and builded an empire by the Western seas, so 
 these native sons and daughters devoted to the love of the finer 
 arts have also blazed the new way for a new generation of 
 poets, artisans, musicians and other gifted ones to follow. 
 These Pioneers of thought are the builders of an intellectual 
 empire. The wealth of Poetry in the Sierras, of prose in the 
 valleys, of art in the kingdom of the sea, and the Drama in the 
 cities will be exploited by the new sons and daughters. These 
 faces of fair women and brave men in these beautiful portraits 
 above us represent the graduates of the University of Solitude. 
 In the loneliness of individual effort have these children of the 
 Pioneers made manifest the genius of California. 
 
 Over all of these, like a benediction, hovers the spirit of 
 the past, the influence of Joaquin Miller, of Bret Harte, of 
 
298 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Mark Twain, of Charles Warren Stoddard and others who first 
 made vibrant the solitude of the mountains, the sea and the 
 deserts of the far West with song and with story. Hail to the 
 California heroes in the University of Adventure and Achieve- 
 ment! For as Joaquin Miller says: 
 
 "The hero of time is the hero of thought, 
 
 The hero who lives is the hero of peace, 
 And braver his battles than ever were fought, 
 From Shiloh back to the battles of Greece." 
 
 Harr Wagner. 
 Written for "Literary California"; 1916. 
 
 STORY OF SAWYER'S BAR 
 
 You ask me to write you the story of Sawyer's Bar. I can only 
 do it in my own way, but I shall never forget my trip there to the latest 
 day of my life. To get to that interesting place in Siskiyou county, up 
 in Northern California,, I had to take a long journey. We arrived at 
 Aetna Mills in an auto-stage, and next morning left for Sawyer's Bar. 
 Traveling up _ to the summit of the Salmon mountains, it was bitter 
 cold, though it was in the month of October. Instead of going from 
 one hill around to another, as is usual, the road made a straight plunge 
 down from the summit into an unknown abyss. Here and there were 
 stations along this precipitous route where teams and conveyances 
 waited in order to pass each other when coming up and down, for 
 Sawyer's Bar is nothing more or less than a cup, down deep in the 
 mountain, where a river flows that is rich with gold. 
 
 Here live the descendants of certain Pioneers who mined here 
 during their lives, and on dying bequeathed this "Cup of Gold" to them 
 to have and to hold; and here they live and rear their children, set 
 apart from the great world outside, in a strange little world of their 
 own. There is a church built over the river which has had almost all 
 the land blasted away from it by the miners in their unwearying search 
 for the gold found here once so plentifully. 
 
 No story of this strange hollow in the mountains occupied by the 
 descendants of old Pioneers would be complete that omitted mention 
 of the good old Belgian priest who was the pastor of this flock for 
 many years. From the traditions handed down of this remarkable 
 man, he must have been another Junipero Serra. He had a cow and 
 chickens and sold "garden truck" in order to maintain himself and the 
 church in those years long ago, and thus served and helped his people, 
 who all had a precarious time trying to subsist. 
 
 The cemetery at the back of the church shows his skill in making 
 monuments to mark the place of the dead, with carved specimens of 
 his handiwork and originally painted white, though now they are 
 weather-worn, no one having taken his place to continue this service 
 to the dead. In the church hangs a very famous painting as an altar- 
 piece, "Christ on the Cross", and containing also the two thieves. An 
 effort was made to remove this work of art, which undoubtedly is very 
 old, to place in the cathedral at Sacramento. But the people of the 
 hamlet refused to let it go from their midst, as they have known it 
 from childhood, and look upon it as a sacred relic. They watch over 
 it carefully and, in the winter-time, take it from the church to a place 
 of safety in one of the homes, for fear of freshets which might wash 
 
OCTOBER 299 
 
 the shattered edifice from its foundation, or of the snow-slides which 
 might cause a cave-in and thus destroy it. 
 
 In this little human spot of earth, so far from the centers of civili- 
 zation, is a mimic world all its own, with three fraternal organizations 
 to hold them in social relationship — the Odd Fellows, the Native Daugh- 
 ters of the Golden West, and the Native Sons of the Golden West. The 
 hall is the property of the first-named order, but so kind and generous 
 are they that they grant the others use of this as a meeting-place for 
 half rent, in return for assistance in the up-keep. When visitors come 
 to this strange region for any purpose belonging to any one of these 
 orders, the other two are invited to share in the social festivities. Thus 
 the unity of the group there to be found is complete. 
 
 Seldom does any one ever come out from Sawyer's Bar to the 
 great world outside. When the old settlers died, the children took their 
 places. It was rich in gold there, and they have learned how to get 
 it out of the water and the earth as if by an instinct, and it is their 
 only industry. Their needs are few, and it costs little for them to sat- 
 isfy their wants, Fashion does not trouble them. They have few 
 changes from season to season, save those demanded by the inclemen- 
 incies of the weather. The water is pure, the air invigorating, every- 
 thing is quiet and peaceful. The only thing that makes them appre- 
 hensive is the dread of the time when the last piece of gold shall be 
 found and the final word be spoken, "No more". 
 
 When that day comes they will have to leave the only home they 
 have ever known — that deep cup in the earth where the river flows 
 through, where they know the coming of the seasons as if by instinct, 
 and how to get the precious golden harvest from the flood at the mo- 
 ment when it is washed from the banks, even though they must under- 
 mine their church in pursuit of that elusive wealth. 
 
 That has been their life for several generations, and the years pass- 
 ing by have left them there unaware of the great world beyond, save 
 by an occasional visit from an outlander. But they shrink from going 
 forth and are glad to remain there, happy and contented, as long as 
 the gold comes down to them in the torrents. 
 
 I returned to my home once more, but often I think of them up 
 there at Sawyer's Bar. I always feel so much more satisfied with my 
 lot since I was there, and think of them and how little it takes to make 
 its people happy, but what would I not give for a draught of that pure 
 water, a breath of that invigorating air, and just to behold once more 
 the grandeur of its rocks and mountains and pines! 
 
 Mrs. Mamie Peyton. 
 From "Life in California"; 
 told at Hazards Parlor, N. D. C. W. 
 
 THE FORTY-NINER 
 
 The typical '49er is the hardiest animal under the canopy. When 
 that predicted New Zealander shall sit amid the ruins of even this 
 young republic, contemplating and meditating upon her downfall, his 
 startled vision will rest upon the approaching form of a decrepit old 
 man, hobbling through the debris, and muttering to himself, "I believe 
 it was along about the spring o' '50^1et-me-see, it might a been late 
 in the fall o' '49 — anyway, it was just afore the big fire in Jimtown — " 
 and that speculative Antipodean will arise and flee from that scene of 
 
300 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 ruin and (for him) impending disaster. And yet there was a vein of 
 pathetic humor running through the composition of the California 
 Pioneer, exemplified in that one other absorbing ambition of his, be- 
 sides his insatiable desire to become suddenly and enormously rich. 
 That other ambition was an inordinate, a paramount, an ever-recurring 
 resolution to return to "the states" — he was always "going home". But 
 he must first "make his pile". He "calculated", "reckoned" and "guess- 
 ed" that he would "cut a dash" when he got back to old Skowhegan, 
 Sag Harbor, or perhaps some village in "Carolina state". He intended 
 to "make a splurge, you bet", and money was not to be considered 
 an object, either. And so he scorned diggings, which only paid "an 
 ounce a day", and sought those which would pay "an ounce to the pan". 
 Some of them are looking for those "ounce diggings" to this day, but 
 the placers have "petered", and he "prospects for quartz", satisfied if he 
 can find a "pocket lead" which will give him a "grub stake" sufficient 
 to tide him over the next rainy season. 
 
 "Going home!" Sometimes he could play a few dismantled tunes 
 on the violin — weary, shadowy substances of a music which has been 
 dead and forgotten, lo, these many years. But there was one tune into 
 which he could throw the soul of a maestro, through which quivered 
 like the gleam of the Northern lights, the sweetest hope of his being. 
 Sitting there in the waning twilight, beside the door of his cabin, with 
 the wind sighing a soft lullaby through the tasseled pine, and the dis- 
 tant roar of the turbulent river welling up from the dark canon, his 
 "fiddle" close pressed to his bearded chin, he draws the bow across the 
 strings, and the walls of the canon echo back the sad, sweet strains 
 of a melody that will never grow old or be forgotten — the music of 
 "Home — home — sweet — sweet — home ! !" 
 
 "Going home!" And on the pinions of that melody his soul is 
 wafted back to the place of his birth, and he closes his eyes to behold 
 the vision of an aged mother, whose heart is sore with long waiting, a 
 father who loves him well, a sister who yearns to behold him again — 
 aye, and the sweetheart or wife to whom he is the one being of all the 
 wide, wide world. Yes, he must go home. One more "clean-up", 
 another rattle with the dice of fortune, and then for home, sweet home. 
 Beneath the shadow of the pine on the hillside, where the wild dove 
 coos to his mate, and the shrill piping of the crested mountain quail 
 wakes the echoes at dawn and twilight, is a moss-covered mound, un- 
 marked and unknown — the '49er has "gone home". 
 
 £. H. Clough. 
 Oakland, December, J 883. 
 
 THE DESERTED CABINS OF PLUMAS 
 
 Where the sparkling Feather River 
 Leaps and dances on its way, 
 
 Linger countless crumbling cabins, 
 Landmarks of a bygone day. 
 
 How eloquent these shelters 
 
 Crude as mountain grizzly's lair, 
 
 Of man's immortal hopefulness, 
 Of what his heart will dare! 
 
OCTOBER 301 
 
 What gilded dreams of splendor, 
 Those camp-fires must have known! 
 
 What shadow-shapes of happiness 
 
 Those mounting flames have thrown ! 
 
 What love-lights have glistened 
 
 In the lonely miner's eyes 
 As he dreamed of lifting burdens 
 
 From hearts 'neath harsher skies ! 
 
 And as the Feather River 
 
 Leapt and danced upon its way, 
 The miner's heart kept pace with it 
 
 Though he was doomed to stay. 
 
 For it sang a song of gold to him, 
 
 So golden were its gleams ; 
 His heart to him of gold did sing 
 
 And golden were his dreams. 
 
 Man is happy in a hovel 
 
 If hope but with him stay; 
 He is wretched in a palace 
 
 If you take his dreams away. 
 
 Etha R. Carlick. 
 
 From "Verses" by Etha R. Carlick; 
 Orozco, Publisher, San Francisco, 1912. 
 
 FOLLOW! FOLLOW! 
 
 (SONG OF THE GNOMES OF GOLD AND SILVER) 
 
 Follow the gold, though hard and cold, 
 Though buried deep in the earth's dark mould, 
 Though buried deep 'neath rocks and stones, 
 Though red with blood and sighs and groans, 
 
 Follow, Follow ! 
 
 Follow the gold, though hard and cold, 
 Though buried deep with a curse to hold ; 
 A curse on the hand that unseals the find, 
 A curse on his heart and a curse of his mind, 
 
 Follow, Follow ! 
 
302 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Follow through water and follow through earth, 
 Forgetting all loved ones, forgetting all mirth, 
 Hungering for silver and thirsting for gold, 
 Until thou are weary and feeble and old, 
 
 Follow, Follow! 
 
 Oh, blind be the eyes that shall gaze on the store 
 Save for silver and gold be blind evermore; 
 Entranced by the darkness, forgetting the sky, 
 Ever wandering in tunnels until thou shalt die, 
 
 Follow, Follow! 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From "Grizzly Bear Magazine" ; 
 Los Angeles, California. 
 
 THE PIONEER'S BREED IS STILL HERE 
 
 There have been those who claim that the times have changed. 
 They speak of our early California writers as "Literary Stars that have 
 waned and vanished"; yet the world is still reading their books; and 
 at the public library they tell me that the greatest demand there at the 
 present time is being made for the works of Mark Twain, over those 
 of any other author. There have been those who affect to dismiss the 
 claims of the Pioneer father and mother as of little account, because 
 they are slowly dropping into their graves, and that is the end of them. 
 But I say, No! this is not true, for while their breed survives they, 
 too, remain above earth and continue to play their immortal part. It 
 is becoming unhealthy for a stranger to ascend the rostrum and tell us 
 that the stories of Bret Harte prove that the women of the early days 
 were frivolous and lacking in the womanly virtues. It was in Hayward 
 a few years ago that such a lecturer, fresh from Australia, who ven- 
 tured to express this opinion, was faced by a big six-footer, at the 
 close of his remarks, and compelled to apologize for such an insult to 
 the womanhood of California. And an hour later the lecturer was seen 
 rushing to the depot to take the first train out of the country, lest he 
 meet a few more sons of Pioneer mothers who were on the war-path, 
 ready to hold him to a strict account for his foolish utterances. 
 
 The women Bret Harte wrote about, left no breed behind them to 
 stand for them. The Pioneer women were so busy rearing families 
 and attending to the duties of the household that no one wrote any 
 stories about them. Their lives were too rigorous and humdrum to be 
 put into fiction. They were too absorbed in making homes and caring 
 for the needs of the young, baking bread, washing clothes, sending 
 children to school and Sunday school, and bringing civilization into the 
 land, to serve as picturesque heroines of lurid romance. But it was 
 they who gave us our traditions which we who have followed them 
 must preserve. George Hamlin Fitch has> given us the tale of how his 
 mother, in the absence of his father, stood guard with a navy-revolver 
 and a faithful mastiff, keeping a gang of Sydney murderers from en- 
 tering their store to pillage, and kill if need be, to gain the coveted 
 gold, and held them at bay till they turned and sought another place 
 instead, and went on with their lawless work till there was no other 
 
OCTOBER 303 
 
 place left un-entered, save that one where his mother had stood guard. 
 She then bade her little boy and girl to go to bed, they shivering with 
 fright and terror. And the last sight left to linger with him evermore 
 is told by Mr. Fitch, of how his mother sat there, still on guard, with 
 the faithful dog at her feet, and upon her knee was the Bible, which 
 she was reading, "in the flickering candle's light", as they two calmed 
 themselves and fell asleep. 
 
 Those mothers were not on exhibition to be pictured to the vulgar 
 gaze of the public. They were heroic mothers instead. They met life 
 with all its heartbreaks and sorrow, and adapted themselves to chang- 
 ing fortunes, either when the mining-camp died down and they had to 
 go forth to seek a new home in a new camp, or when the Mother-Lode 
 opened up its rich veins and gold poured forth to lift them into the 
 ranks of wealth. They graced every situation in life, and their sons 
 and daughters are still with us. That same quality of endurance marks 
 the breed they left behind them. They bear all and, while enduring, 
 bring the same sweet peace into the land. 
 
 Tradition is still going on; it does not die nor fade from sight. 
 Living the same normal lives as they did, in the early times, we have 
 amongst us the same breed in this generation. 
 
 There is a fire-fighter in my neighborhood whose bravery makes 
 him save lives where the mere soldier takes lives. He, the son of a 
 Pioneer, married the daughter of a Pioneer, and together they face the 
 ordeals of life which today are more complicated than those faced by 
 their parents in the mining-days. No children in the district are better 
 behaved or kinder or better reared than are those that this fireman of 
 a brave heart has, growing up in his little home. The parents of the 
 brood are obeyed implicitly, and each one does his or her share toward 
 helping the others, and toward maintaining the home. 
 
 The eldest child was over twenty years of age when the twelfth 
 babe arrived. The coming of the little one was made a holy celebra- 
 tion and the neighbors were admitted as to a sacred temple. Upon the 
 face of the mother was a heavenly radiance that gave her a Madonna- 
 like youthfulness as she held the little innocent to her breast and "hov- 
 ered" it with the instinctive soothing of motherhood. In her eyes was 
 a wonderful depth of meaning hardly to be expressed, save that there 
 was a film of crystal tears there that added to her beauty, and a glori- 
 fied halo about her head seemed exhaling from those tears like a 
 lunar rainbow. 
 
 "How beautiful you are!" I murmured, my own heart quivering at 
 the sight of her there with the new-born upon her breast. 
 
 She gave me a look I shall never forget, and said, in a low tone: 
 "I am thinking of the three that are gone." 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From "Life in California" ; 1916. 
 
 THE INDIAN SUMMER 
 
 God's jewel days! His flawless jewel days 
 That flash in diamond and in ruby rays 
 And golden topaz tints, and each and all 
 Bright polished on the sharp frost-wheel of Fall. 
 
 P. V. M. 
 From "Out of a Silver Flute'; New York, 1896. 
 
304 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 COUNT THAT ALONE A PERFECT DAY 
 
 Count that alone a perfect clay, 
 
 When with the folding leaves at night, 
 An inward voice may softly say: 
 
 "You've done your best since morning light. 
 Your best, which always must be poor, 
 
 With human heart, 'neath human sway; 
 But when you've done it swift and sure, 
 
 Count that alone a perfect day. 
 
 The sunlight trembles on the sea, 
 
 The soft breeze dies away in sleep, 
 The birds of passage wild and free, 
 
 Fly fearless home across the deep. 
 They turn not east they turn not west, 
 
 But with true instinct keep their way; 
 When you, too, know your path is best, 
 
 Count that alone a perfect day. 
 
 When you have soothed a wounded heart, 
 
 And turned aside from grim despair 
 Some hopeless wretch ; and kept apart 
 
 A soul and sin, with help and prayer, 
 When you at night, on bended knees, 
 
 With conscience clear can truly say: 
 Oh, God! What am I more than these? 
 
 Count that alone a perfect day. 
 
 When the last sunset tints your sky, 
 
 And golden gleams are on the hills, 
 While on your couch of pain you lie, 
 
 Strange music all the silence fills, 
 A new life-current, strong and clear, 
 
 Is yours ; around glad hymns of praise, 
 And then you know the voices near, 
 
 Are angels of your perfect days. 
 
 Agnes M. Manning. 
 From "Chaplet of Verse by California Catholic Writers"; 
 San Francisco, 1889. 
 
OCTOBER 305 
 
 OCTOBER PICTURES 
 
 Leagues of plain where gold and umber blend and merge in 
 wondrous tinting; 
 
 Mountains east and west arising, giant warders proud and high ; 
 
 Rivers where the white-armed plane-trees fling abroad their 
 autumn banners; 
 
 Woodlands opening in dim vistas, scenes of beauty to the eye; 
 
 Cottage homes in shade embowered, from whose lowly chim- 
 neys rising 
 
 Soar the curling smoke-wreaths softly out upon the frozen air, 
 
 As o'er Santa Anna's summit glows the morning sun in 
 splendor, 
 
 Making all the southern valley smile in beauty rich and rare. 
 
 But the iron-horse speeds northward, and we watch the shift- 
 ing vision — 
 
 Hill and river, wood and mountain, and each quiet country 
 home — 
 
 Till we pass the forest arches, and to westward see El Toro, 
 
 Lifting up his wreathed forehead proudly to the azure dome; 
 
 At his feet the crumbling ruins of an old adobe lying, 
 
 'Neath whose roof so oft were sheltered priest and statesman, 
 bard and sage, 
 
 Where the warriors from the battle, and the rich and poor 
 
 were welcomed 
 
 By the smiling lips of beauty, and the reverent voice of age. 
 ******** 
 
 Marcella A. Fitzgerald. 
 From "Chaplet of Verse by California Catholic Writers" ; 
 San Francisco, 1889. 
 
 THE BANDIT'S DAUGHTER 
 
 Like fallen logs the sleeping bandits lay, 
 
 All drunk with wine beneath the flickering ray 
 
 Of candle-light. Their captive sat wide-eyed 
 
 And sleepless in the fitful light and tried 
 
 To loose those hateful cords with tug and strain 
 
 To gain his freedom. But 'twas all in vain. 
 
 His hand he clenched as he watched the candle's glare 
 
 — 'Twas half in rage and half despair! 
 
 That he, a fair-haired youth from the Northern land 
 
 Should fall into this wild banditti band 
 
 To die, just like a rat within a hole. 
 
 Filled with mighty wrath his swelling soul. 
 
306 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Just then, a flood of early morning light 
 (Bringing a vision to his dazzled sight) 
 Fell across the old adobe floor. 
 Silent then slid back the great wide door, 
 And entered there, just like a falling leaf, 
 The barefoot daughter of the bandit chief, 
 A gleaming knife clasped tightly in her hand. 
 
 He could scarcely understand! 
 What did it mean? Was she to do the deed 
 Her father had delayed and quickly speed 
 The knife within his breast to satisfy 
 Some direful wish to see him die? 
 
 Her head was proudly poised and full of fire 
 Her gleaming eyes — a daughter of her sire 
 Indeed, and he cursed the beauty and the grace 
 Of this savage daughter of a savage race. 
 
 Closer yet she crept until her breath 
 
 Was on his cheek. He nerved himself for death 
 
 While her eyes gazed into his. Within that space 
 
 It seemed he lived an age. And then her face 
 
 Revealed a smile that haunted him for life — 
 
 A smile of triumph as she slipped the knife 
 
 Beneath his bonds to set him free. 
 
 That strange sweet smile was Fate's decree 
 
 That he should live, and now the warm life blood 
 
 Went leaping through his veins in sudden flood 
 
 As he felt her quick pulsation by his side 
 
 And knew she was his God-sent friend and guide. 
 
 Just then, the bandit nearest them bestirred 
 
 Himself — a savage creature — armed and spurred — 
 
 Half yawning in his sleep as if he'd wake 
 
 And cry, "Behold, the captive's free!" "Forsake 
 
 Me, Mariquita, while there's time to flee" 
 
 The captive whispered. 'Twas in vain for she 
 
 Was the daughter of a bandit chief and feared 
 
 Not any man, and only persevered 
 
 The more to cut those hateful bonds, and he 
 
 With sudden spring and leap, at last is free! 
 
 The bandit turns him o'er. They breathe again 
 To see him fast asleep, and then the twain 
 Step softly to the door. The air is cold, 
 And dim the morning light, but there behold, 
 
OCTOBER 307 
 
 His horse stands ready bridled for the flight. 
 His heart now swells within him at the sight 
 Which seems his very nature to transform. 
 
 He lifts the little hand so brown and warm 
 
 Unto his lips with deference, which seems 
 
 To say, "Thou art the angel of my dreams." 
 
 Then springing to his saddle, in the dawn 
 
 He waves his hand to her and then is gone, 
 
 And she descries him far away with eyes 
 
 Like stars, and then with sweet regret, she sighs. 
 
 And ever gazing from her favorite hill. 
 Stands Mariquita, waiting, waiting still. 
 
 „ , <m , w tt m Ella Sterling Mighels. 
 
 trom Werner s Magazine ; New York, J 887. 
 This Was made the theme of a painting in 1888 by 
 Ernst Narjot, celebrated for his scenes of Mexico. 
 
 THE WESTERN PACIFIC 
 
 From the Mormon state to the Golden Gate 
 
 Shall reach the new steel band 
 When the W. P. from the inland sea 
 
 Rolls into the silent land. 
 
 Its course it will take by the old Salt lake 
 
 (But a dream is the trail of old), 
 And westward glide through the desert wide 
 
 To the far famed land of gold. 
 
 Where the Humboldt springs from the soil and brings 
 
 New life to the sagebrush land, 
 And the coyotes prowl all night and howl 
 
 At the sheepman's lonely band. 
 
 Where the hills are high and the alkali 
 
 On the barren plain lies white, 
 The whirr of the wheel on the railway steel 
 
 Shall ring through day and night. 
 
 And falls, so grand, where the rivers blend, 
 
 And canyons deep are seen, 
 And frowning cliffs seen through the rifts 
 
 Where the pineclad hills are green. 
 
308 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 By a river wide to the flowing tide 
 
 Of the nation's western gate, 
 Bearing the wealth of hills and mills 
 
 And the fruits of the golden state. 
 
 When the road is laid with its easy grade 
 
 And the engines built for speed, 
 In the fight for the best of the traffic west 
 The W. P. shall lead. 
 
 Unknown. 
 From "Daily Paper", by Assistant Engineer, 
 too modest to give his name. 
 
 ABOUT KINDNESS 
 
 Any one can be kind — as he wishes to be ; and there always 
 are the gravest, the most urgent reasons why one should be 
 kind, why one should in carelessness or insolence or indiffer- 
 ence, strike no blow in the dark that will drive hopelessness 
 into any despairing soul. 
 
 There's a simple, homely truth in that absurd, banal (so far 
 as poetry goes) little verse that the sentimental and unliterary 
 used to write, sometimes with highly elaborated, ornamental 
 flourishes, in the old-fashioned autograph album ; that favorite 
 verse about: 
 
 A little word in kindness spoken, 
 
 A motion or a tear, 
 Has often healed a heart that's broken, 
 And made a friend sincere. 
 
 Helen Dare. 
 From "San Francisco Chronicle" ; January 23, 1917. 
 
 THE GREAT PANORAMA 
 
 In October come the jeweled grapes of many colors, shin- 
 ing out from the green leaves. I remember once to have car- 
 ried a birthday gift to my mother, made of a great wreath com- 
 posed of red, white and blue grapes, from Olivina, near Liver- 
 more. And it was sent to Modoc county to my sister, that she 
 might enjoy the beauty of it. Flaming tokay, muscat, Black 
 Prince — all are beautiful to behold ! Also come the delicious 
 pears in this month, fully ripened, and what fruit is more satis- 
 fying for quenching thirst than these? 
 
 A. E. 
 
A STUDY OF THE LITTLE PIONEER GIRL 
 See Page 330 — "Pioneer Mother's Sayings" 
 Photo by II. E. I'oehlman 
 
 309 
 
A STUDY OF THE LITTLE PIONEER BOY 
 See Page 332 — "The Pioneer Boy of Esmeralda" 
 Photo by H. E. Poehlman 
 
 310 
 
THANKSGIVING PROCLAMATION 
 
 STATE OF CALIFORNIA, EXECUTIVE DEPARTMENT, 
 
 Sacramento, November 5, 1863. 
 
 "Let us come before His presence with thanksgiving, and show 
 ourselves glad in Him with psalms." 
 
 In accordance with the Proclamation of the President of the United 
 States, and that the people of our common country may, upon the same 
 occasion, and with the same unanimity of purpose, offer up their grate- 
 ful thanksgiving to Him who bestows "every good and perfect gift," I, 
 LELAND STANFORD, governor of the State of California, do hereby 
 appoint THURSDAY, THE 26TH DAY OF NOVEMBER, instant, 
 as a day of public tranksgiving to Almighty God "for the great benefits 
 we have received at His hands" during the year through which we have 
 just passed. 
 
 Let us remember on that day that in calamity, as in prosperity, 
 there is a God above us who holds in the hollow of His hand not only 
 the lives of individuals, but the destinies of nations. Let us remember 
 that it is to Him we must look for guidance in our public affairs, as 
 well as pray for strength to compass the threatened dangers that sur- 
 round our beloved country. 
 
 While we deplore our condition as a nation, we have manifold rea- 
 sons for offering up our united thanksgiving as a community. 
 
 Our State, during the past year, has been blessed with prosperity 
 and health. Our farms have yielded of their abundance, and our mines 
 have continued to give up their hidden treasures. We have been free 
 from floods, pestilence and famine, and, as a State, have known no 
 widespread calamity. We have enjoyed an unlimited fruitfulness of soil 
 and a genial climate, which we can offer to share with thousands of 
 other lands who are anxiously seeking new and more peaceful homes. 
 
 We are blessed with a generous and sympathizing population, whose 
 hearts have been opened to give munificently of their abundance, that 
 the sufferings of sick and wounded patriots of other States may be 
 relieved. 
 
 We have multiplied and renewed evidences of the loyalty of our 
 people, and have, by legislative, elective and judicial action, deprived 
 the enemies of our country from entering the pernicious wedge of re- 
 bellion and dissolution into the cherished institutions of our own fav- 
 ored commonwealth. 
 
 But while we assemble with thankful hearts among the cordial as- 
 sociations of our own happy homes, let us not forget the many desolate 
 
312 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 households in our sister States, whose altars will be twined with cy- 
 press, and whose hearts will be overflowing with desolation, while our 
 own are filled with thanksgiving for the plentitude of Divine protection. 
 
 As a nation, we have been passing through a bitter, trying and 
 bloody ordeal; but recent events seem to foretell the coming of better 
 and brighter days. And in this we have cause for peculiar thankfulness. 
 And for this and all other mercies vouchsafed to us, let us give to 
 Almighty God our unreserved thanksgiving. 
 
 In witness whereof, I have hereunto set my hand [L. S.] and caused 
 the great seal of the State of California to be affixed, the day and year 
 
 above written. LELAND STANFORD, 
 
 Governor of California. 
 Attest: A. A. H. TUTTLE, Secretary of State. 
 
 From "Sacramento Daily Union'; November 10, 1863. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF "THE GOVERNOR" 
 
 In the burial customs of the Red Man, when a great chief 
 died, they killed and interred his ponies with him, that he might 
 be properly accompanied on the way to the Happy Hunting 
 Grounds of Above. But when the great chief of the railroad, 
 known to all fondly as "The Governor", passed on his way, it 
 may be told that many of the men went with him. For before 
 he was cold in the ground, many of the old gray-haired clerks 
 were dismissed from their positions where they had served 
 faithfully, and were thus driven out into the cold storms of 
 winter to perish. When Stanford died, they died, too. He was 
 their sustainer, and when he was no more on earth, there was 
 no kind Greatheart to care for their service any more. So they 
 joined him, one by one. Let this be said of him : He went 
 forth gloriously, not alone on his death-journey, but attended 
 by a host of loyal servitors, the old friends of his early days 
 in California, whom he had never forgotten. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From "Grizzly Bear Magazine" ; February, 1912. 
 
 DAYS OF THE BONANZA KINGS 
 
 Kearny and Montgomery streets presented a gay and won- 
 drous spectacle to the onlooker during the brief reign of the 
 Bonanza kings. Their mothers, wives, sisters and daughters 
 were like butterflies and hummingbirds in all their silken splen- 
 dor as they fluttered along in the bubbling effervescence of 
 high spirits. Lace-trimmed parasols were in vogue in that 
 era, and many soft ruffles edged the skirts. Gowns for street 
 wear were always high of neck and long of sleeve, and exqui- 
 
NOVEMBER 313 
 
 site lace shawls, some of them costing thousands of dollars, 
 gave a Spanish piquancy to the forms they draped. The city 
 was small in comparison to what it has now grown, and every- 
 body walked. There were splendid turnouts for occasions, but 
 the newly rich had not yet acquired that fashionable pose of 
 helplessness which demands vehicular assistance for a few 
 short blocks, and nobody was ashamed to be seen afoot. It 
 was like being at a play to join the moving throng, for all the 
 celebrities were to be seen likewise in the passing show of 
 the afternoon promenade. 
 
 Generous to a fault, their charity was like the running 
 stream. No one who applied to them went away empty-handed. 
 The successful ones were known by sight as well as by name, 
 and it is almost literally true that "everyone knew everyone." 
 Out of the throng there remains to us today only Miss Flood, 
 who has endowed a Chair of Commerce — the first of its kind — 
 at the University of California. The children of the Bonanza 
 kings are still doing their share, as did their parents before 
 them, toward bringing about benefits to all, so that California 
 is the richer for their being. 
 
 Sarah Connell. 
 From "Life in California". 
 
 JUDAH 
 
 The great Sierras reared their ramparts high, 
 
 With canyons stretching deep and dark between — 
 A roadless, towering steep whose vast demesne 
 
 The art of man had never dared defy. 
 
 When Judah looked with steady, piercing eye 
 Upon the abysmal wonders of the scene, 
 Until he saw with vision grandly keen 
 
 The certain path for him to glorify. 
 
 And now along the way his genius traced 
 The locomotive plies, all fears outfaced, 
 
 The world of commerce in its arms to bear; 
 And as its song of triumph man still hears, 
 
 All blent with it a paean thrills the air 
 In praise of him our Prince of Engineers. 
 
 Edward Robeson Taylor. 
 
314 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 A MESSAGE FROM VIRGINIA ROSE 
 
 "There are two things that everybody has to have — whether 
 rich or poor, whether high or low, whether in the city or the 
 wilderness, whether young or old, whether they have bread 
 or not, whether they have advantages or not — there are two 
 precious things right here on earth that we have to have in 
 order to keep alive — and these two are Air and Companion- 
 ship — especially the latter." 
 
 The Gatherer, 
 Taken from "Life in California" ; 
 
 spoken by one "who lived in a palace, ate from dishes of gold, 
 was gowned like a princess, rode in her carriage in the early 
 Bonanza days, in her limousine in the later days, fed the hungry, 
 clothed the poor, buried the dead, comforted the afflicted, 
 and yet placed the human need for companionship as equal 
 to that for the air We breathe. She is with us no more, 
 but her words remain and her memory. 
 
 DAYS OF THE RAILROAD KINGS 
 
 It was a bare and rough shoulder of earth that California 
 street presented when the railroad kings came down from Sac- 
 ramento and located in the city-by-the-sea. But the railroad 
 kings were builders — builders by nature and instinct as well 
 as by trade. They came to stay and they were not to be daunted 
 by difficulties, so, being pleased by the outlook, they selected 
 this rugged outcrop for the location of their palaces that were 
 to spring into being as though at the bidding of a genie. The 
 Big Four were great friends and they built their homes close- 
 together. 
 
 As their advent heralded a modification in the financial 
 interests, so the appearance of their ladies marked a change 
 in the street scenes. Their clothing was no less elegant and 
 expensive than that of their predecessors, but the silk and lace 
 were superseded by magnificent woollen cloth. Silk there was 
 in abundance, but for street-wear it was concealed. Its pres- 
 ence was revealed only in the soft swish of linings. Bright 
 colors were no longer seen on the street. The girls in the 
 shops, always quick to note the trend of affairs, were at first 
 somewhat bewildered. Their ideas of elegance had been silk, 
 no matter how sleazy, but now the serviceable merino and 
 cashmere came into its own, and almost over-night the navy 
 blues and seal-browns supplanted the flimsy finery ready to 
 fall to rags like Cinderella's ball-gown at midnight. The sub- 
 
NOVEMBER 315 
 
 stantial took the place of the ephemeral, and certainly, if per- 
 haps insensibly, it began to be understood that steady appli- 
 cation must take the place of trusting to luck. 
 
 As generous and warm-hearted as the first millionaires, the 
 railroad people were charitable, but in more organized and per- 
 manent form. Instead of mere lavish giving, hospitals and 
 homes were established and endowed. Magnificent public en- 
 tertainments were given under their auspices, not only to raise 
 funds but to advertise their objects. The "Authors' Carnival", 
 produced at the old Mechanics' Pavilion, the largest assembly 
 place in the whole West, was for the benefit of the Six Char- 
 ities. It was a wonderful spectacle, the grand procession led 
 by Mr. and Mrs. Charles Crocker, with all the pomp and ma- 
 jesty of a royal court, and in the train that followed them were 
 to be seen not only the wealth but the beauty, wit and every 
 form of the talent and accomplishment of the city and its en- 
 virons. For two weeks the immense building was crowded to 
 the doors, and were it not in mercy for the exhausted partici- 
 pants, the exhibition might have been continued indefinitely. 
 
 Though the parents have passed away, the descendants 
 of the railroad magnates are still with us and taking their part 
 in the continuance of good works. The homes of the builders 
 were swallowed up in the holocaust of 1906, but the sites they 
 once occupied have been dedicated to public usage. On one 
 of them there stands the Art Institute. Another is a public 
 park and play-ground; a third has been donated as the location 
 for a magnificent cathedral, while the fourth is the property 
 of the Leland Stanford Junior University. 
 
 Sarah Connell. 
 From "Life in California". 
 
 TO MARY 
 
 Lo! I have known thee, Mary, many years, 
 Since first we two in childhood's happy dream 
 By Sacramento's tawny, turgid stream 
 
 Clasped hands in Friendship's chain, unknowing fears 
 
 Of Life or Death, to last o'er all the days 
 Between, till now, when thou art gone 
 From earth to seek a goal that's further on — 
 
 A sphere of fairer flowers and fairer ways. 
 
 Yet fain would I put forth my hand and dare 
 To say, "She still is here with all her grace 
 Of heart and tenderness of sympathy, 
 
 With all her kindliness and beauty rare; 
 
316 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Of those she loved she halloweth the place, 
 Sending lilies fair and roses more and more, 
 Redeeming souls from sorrow as of yore, 
 
 Giving gifts of soul and gifts of worth." 
 
 For when there came that hour, the last of earth, 
 
 In the final moment of the Great Release, 
 Such heavenly radiance shone upon thy face, 
 
 And such a smile of heavenly joy and peace, 
 As if an angel thou hadst come to be, 
 
 As if the angels thou hadst come to know. 
 
 In reverence we knelt and murmured low, 
 "A soul immortal passeth into Paradise this day, 
 And Paradise is near, not far away." 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 
 CALL OF THE GOLDEN PORT 
 
 Ye that be trodden underfoot and scattered 
 
 As smoke-wreaths in the rain, 
 All the white dreams that ye have spent and shattered, 
 
 I will make whole again. 
 
 Ye that be thralls of outworn generations, 
 
 And seekers in the night, 
 Come, out of my proud place among the nations, 
 
 Behold, I give you light. 
 
 Where the sun's self out of the gates of morning, 
 
 New gilded from the sea, 
 Shines on my city with a great forwarning 
 
 Of glorious things to be. 
 
 And to the hills beyond the crested city, 
 Where the dawn-splendors break — 
 
 Crowned Freedom with her sacred eyes like pity- 
 Keeps vigil for my sake. 
 
 On the wide wonder of the enchanted valley 
 
 Wherein my treasures be, 
 Green things, great rivers rolling musically 
 
 Down to a singing sea. 
 
 And in the heavy scented harvest hours 
 
 Bound with their fruitage gold. 
 All the wide hills shall overspill with flowers 
 
 Upon the dreaming wold. 
 
 
NOVEMBER 317 
 
 Yes, all your toil shall be to you as pleasure, 
 
 And all your blood as wine, 
 The songs you sing shall have a dancing measure — 
 
 Such flowered air is mine! 
 
 And of your shadowy peril shall be sharers 
 
 And of your undigged gold. 
 The ghostly galleons of the old sea-farers, 
 
 That found the gate of gold. 
 
 They sailing through the sunset out of shadow 
 
 Shall watch with you and wait, 
 And with you lift their songs of Eldorado, 
 
 Beyond the Golden Gate. 
 
 From "San Francisco Examiner" ; 1911. 
 
 Ethel Talbot 
 
 THE PULSE OF TIME 
 
 Oh! the To and Fro of the pendulum 
 Of Being and Life, and the roar 
 
 Of the vast machine that is all unseen, 
 Unheard and unknown ! Oh ! the Come 
 And the Go that forever and more 
 
 Is surging! And what does it mean? 
 For an aeon or day 
 Its perpetual sway 
 Is a mystery deep in its sum ! 
 
 Oh! the Night and the Day of our hope and sight 
 Of things that are near us and far! 
 
 And the little we know of what is below 
 Or above! Oh, mysterious plight 
 
 Of living! — could we hope did we knov« 
 All the distance that lies 
 'Tween ourselves and the skies 
 Of At Last? — or is kindness in night? 
 
 Oh! the beat and the throb of the Pulse of Time 
 And the bounding of Life in the veins, 
 
 That makes us a part, in touch with the heart 
 Of Everything! — tingling in rhyme 
 
 With planets and suns ! And the dart 
 Of ecstacies, yea, and of pains 
 Is a part that the whole 
 Daily knows, for the Soul 
 Is for all, — and the whole is a chime! 
 
318 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Oh ! the seasons they come and the seasons they go 
 Like breaths of an animal vast! 
 And Life is a span, for the wonderful plan 
 Knows nothing of Time as we know 
 And nothing is hurrying fast; 
 The life of an insect or man 
 Is the moment that counts, 
 And the trifle amounts 
 To the best of the pendulum slow. 
 
 Oh ! the ebb and the flow of the Sea of Thought 
 On the shores of the Universe! 
 
 The flood of the tide brings riches; the glide 
 To ebb leaves us barren. And fraught 
 
 Are the waves with the things they immerse 
 Till the dross from the real they divide, 
 When a planet is rolled 
 New, to shore, and is bowled 
 Into Space where before there was Naught! 
 
 Oh, living and dying and living again ! 
 I am part of the To and the Fro, 
 
 And of Night and of Day, of the throbbing and pla> 
 Of the Heart; of the Now and the Then; 
 And a part of the Thought-Sea! Oh! 
 And God is the Whole, and the way 
 Of Creation and Life 
 And mysterious strife 
 Is His! — and His breath is in Men! 
 
 From "Out of a Silver Flutes- 
 inspired hy Ella Sterling Mighels. 
 
 P. V. M. 
 
 SONS OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Why do men so love their native soil? It is perhaps a 
 phase of the human love for the mother. For we are compact 
 of the soil. Out of the crumbling granite eroded from the ribs 
 of California's Sierras by California's mountain streams — out 
 of the earth — washed into California's great valleys by her 
 mighty rivers— out of this the SONS OF CALIFORNIA are 
 made, brain, muscle and bone. 
 
 Why, then, should they not love their mother, even as the 
 mountaineers of Montenegro, of Switzerland, of Savoy, love 
 their mountain birthplace? Why should not exiled Californians 
 yearn to return? 
 
NOVEMBER 319 
 
 And we, sons of California, always do return; we are 
 always brought back by the potent charm of our native land — 
 back to the soil which gave us birth — and at the last, back to 
 Earth the great mother, from whom we sprang, and on whose 
 bosom we repose our tired bodies when our work is done. 
 
 Jerome A. Hart. 
 From "Argonaut Letters*. 
 
 "WHERE ARE THOSE SLEEPERS NOW?" 
 
 We grew in beauty side by side, 
 We filled one house with glee, 
 
 Our graves are scattered far and wide, 
 By mountain, stream and sea. 
 
 The same fond mother bent at night 
 
 O'er each fair sleeping brow. 
 She had each folded flower in sight, 
 Where are those sleepers now? 
 
 A Memory Gem. 
 Cherished fragment of an old ballad brought to 
 California in '49, and dwelt upon in 1918, by a Pioneer 
 Woman in her 85 th year, she being the only one left of a 
 family of ten — a Mrs. Crawford of Hayward. 
 
 DON JUAN HAS EVER THE GRAND OLD AIR 
 
 Don Juan has ever the grand old air, 
 
 As he greets me with courtly grace; 
 Like a crown of glory the snow-white hair 
 
 That haloes his swarthy face ; 
 And he says with a courtesy rare and fine 
 
 As he ushers me in at the door: 
 "Panchita mia will bring us the wine, 
 
 And the casa is yours, senor." 
 
 His forescore years have a tranquil cast, 
 
 For time has tempered his heart and hand; 
 Though the seething tide of his heart ran fast 
 
 When he ruled like a lord in the land. 
 In the wild rodeo and mad stampede 
 
 He rode, I am told, 
 
 In the days of old 
 With his brown vanqueros at headlong speed. 
 
320 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 From the Toro peaks to the Carmel Pass 
 His cattle fed on rich wild grass; 
 
 And far to the west 
 
 Where the sand-dunes rest 
 
 On the rim of the heaving sea 
 From the Point of Pines to the river's mouth, 
 From the Gabilan Hills to the bay on the south 
 
 He held the land in fee. 
 
 It was never the same 
 
 When the Gringoes came 
 With their lust of gold and their greed of grain; 
 
 And his humble cot 
 
 With its garden plot 
 Is all that is left of his wide domain. 
 
 But he says with a courtesy rare and fine 
 As he ushers me in at the door: 
 
 "Panchita mia will bring us the wine, 
 And the casa is yours, senor." 
 
 Lucius Harwood Fooie. 
 From "Wooing of the Rose". 
 
 TRUTH IN TRINITY 
 
 Truth is its own exceeding great, unspeakable reward. 
 There are three, and only three, that bear witness here om 
 earth of things heavenly and divine. There are three, and 
 only three, human pursuits that, passing beyond the veil of 
 time and sense, take hold of things spiritual and eternal. These 
 are science, fine art and religion. These three strive ever to- 
 gether, each in its several way, to perfect that image in the 
 human spirit. Science strives ever to perfect that image in 
 the human reason as truth : art strives to perfect the same 
 image in the human imagination as ideal beauty; religion 
 strives ever to perfect the same image in the human will and 
 the human heart — in human life and human conduct — as duty 
 and love. These three seem often to us widely separate, and 
 even, alas ! in deadly conflict, but only because we view them 
 on so low a plane. As we trace them upward they converge 
 more and more, until they meet and become one. They are, 
 indeed, but the earthly, finite symbol of a trinity which is in- 
 finite and eternal. 
 
 Joseph he Contc. 
 
NOVEMBER 321 
 
 PICTURES OF MY DEAD FOREFATHERS 
 
 Are you glad the calm is broken? 
 
 Did the stillness never pall? 
 Pictures of my dead forefathers, 
 
 Hanging there against the wall ! 
 
 Know you not, I often wonder, 
 
 Gentle dames and stately sires, 
 Do you feel or do you suffer 
 
 In our longings and desires? 
 While your blood in our veins courses, 
 
 While your race continues still, 
 Do you share in life's emotions, 
 
 Feel its passion and its thrill? 
 Are you hurt, I feel a stranger, 
 
 In these rooms and in this hall? 
 Pictures of my dead forefathers, 
 
 Hanging there against the wall ! 
 
 Or in heaven does one see further, 
 
 Do you know those distant skies, 
 Where through cloudless realms of azure, 
 
 The majestic eagle flies? 
 Do you know those mystic mountains, 
 
 That at dusk fade into blue? 
 And those flowers that ope at night-fall, 
 
 'Neath the starlight and the dew? 
 
 Did you breathe its warmth, its madness, 
 
 Feel its freedom and its thrall? 
 Pictures of my dead forefathers, 
 
 Hanging there against the wall ! 
 
 Did you know the canyon's coolness, 
 
 With its scented tangled vines? 
 Ah ! heard you the palm's soft rustle 
 
 And the sighing of the pines? 
 Ah ! heard you the rushing waters 
 
 And the music of their fall? 
 Pictures of my dead forefathers, 
 
 Hanging there against the wall ! 
 
 Did you know the hour of parting, 
 When my soul first learned to doubt, 
 
 And the sky grew dark in anguish 
 And the silver stars went out? 
 
 Now I move in the same places 
 
322 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 You were wont to tread of yore, 
 And my glances meet the landscape 
 
 That your eyes smiled on before. 
 Yet I feel so strange, a pilgrim 
 
 Hearing your mute voices call. 
 Pictures of my dead forefathers, 
 
 Hanging there against the wall! 
 
 Janet von Schroeder. 
 
 IT IS NOVEMBER 
 
 The chill wind blows across the hills, 
 Dead leaves are whirling down, 
 
 The earth now wears a rustling robe 
 Of crimson and of brown. 
 
 Broad maples wave their naked arms 
 
 Like phantoms to and fro, 
 The sky looks gray — I almost see 
 December's coming snow. 
 
 Herbert Bashford. 
 From "At the Shrine of Song". 
 
 CHORUS OF AMAZONS 
 
 We have known thee, O Life ! thou art sweet 
 To the lips as the heart of a flower; 
 
 But the breath of thy perfume is fleet, 
 And the joy is the bloom of an hour. 
 
 We have known thee, O Life! thou art fair, 
 
 But thy beauty the sirens had; 
 And stained are the robes thou dost wear; 
 
 We have known thee, O Life! thou art sad. 
 
 We have known thee, O Life! thou art strong; 
 
 Thou art strong and thy burdens are great; 
 We have feared thee and worshiped thee long, 
 
 For thy form is the shadow of Fate. 
 
 Thou hast given us faith as a gem; 
 
 It was lost in the flush of the morn; 
 And virtue, a garment whose hem 
 
 Was unspotted, the storm-winds have torn. 
 
NOVEMBER 323 
 
 Thou hast given us love as a flower; 
 
 It has withered and died on the breast; 
 Thou hast given us riches and power; 
 
 They have vanished as foam from the crest. 
 
 Thou hast given us hope as a staff; 
 
 It is trampled and broken by fears ; 
 And the red wine of pleasure to quaff; 
 
 It is darkling, and bitter with tears. 
 
 Thou hast given us fame as a crown, 
 But hast tarnished its glory with rust; 
 
 Thou hast sprinkled the robes of renown 
 With the soil of thy ashes and dust. 
 
 We have known thee, O Life! thou art fleet, 
 
 And the span of thy race is a breath; 
 We have followed the path of thy feet, 
 And the goal that thou seekest is death. 
 
 Virna Woods, 
 From "Chorus of Amazons ". 
 
 DICKENS IN CAMP 
 
 Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, 
 
 The river sang below ; 
 The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 
 
 Their minarets of snow. 
 
 The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted 
 
 The ruddy tints of health 
 On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted 
 
 In the fierce race for wealth; 
 
 Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure 
 
 A hoarded volume drew, 
 And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure 
 
 To hear the tale anew; 
 
 And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, 
 
 And as the firelight fell, 
 He read aloud the book wherein the Master 
 
 Had writ of "Little Nell." 
 
 Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy — for the reader 
 
 Was youngest of them all — 
 But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 
 
 A silence seemed to fall; 
 
324 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, 
 
 Listened in every spray, 
 While the whole camp, with "Nell" on English meadows, 
 
 Wandered and lost their way. 
 
 And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken 
 
 As by some spell divine — 
 Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken 
 
 From out the gusty pine. 
 
 Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire; 
 
 And who wrought that spell? — 
 Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, 
 
 Ye have one tale to tell! 
 
 Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story 
 
 Blend with the breath that thrills 
 With hop-vines 'incense all the pensive glory 
 
 That fills the Kentish hills. 
 
 And on that grave where English oak and holly 
 
 And laurel wreaths intwine, 
 Deem it not all a too presumptious folly — 
 This spray of Western pine. 
 
 Bret Hartc. 
 From "Overland Monthly'; July, 1870. 
 
 A WIFE OF THREE YEARS 
 
 He goes his daily way and gives no sign 
 Or word of love I deemed once fondly mine. 
 
 He meets my warm caress or questioning eye 
 Without the tender thrill of days gone by. 
 
 Once at my lightest touch or glance or word 
 The mighty being of his love was stirred. 
 
 And now the clasping of my yearning hand 
 He meets unanswering — he does not understand. 
 
 He gives no word of praise through toiling years 
 To say he reads my truth through smiles or tears. 
 
NOVEMBER 325 
 
 I cannot take for granted as my own 
 The love that speaks not in caress or tone. 
 
 For this — my life's sweet hopes fade sad away — 
 For this — my heart is breaking day by day. 
 
 Carrie Stevens Walter. 
 From "Golden Era Magazine" ; 1885. 
 
 A NEW BEING 
 
 I know myself no more, my child, 
 
 Since thou art come to me, 
 Pity so tender and so wild 
 
 Hath wrapped my thoughts of thee. 
 
 These thoughts, a fiery gentle rain 
 
 Are from the Mother shed; 
 Here many a broken heart hath lain 
 And many a weeping head. 
 
 E. A. 
 From "San Francisco News-Letter" ; April, 1916. 
 
 LOVELINESS 
 
 (Beautiful thoughts make a beautiful soul and a beautiful soul 
 makes a beautiful face.) 
 
 Once I knew a little girl 
 
 Very plain; 
 You might try her hair to curl 
 
 All in vain ; 
 On her cheek no tint of rose 
 Paled and blushed or sought repose, 
 She was plain. 
 
 But the thought that through her brain 
 
 Came and went 
 As a recompense for pain 
 
 Angels sent; 
 So many a beauteous thing 
 In her young soul's blossoming 
 
 Gave content. 
 
326 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Every thought was full of grace 
 
 Pure and true; 
 And in time, the homely face 
 
 Lovelier grew, 
 With a heavenly radiance bright 
 
 Shining through. 
 
 So I tell you, little child, 
 
 Plain or poor, 
 If your thoughts are undefiled, 
 
 You are sure 
 Of the loveliness of worth, 
 And the beauty not of earth, 
 Will endure. 
 
 Maria Lacy. 
 Copied from an old newspaper file many years ago. 
 Re-published by "Grizzly Bear Magazine"; 
 Los Angeles, 1910. 
 
 BEHIND EACH THING A SHADOW LIES 
 
 Behind each thing a shadow lies, 
 
 Beauty hath e'er its cost, 
 Under the moonlight-flooded skies 
 
 How many stars are lost! 
 
 Clark Ashton Smith. 
 From "The Star-Treader" ; 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, 1912. 
 
 AGE TARRIES NOT 
 
 Age tarries not for beauty 
 No favors doth he seek: 
 
 But drawing near 
 
 Each hurrying year 
 He snatches roses from thy fair, fair cheek. 
 
 Lillian H. S. Bailey. 
 From "Golden Era"; 1885. 
 
NOVEMBER 327 
 
 "OH MY BOY-ROSE, OH MY GIRL-ROSE" 
 
 Why is a star at night so glorious? 
 
 Why does it rapture bring? 
 Because 'tis shining 
 To the Glory of the Mighty One 
 Who dwelleth everywhere 
 And k nola >eth everything. 
 
 Why is a red, red rose so beautiful 
 
 As it swayeth in the Spring? 
 Because 'tis breathing 
 To the Glory of the Mighty One 
 Who dwelleth everywhere 
 And knoweth everything. 
 
 Why is a sky-lark's song so entrancing 
 As it carols on the wing? 
 
 Because 'tis singing 
 
 To the Glory of the Mighty One 
 
 Who dwelleth everywhere 
 
 And k n <>i»eth everything. 
 
 Oh my boy-rose! Oh my girl-rose! 
 
 Oh my boy-star! Oh my girl-star! 
 
 There's nothing half as sweet as you are 
 
 In all the silver stars and golden suns 
 
 That whirl in the universal swing, 
 
 While you re living 
 
 To the Glory of the Mighty One 
 
 Who dwelleth everywhere 
 
 And kn°T» e th everything. 
 
 Ella Sterling Mighels. 
 Written for the u Ark-adian Brothers and Sisters 
 of California'; 1911. 
 
 AN IMPRESSIVE SCENE 
 
 It was a harmonious, though sad, solemn and impressive 
 scene. Such a closing tableau is seldom witnessed. Here were 
 represented various denominations — the Jew, the Catholic, and 
 the Unitarian — supplicating God for one Jewish soul. Oh, 
 faith, brotherly love and sympathy, after such a concordant 
 exhibition, a millinnium on earth seems possible! Angels must 
 have smiled over this chorus of religious sentiments, which par- 
 took of Divine unison. Such fruits of different religions will 
 
328 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 be the euthanasia of atheism. Truly "out of death comes life !" 
 In the near distance we see the glimmering on the horizon 
 of future happiness to be enjoyed when it will not be my God 
 or your God, but our God — God! and then there will be the 
 Universal Religion. 
 
 The idea of a uniform belief in God and the immortality of 
 the soul, Right Thinking, Right Doing for Humanity in con- 
 junction with the precepts of Moses, Jesus and other great 
 teachers, so that all may dwell together in accord, and so no 
 difference of faiths in the essentials will exist to intervene and 
 destroy human happiness, is a beautiful one. And if this seed 
 of conception of a universal harmony be well planted, it will 
 go on as surely as the propagation of sounds; and in future 
 generations it will sweep all before it, as it now belongs to 
 the trend of the times. 
 
 Mrs. /. Lowenberg. 
 From "The Irresistible Current" ; 1908. 
 
 A MESSAGE FROM VIVA 
 
 The hour was nearing for the passing of the song-bird from 
 these earthly shores. Perceiving which I ventured to ask her 
 this : "Dear child, is there anything you have learned from out 
 your own experience that you could leave to the world as a 
 message to help others to live in more peace and in more 
 comfort?" Brightly she smiled and said, promptly: "Yes, 
 Mamma, there is, and it is in just two words." "Two words?" 
 I echoed in surprise. "Yes, it is this — "Be normal". 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From "Life in California " ; June /, 1905. 
 
 MOVE PATIENTLY ON, OH EARTH 
 
 Move patiently on, Oh Earth, 
 
 Till Mercy's wandering dove 
 Shall fly to the realm of its birth 
 
 And rest in the bosom of love! 
 Move patiently on, till the crucified Christ 
 
 Shall gather his radiant crown 
 From the lowly flowers and bleeding hearts 
 
 Which the world has trampled down. 
 
 Lyman Goodman. 
 From the "Story of the Files of California" ; 
 San Francisco, 1893. 
 
NOVEMBER 329 
 
 A BEAUTIFUL SIGHT IN THE EAST END 
 
 There is one beautiful sight in the East End, and only 
 one, and it is the children dancing in the street when the organ- 
 grinder goes his round. It is fascinating to watch them, the 
 new-born, the next generation, swaying and stepping, with 
 pretty little mimicries and graceful inventions all their own, 
 with muscles that move swiftly and easily, and bodies that leap 
 airily, weaving rhythms never taught in dancing school. 
 
 I have talked with these children, here, there and every- 
 where, and they struck me as being bright as other children, 
 and in many ways even brighter. They have most active little 
 imaginations. Their capacity for projecting themselves into 
 the realm of romance and fantasy is remarkable. A joyous life 
 is romping in their blood. They delight in music, and motion, 
 and color, and very often they betray a startling beauty of 
 face and form under their filth and rags. 
 
 But there is a Pied Piper of London Town who steals 
 them all away. They disappear. One never sees them again, 
 or anything that suggests them. You may look for them in 
 vain amongst the generation of grown-ups. Here you will find 
 stunted forms, ugly faces, and blunt and stolid minds. Grace, 
 beauty, imagination, all the resiliency of mind and muscle, are 
 gone. * * * 
 
 The children of the Ghetto possess all the qualities which 
 make for noble manhood and womanhood; but the Ghetto 
 itself, like an infuriated tigress turning on its young, turns 
 upon and destroys all these qualities, blots out the light and 
 laughter, and moulds those it does not kill into sodden and for- 
 lorn creatures, uncouth, degraded and wretched below the 
 beasts of the field. 
 
 Jack London. 
 From "The People of the Abyss"; 
 Ner» York: McMillan, 1903. 
 
 A ROSE 
 
 As slight a thing as a rose may be 
 
 A stepping stone 
 Whereby some soul may step from earth 
 To love's high throne. 
 
 Clarence Urmy. 
 From "Golden Era*. 
 
330 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 HIS MOTHER MADE HIM A LITTLE COAT 
 
 'Tis long since Samuel's mother wrought 
 
 A little coat for him to wear, 
 In token of her loving thought, 
 
 Her tender, unforgetful care. 
 
 Strong emblem of maternal love, 
 
 Sweet story from a distant age! 
 We mothers prize it far above 
 
 More striking tales on history's page. 
 
 For we, too, fashion little coats 
 
 For loved ones of our own today, 
 While Fancy many a banner floats 
 
 Above our needle's gleam and play. 
 
 The prophet's mother's hopes and fears — 
 Her love — are changeless links that bind 
 
 Our hearts to hers through all the years, 
 And ebb and flow of humankind. 
 
 Fannie H. Avery. 
 [At the funeral service of Mrs. Avery, who passed away while still 
 young and beautiful, this poem, written about her little son, was read 
 as part of the ceremony. She was very gifted and accomplished and a 
 daughter of one of the early Pioneers. — The Gatherer.] 
 
 A LITTLE PIONEER BOY AMIDST THE SIERRAS 
 OF ESMERALDA, NEVADA 
 
 He was born in the mines amidst the Sierras of Esmeralda, Ne- 
 vada A champagne basket put on wheels and drawn by a big New- 
 foundland dog was his baby-carriage. Early his brothers and sisters 
 took him to visit the quartzmills where the tremendous crashings of 
 the stamps crushing the gold out of the rocks, put him to sleep. On 
 each side of the road where he lived the mountains were so high up 
 that there was only a narrow bit of blue sky above to be seen. When 
 winter came it was a world of white everywhere, and the road was 
 nearly all the time in shadow. 
 
 When he was four years old, the Pioneer father and mother took 
 the family to live in Reno, and the little fellow stood at the window 
 looking out at the passers-by. Suddenly a great thunderous noise 
 and vibration filled the earth, and there was a huge locomotive rushing 
 in on its tracks, bringing passengers from the far away East. Aston- 
 ished at the wonderful sight, he cried: "Mamma, come quick — see! 
 Tremenjus! tremenjus! and no horses pulling it!" 
 
 A year later the family moved to Sacramento, and the little boy 
 found a new world to explore. As if by instinct he was drawn to the 
 
NOVEMBER 331 
 
 railroad shops where he soon became a favorite with the men, who 
 greeted him affectionately when he arrived. So much did he have to 
 tell at home of these journeys of his, that in response to his urgings, 
 an aunt and a sister accompanied him one day to visit the "laundry^" 
 as he called it — for he was such a little fellow that to him "foundry" 
 and "laundry" were the same word. At the sight of him with his 
 guests, the men declared a recess, and gave their attention to a display 
 of their workings in that wonderful place where they were casting the 
 parts of a locomotive and putting them together. And when the men 
 could not make things clear to the women-folks, the little boy could. 
 
 When his father took him on a railroad-trip to Marysville, and 
 when left in the hotel-parlor, he soon became an object of interest to 
 the guests there. He made reference to something about Jean Valjean, 
 and no one present "had ever heard of the gentleman." So he was 
 urged to tell them who he was. Nothing loath, the little boy started 
 in to give the assembled guests an account of Victor Hugo's master- 
 piece. His father returned, but the guests protested against letting 
 the child go until he had finished the story he was telling them. So 
 his father went off to attend to some other business, and the serious 
 little chap went on revealing the trials and struggles of Jean Valjean 
 to his rapt audience. When the father finally carried him away with 
 him to the train, the little boy seemed in doubt. "Papa, I could not 
 e'zactly remember the last part, but I told it the way it ought to end — 
 with him being happy at the last." 
 
 One Sunday in Sacramento, he stood out in the street watching 
 the people coming and going from church for a long time. He seemed 
 to be meditating. At last he came in wearily, sought his mother, and 
 sad: down beside her, and put his head in her lap as if utterly ex- 
 hausted. She soothed him as was her wont and asked, "What is it, 
 Birdie?" "Oh," he said with such a sigh, "I should think God would 
 get tired making so many people!" 
 
 When he was seven and a half years old, he passed into the sleep 
 that knows no waking, as if exhausted with the problems of life that 
 had occupied his brief existence. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From "Life in California* 1 . 
 
 VIRGIL WILLIAMS 
 
 Deep in the forest when a strong tree falls, 
 We only see the space and not the sky 
 Above it, nor the mighty roots which lie 
 Down in the darkness. But a little time, 
 And they shall send a newer growth sublime 
 To bless the place it held and all the land. 
 Master in Art ! O strong soul, true and grand ! 
 Thy earnest work in many a soul survives, 
 And thou shalt live again in other lives. 
 
 Alice Denison Wiley. 
 From "The Golden Era"; January, 1887. 
 
332 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 PIONEER MOTHER'S SAYINGS TO HER CHILDREN 
 
 "Be thankful for small favors.* * 
 
 "You must be good — of course you must be good — that goes with- 
 out saying — but you must also be something else — you must try to be 
 elegant. 9 * 
 
 "A maiden s reserve is worth more for her protection than bolts 
 and bars.** 
 
 "Assume a virtue if you have it not, and in time it will become 
 your own.** 
 
 "A camellia is like a maiden — you cannot breathe upon it without 
 leaving a mar.** 
 
 "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.** 
 
 "But, Mamma,** asks the little Pioneer girl, "how can you see 
 Cod?** 
 
 "If God be in your heart you can see Him.** And the child, looking 
 into the face of her mother and beholding there the light in the soft hazel 
 eyes, says to herself, "Mamma is seeing God, now.** 
 
 PIONEER FATHER'S SAYINGS 
 
 Remark made in taking leave of the ladies: "Judge of my impa- 
 tience to return by the haste with which I leave you.** 
 
 To a disagreeable partner in business: "If you dont want me, you 
 dont have to have me, AND YOU DON*T HAVE TO HAVE 
 ME IN A HURRY r 
 
 Of a spellbinder who had failed to swindle him in a trade: "He 
 couldnt hoe-ny swagel me!** 
 
 Expressing his meager approval of anything: "Oh, it will pass with 
 a shove, if you shove hard enough.** 
 
 To the children: "Now I expect you little fellows to be Trojans, 
 no matter what happens. You must k e ep up a stiff upper lip, put your 
 best foot foremost, know enough to come in when it rains, have plenty of 
 sand, AND MIND YOU WALK A CHALK-LINE OR I*LL 
 KNOW THE REASON WHY!** 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S SONG OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 A song to thee of loyalty, 
 
 A song to the golden West, 
 
 A land that lies 'neath sunlit skies, 
 
 Beside Pacific's breast; 
 
 Thy NATIVE SON and ADOPTED ONE 
 
 From snowy climes agree 
 
 That heaven hath crowned 
 
 The land renowned — land by the Western sea, 
 
NOVEMBER 333 
 
 O California fair, California rare, 
 All nature sings to thee. 
 The balmy breeze, the fragrant trees 
 The blue of sky and sea. 
 
 Mission bells' sweet chimes 
 
 As in the olden times 
 
 And the mocking birds in the vale, 
 
 Let the chorus rise 
 
 To the sunny skies 
 
 ''Eureka, California." 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 LIFE FROM A PRACTICAL STANDPOINT 
 
 Life is a series of repetitions. * * * If one day's labor led to 
 the higher development of the next day, we might gain some breath- 
 ing time. * * * But it is impossible. * * * There is no suspen- 
 sion of the law of supply and demand, not for even one day's rest — it 
 stands grimly and relentlessly before one like some awful deity that 
 will not be placated. * * * It is with feelings akin to awe that one 
 attempts to depict the internal life of the family. * * * Woman's 
 whole lifework is to deal with raw material. * * * Thus the ques- 
 tion, "What shall we eat, what shall we drink, and wherewithal shall 
 we be clothed ?" assumes fearful proportions, showing a hand-to-hand 
 grappling with the necessities of life that will admit of no loitering 
 by the way. * * * Duty lays her heavy hand upon us and requires 
 that we shall consider not only those but the thousand-and-one trivial 
 needs of changing fashion from day to day, in addition to our primal 
 wants and necessities, until intellectual feasts and enjoyments are 
 pushed to one side in favor of the things that die with the day. 
 ******** 
 
 If Lucifer, himself, in his glorious abode had been hedged in by 
 the numerous cares and perplexities pertaining to this corporeal frame 
 of ours — if the pangs of hunger had assailed him in his arch plottings 
 — if the necessity of beefsteak, bread and wine had been a part of his 
 nature — if he had been dependent upon the exertions of the tailor and 
 the shoemaker for a faultless attire instead of fleeing through the 
 realms of infinity draped in the unchanging robes of immortality — if 
 his energies had been wound up in the limited circle of time allotted to 
 us out of twelve waking hours instead of a continuous rush of unabated 
 energy through illimitable eternity — if a gripe or a pain or a tithe of 
 our bodily afflictions could have occasionally seized upon him in his 
 ethereal flights to the uttermost boundaries of the celestial worlds — 
 doubtless a wholesome humility would have been impressed throughout 
 his spiritual organization, effectually snubbing the pride and daring 
 which plunged him downwards, irretrievably, to the depth and darkness 
 of the Plutonian shore. 
 
 From generations untold in the far past down to the present time, 
 and so long as posterity flourishes in successive decades, will the 
 adamantine chain of materiality hold us fast; in vain do we attempt 
 to escape from its anaconda-like folds. The genius of man may miti- 
 
334 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 gate so far as in his power lies, the hopeless drudgery of our fore- 
 fathers by the application of steam and the perfection of machinery. 
 But the field only widens, our wants increase, our necessities multiply. 
 This is the body of hindrance to which our immortality is chained; 
 the Promethean vulture which is ever preying upon our spiritual facul- 
 ties, the clinging shirt of Nessus>, destroying our highest purposes. 
 This is the stern fiant of an exorable law, which grasping our souls 
 in this material frame, holds in abeyance and subjection this spark 
 of divinity which is crying out intuitively for an immortality beyond 
 the grave, — for an eternty of time in which to accomplish the impos- 
 sibilities of earth, the hopes and desires of the longing heart of man. 
 "To Spring comes the budding, to Summer, the blush; 
 
 To Autumn the happy fruition, 
 
 To Winter, repose, meditation and hush, 
 
 But to Man every season is condition. 
 
 He buds, blooms and ripens into action and rest, 
 
 As thinker and actor and sleeper, 
 
 Then withers and wavers, chin dropping on breast, 
 
 And is reaped by the hand of a Reaper." 
 
 Rachel Hepburn Haskell (Mrs. D. H. Haskell). 
 (Note. — This is from the pen of a Pioneer Mother. — The Gatherer.) 
 From "Golden Era Magazine*; April 1884. 
 
 SAINTS AND MARTYRS 
 
 Saints an' martyrs? 
 
 S'pose there be. 
 Hain't seen many? 
 
 'Tween you an' me, 
 PVhaps there ain't many 
 
 Fer to see. 
 
 But I've hearn a boy 
 
 With grumblin' look 
 A-shoutin' "Ma ! 
 
 I want my book!" 
 And I've seen a martyr 
 
 Sarch every nook. 
 
 An' a leetle gal 
 
 I've known to cry, 
 With an ache in her head — 
 
 That was all in my eye — 
 An' a saint soothed her 
 
 With a lullaby. 
 
 An' I seen a man 
 
 Without much har 
 Look for a thing 
 
 That wasn't thar — 
 Whar he hadn't put it — 
 
 An' swar and swar. 
 
 Then I've seen the martyr 
 
 Find the book — 
 Nary a cross word, 
 
 Nary a look — 
 An' the boy at school 
 
 The spellin' prize took. 
 
 An' the leetle gal 
 
 Woke up from sleep 
 To help the saint 
 
 To dust an' sweep — 
 An' at night 'fessed up 
 
 With contrition deep. 
 
NOVEMBER 335 
 
 Fer the feller, too, 
 
 Without much har, 
 She found the thing 
 
 (That lay just thar, 
 Whar he had put it) 
 
 An' a kiss to spar. 
 
 Now I that boy- 
 Would 'a' spanked with his book ; 
 
 The leetle gal 
 
 I'd 'a' shook an' shook, 
 
 An' the feller without 
 E'er a har forsook. 
 
 Saints an' martyrs 
 
 P'r'haps ain't rife, 
 The woods ain't full — 
 But, bet yer life, 
 I know one — 
 
 An' that's my wife ! 
 
 Charles Hem}) Webb. 
 From "With Lead and Line* ; 
 Cambridge: Houghton, Mifflin Co., 1901. 
 
 THE GOLD-ROCKER CRADLE 
 
 When I arrived in California there were very, few accommodations 
 for new-born infants. A baby had to take what it could get and be 
 thankful. Everybody gathered around and made up for the lack of 
 comforts in giving the newcomer the most ridiculous attentions. Espe- 
 cially was this the case with the miners, who would go miles to get a 
 chance to hold a baby in their armsfor a few moments. This habit 
 of theirs was especially shown in my case, for I was known far and 
 near as the baby whose father had died seven months before it was 
 born. By common consent the men felt they must take the place of 
 their dead comrade and be like adopted fathers to the infant thus left 
 to the mercies of the world. 
 
 My wailing and crying was to them a matter to be studied and 
 understood. So one of the men, whose name was Asa Wiles, became 
 the spokesman. 
 
 "Why> in course the pore little thing is cryin' its life away. It 
 ain't used to this yer rough life of ourn an' it's longin' fer the comforts 
 of civilization. The smart little thing! Don't you know what it's 
 cryin' fer?" And he slapped his knee and chuckled. "Ain't we all had 
 cradles to be rocked asleep in? An' ain't it purty tough on the pore 
 little thing to hev to put up with our rough ways? Jest you leave it 
 to me, and I'll fix her up the nicest cradle that any baby in the world 
 ever had." 
 
 The next day, as my lovely young mother in her widow's weeds 
 was sitting with me in her lap, trying in vain to hush me to sleep, 
 there flocked in a deputation of miners with a cradle, but such a cradle 
 as no baby ever had before nor since. It was a gold rocker; one that 
 had seen hard service washing gold in the American river, now all 
 nicely cleaned and dried, and presented to me for my own. The men 
 took turns thumping the pillow in, and when it was fixed they laid 
 me in the unique receptacle as if it were a ceremony, and then took 
 turns rocking me to and fro. No magic of enchanter was ever more 
 potent. I went to sleep peacefully, and from that moment became a 
 good-natured child, so it was told by them proudly ever after. 
 ******** 
 
336 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 The years have passed. I hope some day to write the epic of 
 those lives from the child's point of view. But now I can only say 
 that one by one they have yielded to the hand of Time. Only those 
 who brought their families with them, or those who married here, 
 ever settled down and made homes. Home-making is the one art 
 in which woman has no rival, and, without her, man is indeed home- 
 less. And so the rest of them, like a throng of "Wandering Jews," 
 have tramped on and on, from one mining camp to another, endlessly, 
 till they have fallen by the wayside and have been buried without a 
 stone. 
 
 Generous, kindly hearts, that could always turn from the tragedies 
 of their own lives to make happy an insignificant child! What can 
 I offer to their memories for all their unfailing kindness, and much 
 enduring patience? They have passed away, leaving no trace behind. 
 The miner who brought me my gold-rocker cradle in Sacramento 
 county amid the placers; the man at the quartz mill in the sierra Ne- 
 vadas who harnessed my Newfoundland to a wagon made of a cham- 
 pagne basket put on wheels; those who made me dove-cotes for my 
 pigeons and wonderful cages for my squirrels, and carved out unique 
 cross-guns for me and showered me with dainty gifts, giving me the 
 diamond editions of the poets, all for my very own while still a child — 
 where are they today?? All scattered and gone! Most of them are 
 wrapped in the great deep mystery, some few in the uttermost limits 
 of the wilderness, but their memories will always remain fresh and 
 green in the hearts of the children who lived down in the gulch, as 
 long as they shall be on earth. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From "Grizzly Bear Magazine" ; 1909. 
 Also published in "The Wasp"; J 885. 
 
 OUR DUTY TO THE YOUNG 
 
 The paramount duty of mankind is so to deport itself as 
 to enable the young to keep their minds clean. When this is 
 done it reflects upon the character, intelligence and health of 
 the rising generation. There is nothing so detrimental to the 
 young as the suggestions of fear, hatred and pernicious social 
 activities. By social activities, I mean all things that tend to 
 influence the life in the home and in society. On the other 
 hand, there is nothing so beneficial to the young as thoughts 
 of love, kindness, charity and religion. 
 
 There is nothing so impressionable as the young mind, 
 and consequently it becomes readily influenced by suggestive 
 thoughts. If these thoughts tend towards that which is evil, 
 its effect upon the youth is of a fearful, nervous, selfish char- 
 acter, which ultimates either in ill health, unhappiness or evil 
 mindedness. On the other hand, if the suggestion influence 
 is good and noble in character it ultimates in lovable, intelli- 
 gent and happy manhood and womanhood, free from nervous 
 and unhealthful disorders and criminal tendencies. 
 
 
NOVEMBER 337 
 
 Our duty is to develop the religious training of the chil- 
 dren, for when that is properly cared for and nourished, it is 
 reasonably certain that virtue and good will predominate. 
 
 Our duty to the young therefore lies in our using our best 
 efforts with precept, training and example so as to keep their 
 minds clean, that future generations will be assured a whole- 
 some atmosphere, in which love of God and man will be the 
 predominating influence and evil and crime, negligible quali- 
 ties and quantities. Then virile, red-blooded, wholesome men 
 and women, free from anaemia, both literal and figurative, will 
 rule. "Justice an d liberty to all" will be the world's motto, 
 and the pathway leading to the brotherhood of man will have 
 been cleared. 
 
 M. S. Levy. 
 Written for "Literary California*. 
 
 COMFORT IN GOOD OLD BOOKS 
 
 In the reading that I shall recommend, culture of the mind 
 and the heart comes first of all. This is more valuable than 
 rubies, a great possession that glorifies life and opens our 
 eyes to beauties in the human soul as well as in nature, to 
 all of which we were once blind and dumb. And culture can 
 be built on the bare rudiments of education, at which peda- 
 gogues and pedants will sneer. Some of the most truly cul- 
 tured men and women I have ever known have been self- 
 educated; but their minds were opened to all good books by 
 their passion for beauty in every form and their desire to 
 improve their minds. 
 
 Among the scores of letters that have come to me in my 
 bereavement * * * was one from a woman in a country 
 town in California. * * * She told me of her husband, the 
 well-known captain of an army transport who went to sea 
 from the rugged Maine coast when a lad of twelve with only 
 a scanty education, and who, in all the years that followed on 
 the seas, laboriously educated himself and read the best books. 
 In his cabin, she said, were well-worn copies of Shakespeare, 
 Gibbon, Thackeray, Dickens, Burns and others. These great 
 worthies he had made a part of himself by constant reading. 
 Of course, the man who thinks that the full flower of educa- 
 tion is the ability to "parse" a sentence, or to express a com- 
 monplace thought in grandiloquent language that will force 
 his reader to consult a dictionary for the meaning of unusual 
 words — such a man and pedant would look upon this old sea- 
 captain as uneducated. 
 
 But for real culture of mind and soul give me the man 
 who has had many solitary hours for thought, with nothing 
 but the stars to look down on him ; who has felt the immensity 
 
338 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 of sea and sky; with no land and no sail to break the fearful 
 circle set upon the face of the great deep. In the quest for cul- 
 ture, in the desire to improve your mind by close association 
 with the great writers of all literature, do not be discouraged 
 because you may have had little school training. The schools 
 and the universities have produced only a few of the immortal 
 writers. The men who speak to you with the greatest force 
 from the books into which they have put their living souls 
 have been mainly men of simple life. The splendid stimulus 
 that they give to every reader of their books sprang from the 
 education of hard experience and the culture of the soul. 
 
 The writers of these books yearned to aid the weak and 
 heavy-laden and to bind up the wounds of the afflicted and 
 sorely stricken. Can one imagine any fame so great or so 
 enduring as the fame of him who wrote hundreds of years 
 ago words that bring tears to one's eyes today — tears that give 
 place to that passionate ardor for self-improvement, which is 
 the beginning of all real culture? 
 
 George Hamlin Fitch. 
 Condensed by the Gatherer. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO THOMAS R. CHAPIN 
 
 The Robert Raiks of the Mining Camps 
 
 Not to be left out of our past-and-gone heroes and cham- 
 pions of the early days' record shall be the man who stood for 
 the children, the boys and girls of the mining camps. He it 
 was who gathered them into the Sunday-school, whatever their 
 religion — Jewish, Catholic and Protestant — each with a class 
 having its own catechism, and then striking his tuning-fork he 
 would give the note and all would join in singing the good old- 
 fashioned hymns together, united in a brotherhood, with God 
 as the Father of them all. He was a humble follower of the 
 Galilean, but wrought for the good of all, irrespective of creeds 
 and dogmas. Owing to his neatness and order, he was some- 
 times referred to slyly by the other miners as "Miss Chapin," 
 or because of his abstaining from drinking and carousing, as 
 "Old Sunday School." But woe unto the man who undertook 
 to be ribald or coarse at the expense of religion, in his pres- 
 ence. When a righteous wrath fell upon him he was the cham- 
 pion fighter of the town, and no one could stand up against 
 him. He endeared himself to the boys and girls alike, and they 
 never forgot his noble example, for while he taught the law of 
 goodness, he lived it first, himself. 
 
 From "Life in California"; The Gatherer. 
 
 Aurora Esmeralda Co., Nevada, 1863; 
 Greenville, Plumas Co., California, J 880. 
 
 
NOVEMBER 339 
 
 REGARDING FRIENDSHIP 
 
 I am rather foolish about my friends and relatives and any 
 misunderstandings between us. I never act the "Madam 
 Pride," but always get down on my knees and beg to know 
 what is the matter. It is so much better to know. A friend's 
 a friend for life and after with me. I forgive and forgive ! I 
 cannot hold a grudge against any one. I seem always able to 
 put myself in the other chap's place and look from his view- 
 point. And when two friends of mine fall out with each other, 
 it seems as if I cannot endure it. I am always for both of 
 them. If by any sacrifice on my part I could remove the 
 obstacle between them I would make it willingly. What are 
 we here but for that? And in such a case where two I know 
 have a misunderstanding, I always feel like saying, "Let's pray 
 God to make them friends again." 
 
 Sarah M. Williamson. 
 From "Unpublished Novel". 
 
 THE CHOICE 
 
 On the bough of the rose is the prickling briar — 
 The delicate lily must live in the mire; 
 The hues of the butterfly go at a breath; 
 At the end of the road is the house of death. 
 
 Nay, nay : on the briar is the lovely rose ; 
 In the mire of the river the lily blows ; 
 The moth it is fair as a flower of the sod; 
 At the end of the road is a door to God ! 
 
 Edwin Markham. 
 
 From "The Nautilus." 
 
 DEATH OF DAY 
 
 The quiet, patient breast of Mother Earth 
 
 Seems to call my tired soul to rest. 
 
 Dimness obscures the world from vale to crest. 
 I close my eyes and wait a new day's birth. 
 
 I stand abashed before thy meed of praise. 
 What have I done to soothe thy troubled days? 
 What can I do to fill thy aching needs? 
 Ah me ! that I might give not words but deeds. 
 
 Emelie Tracy Y. Parkhurst. 
 From the "Story of the Files." 
 
340 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 COMPENSATION 
 
 Tides swept a rough brown oyster shell 
 
 Upon the strand, 
 And in its dark and secret depths there fell 
 
 A grain of sand. 
 
 The humble thing long strove itself to free — 
 
 The grain expel. 
 Failed it is true, but a wonder wrought 
 
 In that small shell. 
 
 The moments fly: the swift years come and go. 
 
 Sands o'er it whirl, 
 Death breaks its shell at last — and lo! 
 A perfect pearl. 
 
 Alice Denison Wile};. 
 From "Golden Era". 
 
 THE GREAT PANORAMA 
 
 In November, many fruits linger with us — all joined to- 
 gether — the later varieties — but this is the time for apples, 
 coral-cheeked or richly emeraldized or russet. The biggest 
 apple I ever saw, which was also the most fragrant, was one 
 given me at the Chicago Exposition, in the California building, 
 by the man in charge of the Shasta exhibit. It was as large 
 as a baby's head, and took my two hands to hold it. The Los 
 Angeles man had announced that not only in oranges, peaches, 
 apricots, cherries, grapes and everything else did his county 
 surpass the whole of California, but also in the production of 
 APPLES. Very innocently I had remarked, "I thought it 
 took snow to make good apples, like in Maine?" And the 
 Shasta man was so delighted, he insisted on presenting me 
 with the gem of the collection. I carried it to a reception 
 that night, with everybody along the route in the cars taking 
 delightful whiffs of the wonderful thing, and presented it to 
 our hostess, May Wright Sewell, who carried it around with 
 her the entire evening as if it were a bouquet, and sharing it 
 with everyone ; for Shasta — she can grow apples ! 
 
 A. E. 
 
NOVEMBER 341 
 
 WORDS FROM A PEN-WOMAN 
 
 The high standing of the journalistic profession makes it 
 imperative that those who are accepted are men and woman 
 of noble aspirations. Keeping faith with those with whom 
 they deal is as sacred a duty as "making good" in the editorial 
 room. No one wants to advance in the field of journalism at 
 the sacrifice of regrets or to appear clever by bringing tears, or 
 unhappiness into the lives of others. * * * 
 
 Every newspaper man, every newspaper woman has enough 
 confidential information to fill the pages of a paper. But being 
 of the right sort, and I repeat, the standard is high, a good 
 newspaper man (and some of the best of them are newspaper 
 women) would rather appear less brilliant, less clever, than 
 to disclose those things which would make him think less of 
 himself, as well as to lower the ideals which are the propelling 
 power of all that is best, within. * * * Contact with the 
 world and its great human interests makes newspaper folks 
 broad, kind, sympathetic. It gives breadth of vision. It en- 
 larges the heart. It tends toward universal knowledge. * * * 
 Newspaper women, generally, love their profession. Among 
 the foremost women-writers of the world are those whose 
 careers began in a newspaper office. Under the severe train- 
 ing of newspaper work writers have developed a keen percep- 
 tion, an outlook on life, which later found expression in some 
 great book or in some distinctive magazine contribution. 
 
 Josephine Martin. 
 Excerpts from a lecture given before the Women of the 
 University of California by the Club Editor of the 
 "San Francisco Examiner". 
 
 THE BREATH OF INNOCENCE 
 
 Upon the children of the schools 
 
 Does all the world depend, 
 Saved by their breath of innocence, 
 From coming to an end. 
 From "Pearls from the Talmad". Isidor Meyer. 
 
 SEEK NOT ALL WISDOM IN A WELL 
 
 Seek not all wisdom in a well, 
 The stars have also things to tell. 
 
 From "Wisdom for the Wise." 
 
342 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 TWO WAYS 
 
 There are two ways for a man to be wakened to the con- 
 sciousness of God. One man may be so indifferent and so 
 wrapt in the pleasures of the world that he is like one enjoying 
 dreams of fancy and self-indulgence in ease and sloth, when 
 suddenly there is a terrible crash of thunder and a fearful 
 flash of lightning which shocks him out of his dreams, and 
 he sits up with heart beating fast, and becomes awake. The 
 other man is sleeping peacefully undisturbed by any dreams — 
 just lost in a deep slumber when slowly morning comes, the 
 grey light, the roseate glow in the East, the rising of the sun 
 in all his majesty, and it shines into the room and all around 
 him till he is bathed in the glory of it — and at last his eyes 
 open and he is awake. 
 
 Robert McKenzie. 
 Remembered from a sermon given by the Rev. Robert McKenzie, 
 in 1878, at the Howard Street Presbyterian Church, S. F. 
 "Life in California. 9 * The Gatherer. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP 
 
 God gives Life many gifts. Rare is the hour 
 That has not for its own some gracious dower — 
 But Friendship, of all gifts transcendent far, 
 Shines over all the clear and steady star. 
 
 Ina Coolbrith. 
 Written for the "Ark-adian Brothers and Sisters 
 of California" ; 1916. 
 
 CONFIDENCE 
 
 The frailest bird upon the wind-tossed bough 
 
 Still stands and sings; 
 Why should we fear though all life's branches break, 
 Our souls have wings. 
 
 Alice Denison Wiley. 
 From "Golden Era"; 1887. 
 
 Gone is the old town, Yankee Jim, 
 
 Long lost is Timbuctoo, 
 They fell into the river's rim 
 
 Where wide-winged eagles flew. 
 
 Lillian H. S. Bailey. 
 
TO CALIFORNIA 
 
 (1848) 
 Rude, wild, unkempt, this strange new land 
 That bordered on the Western strand, — 
 
 From old ties far departed, — 
 But they who sought beneath thy earth, 
 And delved to better know thy worth, — 
 
 They found thee golden-hearted. 
 
 (The Seventies) 
 Wide trampling o'er thy herbaged plains 
 The herds clashed horns, the droves tossed manes, 
 
 Flocks fed o'er realms uncharted; 
 Yet ever Spring renewed the green, 
 And with her satin poppy sheen 
 
 Bedecked thee golden-hearted. 
 
 (Today) 
 Land of the strong and brave and free, 
 An empire by the western sea, 
 
 Glad-homed and many-marted. 
 Where 'neath the vine and fig one roves, 
 Or through the dark-green orange groves, 
 
 All gleaming golden-hearted. 
 
 (The Future) 
 
 Heir to the sunshine, heir to health, 
 Heir to unestimated wealth, — 
 
 All that the Past imparted, — 
 Shalt thou, bestowing with free hand 
 Thy blessings wide through every land, 
 Be called the Golden-hearted. 
 
 Charles Elmer Jenney. 
 From "California Nights* Entertainment." 
 Edinburgh: Valentine E. Anderson. 
 
344 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 A DAUGHTER OF THE HOUSE OF DAVID 
 
 "Ave Maria! ex qua nascitur Christus"— Hail Mary of whom Christ 
 was born! 
 
 How that ancient formula of adoration reverberates around the 
 circumference of the globe at every recurring daybreak of the Blessed 
 Nativity! From the Alps to the Andes; from the fervid precincts of 
 the equator to where the pious explorer utters his oft-repeated prayer 
 in some tossing and straining ship in the fierce latitudes of the pole; 
 from the majestic basilica of St. Peter's to the rudest tabernacle in the 
 depths of the savage forest, or on the verge of the lonely desert, sur- 
 rounded by the rectangular sign of salvation — 
 "Salvation! oh Salvation! 
 
 The joyful sound proclaim, 
 'Till earth's remotest nation 
 Has learned Messiah's name! 
 And the humble lodger in the stable, poor Mary of Nazareth, the 
 spouse of the Holy Ghost, what a resplendent crown of glory, what an 
 unspeakable fullness of renown is hers! In comparison with the lovely 
 Jewess, all other illustrious women of history and tradition sink into 
 obscurity; Cornelia, the proud mother of the Gracchi; Semiramis, the 
 splendid queen of the Assyrians; Cleopatra, the voluptuous siren of 
 the Nile; Olympia, who bore a conquerer of the world; Letitia, who 
 gave Napoleon to imperishable fame; Catharine, the mighty empress 
 of the Muscovites; Isabella of Castile, whose benevolence revealed the 
 dreaded mysteries of the Sea of Darkness, and unveiled a hidden con- 
 tinent; the glorious Elizabeth of England — what were all these in com- 
 parison with the once lowly daughter of the house of David, whose 
 maternal agony among the dumb but sympathetic beasts of the stalls, 
 delivered to Earth and Heaven the Babe in the Manger, Jesus of Naz- 
 areth, the King of Kings, the Son of God, the Redeemer of a sin- 
 stricken and perishing world? 
 
 Ave Maria! is the loving acclaim of uncounted millions on every 
 continent, under every zone, upon every habitable island of the globe. 
 Her statues and pictures are the objects of love and adoration in all 
 nations and by all tongues; and the most inspired genius of a thou- 
 sand years has exhausted its art and invention in giving imaginary form 
 and beauty to the adorable mother of Christ. 
 
 At midnight, at cock-crowing, and in the morning of the Blessed 
 Nativity, "Ave Maria" is thundered by the mighty multitude in the 
 great cathedral on the banks of the Tiber; and "Ave Maria" is gently 
 responded by the dusky maiden on the far-off shores of Lake Superior 
 and Pen d'Oreille. 
 
 Calvin B. McDonald. 
 From "Story of the Files" ; San Francisco, 1893. 
 
 THE WHITE SILENCE 
 
 The afternoon wore on, and with the awe born of the 
 White Silence the voiceless travelers bent to their work. Na- 
 ture has many tricks wherewith she convinces man of his 
 finity — the ceaseless flow of the tides, the fury of the storm, 
 the shock of the earthquake, the long roll of heaven's artil- 
 
DECEMBER 345 
 
 lery — but the most tremendous, the most stupefying of all, is 
 the passive phase of the White Silence. All movement ceases, 
 the sky clears, the heavens are as brass; the slightest whisper 
 seems sacrilege, and man becomes timid, affrighted at the 
 sound* of his own voice. Sole speck of life journeying across 
 the ghostly wastes of a dead world, he trembles at his audacity, 
 realizes that his is a maggot's life, nothing more. Strange 
 thoughts arise unsummoned, and the mystery of all things 
 strives for utterance. And the fear of death, of God, of the 
 universe, comes over him — the hope of the Resurrection and 
 the Life, the yearning for immortality, the vain striving of the 
 imprisoned essence — it is then, if ever, man walks alone with 
 God. 
 
 Jack London. 
 From "The White Silence" 
 in a story in the collection called 
 "The Son of the Wolf'; 1900. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS DOLL 
 
 "Could it be real with its stately mien 
 
 And flowing robes and wealth of golden hair? 
 Its vermeil cheeks and polonaise of green, 
 Its waxen arms so beautifully fair"? 
 And what to her seemed e'en far more rare — 
 From its white neck a string of beads depending 
 And a golden girdle with its laces blending. 
 
 "Give me!" she cried impatient to caress 
 
 And hold the image to her swelling heart, 
 Her face the type of pictured happiness, 
 Free from dissimulation, such as art 
 Suggests to older actors in a part. 
 In Fortune's gifts there dwelt no greater joy 
 Than she beheld in this bespangled toy. 
 
 O sacred passion! If the little child, 
 Intuitive, so much of love can show 
 
 And keep it in her bosom undefiled, 
 
 In after years its tender charm to throw 
 With arching splendor, like the heavenly bow, 
 
 Her destiny will be to bless mankind. 
 
 William Bausman. 
 From "Story of the Files"; San Francisco, 1893. 
 
346 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT 
 
 The spirit of Christmas is one of the best gifts that Chris- 
 tianity has bestowed upon us. It speaks in a language that 
 is foreign to none and native to all — the language of fellow- 
 ship and sisterhood. It should be cultivated to the end that 
 instead of manifesting itself but once a year, it would become 
 a beautiful flower of perennial bloom. It would be a fine old 
 world, indeed, if we made the Christian spirit the sentiment 
 of every-day life. 
 
 Hugh Hume. 
 From the "Spectator' ; Portland, Ore., 1916. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS 
 
 Of the mission church San Carlos, 
 
 Builded by Carmelo's bay, 
 There remains an ivied ruin 
 
 That is crumbling fast away. 
 In its tower the owl finds shelter, 
 
 In its sanctuary grow 
 Rankest weeds above the earth-mounds, 
 
 And the dead find rest below. 
 
 Still, by peasants at Carmelo, 
 
 Tales are told and songs are sung 
 Of Junipero, the Padre, 
 
 In the sweet Castlian tongue — 
 Telling how each year he rises 
 
 From his grave the mass to say, 
 In the midnight, 'mid the ruins, 
 
 On the eve of Carlos' day. 
 
 With their gaudy painted banners, 
 
 And their flambeaux burning bright, 
 In a long procession come they 
 
 Through the darkness and the night; 
 Singing hymns and swinging censers, 
 
 Dead folks' ghosts — they onward pass 
 To the ivy-covered ruins, 
 
 To be present at the mass. 
 
DECEMBER 347 
 
 And the grandsire and the grandame, 
 
 And their children march along, 
 And they know not one another 
 
 In that weird, unearthly throng. 
 And the youth and gentle maiden, 
 
 They who loved in days of yore, 
 Walk together now as strangers, 
 
 For the dead love nevermore. 
 
 "Ite, missa est," is spoken 
 
 At the dawning of the day, 
 And the pageant strangely passes 
 
 From the ruins sere and gray; 
 And Junipero, the Padre, 
 
 Lying down, resumes his sleep, 
 And the tar-weeds, rank and noisome, 
 
 O'er his grave luxuriant creep. 
 
 And the lights upon the altar 
 
 And the torches cease to burn, 
 And the vestments and the banners 
 
 Into dust and ashes turn; 
 And the ghostly congregation 
 
 Cross themselves, and one by one 
 Into thin air swiftly vanish, 
 
 And the midnight mass is done. 
 
 Richard Edward White. 
 
 IT WAS WINTER IN SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 It was winter in San Francisco — not the picturesque win- 
 ter of the north or south, but a mild and intermediate season, 
 as if the great zones had touched hands, and earth were glad 
 of a friendly feeling. 
 
 One can learn to love the fog very much. There are even- 
 ings when it sweeps across the land — calming, cooling, wel- 
 come ; the same solace to our jaded, distorted senses as is sleep. 
 The day may have been hard in its lessons or over-warm in 
 temperature, but this fog, when we have learned to love it, 
 has the quiet touch of a friend. 
 
 Frances Charles. 
 From "The Siege of Youth"; 
 Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1903. 
 
 
348 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE CALL OF THE NORTH 
 
 From Bering's shores, where weirdly gleams 
 
 Aurora's mystic shimmering light; 
 Where Luna's cold reflected beams 
 
 Illume the long drear winter night, 
 Comes wafted on the southward breeze 
 
 A cry, as to a wayward child, 
 "Come back — Oh, wanderer of the seas, 
 
 Return where all is free and wild." 
 
 The great white silence calls "Come home, 
 
 I give you peace — why linger then?" 
 I bow my head — too far I've roamed, 
 
 Nor laden vessels northward tread; 
 For ice locked is my Arctic land, 
 
 And many moons their course must run, 
 Ere summer waves her beck'ning hand 
 
 And shines again, the Midnight Sun. 
 
 Mary E. Haft. 
 
 FORTY MINCE PIES 
 
 I remember a season of mince-pie beside which all others 
 pale in comparison. It was when we lived in a deep canyon 
 of the high Sierras in Esmeralda county, Nevada, miles away 
 from any other house; and in the long, cold winters we had 
 to find our recreation within our own family circle. In pre- 
 paring for our Christmas that year of December, 1864, my 
 mother devoted several days to baking, while my brothers and 
 myself danced around in delight at seeing the promised time 
 was so near at hand. 
 
 The usual custom is to make up a great jar of mincemeat, 
 and use it from time to time, throughout the days succeeding 
 the holidays. But on this occasion the winter was so bitterly 
 cold and severe that our mother resolved to make up the entire 
 jar at once. We had one room that the sun never touched, 
 and it was like death to enter the place, so it served as a sort 
 of refrigerator where the multitude of pies could be stored. I 
 remember seeing the vision of pies there placed in orderly 
 rows on long shelves contrived for the purpose — so many of 
 them that just out of curiosity I counted them and found 
 forty — forty mince pies ! 
 
 During the long solemn nights of stillness and icy chili, 
 or of tempest howling about the house with threats of snowy 
 
DECEMBER 349 
 
 death, or of listening to the uncanny laughter of the coyotes 
 hunting for prey, we gathered close to the merry, crackling 
 blaze of the stove, and told stories and riddles, and sang songs 
 to my mother's guitar accompaniment. And then one of us 
 would be sent into the "Greenland room", which was always 
 in the dark, to capture a pie for the crowning of the feast. In 
 we would fly, seize the treasure, dart out again like a hero 
 that had dared the goblins. Placing the frozen confection be- 
 tween two pie-pans we would turn it over and over before the 
 flame, and slowly upon the atmosphere would steal those de- 
 licious flavors, subtle and spicy, which belong to the mince- 
 pie, and the mince-pie alone. 
 
 When divided and shared, each expectant youngster would 
 smilingly absorb the fragrant and toothsome triangle. We 
 were hardy children — Nature adapting us to the cold, and the 
 mince-pie seemed especially adapted to the peculiar circum- 
 stances that surrounded us. We slept soundly and peacefully 
 after our feast, and awoke refreshed and ready to battle anew 
 with the rigors of Nature again in the morning. 
 
 The long, bitter winter in the ice-bound canyon would 
 have long since faded from my mind, but it has become crys- 
 tallized into a sort of dim legend on account of the impression 
 made by the forty mince-pies. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From "The Golden Era" : December, 1885. 
 
 THE FRESHMAN'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 The swirling snow upon the campus square 
 
 Floats down and grays the night — that otherwise 
 Were densely black — and, drifting, lies 
 
 Above a level depth to lap against the bare 
 
 And stony walls, like waves above their sea, 
 
 Yet soft and filmy as a drapery. 
 
 The trees are swaying limbs that creak with cold, 
 As if — unclad of leaves, and chilling fast — 
 They swing their arms athwart the freezing blast 
 To make them warm; and muffled, solemn, old, 
 The college bell beats out the midnight hour 
 And shivers back to silence in its tower, 
 
 Announcing Christmas, newly born — that seems 
 
 More like to burial of joy and all 
 
 Its kindred, as from wall to wall 
 The gloom proceeds; for lo, of cheerful beams 
 The windows are bereft, save only one, 
 That dimly glows alone, as if to shun 
 
350 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 The rest. High up beneath the crumbling roof — 
 That seems to crouch above to guard the spark 
 Of light and warmth — it beams, the warp of dark 
 Close weaving with the pale and feeble woof 
 Of light; and all about its lower edge 
 The snow has smoothed the corners of the ledge 
 
 With gray. There, gazing forth, a freshman stands 
 Alone, his smileless, bloodless lips compressed 
 As one who struggles not to be distressed 
 Of fate; and holds within his numbing hands 
 A tattered volume; and he sees below 
 The smooth, untrodden blanket of the snow. 
 
 Not one of all the gay and laughing crowd 
 Of fellow-students but has gone away 
 To all the frolic of the holiday 
 
 Of Christmas; and the drifting, winding shroud 
 
 Finds only one, forlornly left behind, 
 
 About whose cold and deadened joys to wind 
 
 Its sheets. Behind him in its barrenness 
 His room is dreary, with his chair anear 
 The grate — itself a gray and chilling bier 
 
 For embers dead or dying; and the press 
 
 Of darkness round the lamp has subtly laid 
 
 The dormitory in a veil of shade 
 
 And gloom. Out-peering now, he sees the moon, 
 That glances once upon the campus gray 
 And white, and then retreats in clouds away 
 
 To gayer scenes; he hears the tinkling tune 
 
 Of sleighbells — going — gone; and notes the pane, 
 
 Whereon the ivy's bony finger lain, 
 
 Is beckoning and tapping mockingly 
 
 To lure him forth. And so he turns to sink 
 Upon his chair again, and there to think 
 Of disappointed hopes; of what will be 
 His Christmas day, who, orphaned now again — 
 Of even friends — is left within his den 
 
 This dreary night. Oh, what the profit now 
 Of being first in classes, that is last 
 In all the boon of joy? — yea, all his past 
 
 Were meager pay, would kindly fate endow 
 
 His future with a tie to human kind 
 
 Or any hope that Christmas day should find 
 
 His heart upheaving gladly. On the coals 
 He throws a bit of wood, that, smoldering, 
 Weaves fantasies of smoke, that float and fling 
 A myriad host of weird designs — the souls 
 And wraiths of Christmas-times gone by; and low 
 A wailing of the wind, that seems to go 
 
DECEMBER 351 
 
 And come, is in the grate. And now about 
 
 His shoulders falls, from off the battered chair, 
 An ancient fabric, and it lingers there 
 
 Caressingly, as if from cold and doubt 
 
 To shield his heart; for lo! his mother's shawl 
 
 It is — a faithful comfort — aye, the all 
 
 Of mother that is left to him! and on 
 
 His face a smile, that lights the peace of sleep, 
 Is come, as if of happiness deep 
 
 He drinks at last. And dreaming spins a dawn, 
 
 As glinting bright as webs the fairies string 
 
 From buds to blossoms, when the lovesome Spring 
 
 Is breathing zephyrs in the dell. He feels 
 
 The crisping air, and hears the jangling bells, 
 And sees the wisp of smoke beyond, that tells 
 
 Of laden ovens hot, where Aunty deals 
 
 In Christmas cheer; and then the gliding sleigh 
 
 Draws near the farm to join the holiday 
 
 And gayety. Yo ho! the gladsome smile 
 The very house is smiling! and aglow 
 The eyes of cousins, maidens — all, as though 
 
 The warmth within were gleaming through; the while 
 
 The massive door is open — swinging wide — 
 
 Too small by far to free the flooding tide 
 
 Of welcome. Ah, the Christmas atmosphere 
 Of evergreens and frost, and kindling fire 
 Within the gate! and lights that these inspire 
 
 In dancing eyes; and, ah, again to hear 
 
 From loving hearts the hospitality 
 
 Of soul to soul expressed, and thus to be 
 
 A brother taken home! The sleeper's dream 
 
 Goes sweetly on through afternoon and night 
 Of cheer and comfort, feast and wondrous light 
 
 Of lamps and scene. He hears a flowing stream 
 
 Of music and of laughter and of song, 
 
 That swells and dies and swells again along 
 
 A merry gamut; and he sees the red 
 
 Of glowing flames, and, yea, of flaming cheeks, 
 And ruddy berries; and he gaylj seeks 
 
 The pinnacle of joy, before 'tis swiftly sped, 
 
 To form a brotherhood that never more 
 
 Will leave him lonesomely without the door 
 
 In cold and snow. He lingers at the game 
 
 Of fantasy, wherein a knocking sound 
 
 Comes far aloft, persistently around 
 His ears — and then the joyous light and flame 
 Of all the dream is gone, and gayest morn 
 Is stealing in the dormitory, lorn 
 
352 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 And chill. He staggers lamely; far below 
 That sound of knocking still, and so adown 
 The creaking stairs he limps, with sleepy frown 
 To meet the postman, standing in the snow 
 And holding forth a package. Up the stairs 
 He sighing climbs again, and weakly tears 
 
 Away the wrapper. With a tingling throb 
 
 His heart goes leaping then, as on the book — 
 A matchless Homer — falls the eager look 
 
 Its worth compels, and something like a sob 
 
 To see the mighty Jove, superior 
 
 To earth, engaged in vast, heroic war 
 
 With fates! and heroes, where they bravely crowd 
 To stand with stoic mien, to nobly bear 
 With stern adversity! And now the flare 
 
 Of strength of heart is come to make him proud — 
 
 A man! — But ah, his head is fain to bend 
 
 To read the "Merry Christmas from a friend", 
 
 The old professor's hand has penned. The square 
 Lies undisturbed; the day is bright and clear 
 And sharp; the sound of bells, afar and near, 
 Comes softly. In the dormitory, there, 
 Are feast and music, joy and roundelay, 
 And greatness, born on Christmas Day! 
 
 Philip Verrill Mighcls. 
 From "Bachelor of Arts"; 1896, New York. 
 
 COMFORT TO BE FOUND IN GOOD OLD BOOKS 
 
 In selecting the great books of the world, place must be 
 given first of all, above and beyond all, to the Bible. In the 
 homely old King James' version, the spirit of the Hebrew 
 prophets seems reflected as in a mirror. For the Bible, if one 
 were cast away on a lonely island, he would exchange all other 
 books; from the Bible alone could such a castaway get com- 
 fort and help. It is the only book in the world that is new 
 every morning; the only one that brings balm to wounded 
 hearts. 
 
 Looked upon merely as literature, the Bible is the greatest 
 book in the world; but he is dull and blind indeed who can 
 study it and not see that it is more than a collection of su- 
 premely eloquent passages written by many hands. * * * 
 The great passages of the Bible have entered into the com- 
 mon speech of the plain people of all lands ; they have become 
 part and parcel of our daily life. So should we go to the foun- 
 tain-head of this unfailing source of inspiration and comfort, 
 and drink daily of its healing waters, which cleanse the heart 
 and make it as the heart of a little child. 
 
 George Hamlin Fitch. 
 
DECEMBER 353 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S STATUE TO THE PIONEER 
 
 MOTHER 
 
 We raise our praise to her in deathless bronze 
 To stand a thousand years in token of 
 That holy motherhood which keeps us safe, 
 Not only here, but also in that dim 
 Hereafter far beyond the stars. 'Twas not 
 Enough she braved the elemental things 
 Upon the journey WESTWARD to the sea- 
 Pacific's mighty shore — step by step to keep 
 With him, the Father Pioneer, and hand-in-hand 
 With him. That was not all' While he 
 Endured privation, breaking the wilderness 
 And making her a path to follow, what was 
 She doing meanwhile? Bearing all, to bring 
 Her own sweet peace into the land to set 
 All things straight and fair, according to 
 Her VISION, with that maternal force which is 
 The spiritual providence of the race, 
 As well as being the material one also. 
 'Twas thus in after days we came 
 To know her in all her varied powers. 
 What was she doing in all that early time 
 But living, breathing, being type most true 
 To the pearl of Universal Motherhood. 
 
 * * * Thus we place 
 
 Her in simple shawl and gown, with babe 
 Upon her lap, and little girl and boy 
 On either side, symbolizing well the four 
 That make the family-group. And thus amid 
 A road all strewn with oxen's bones, 
 She sat her down and taught her young to say, 
 
 "BLESSED ARE THE PURE IN HEART, FOR 
 THEY SHALL SEE GOD AND HIS WILL OBEY." 
 
 As Stephen White hath said, "The only church 
 We knew was around our MOTHER'S KNEES." 
 
 ****** 
 
 'Twas thus the Breed of the Greater West hath come 
 To pass, undaunted, resolute and brave, 
 Unconquered yet by bribes and spoils of kings, 
 With fires burning in those eyes that will 
 Refuse to die, e'en though closed by Death itself. 
 
 Thus mould and shape the deathless bronze to show 
 To all the world her Vision in this Breed 
 Of hers — ordained to live the deathless life. 
 
 "From this a thousand fires shall take their birth, 
 From this ten thousand flames shall light the earth." 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 
354 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 CHRISTMAS REFLECTIONS 
 
 "Are we not changed, even since last Christmas? Are not 
 other people changed? Partly that, and partly that we have 
 developed perception and see new things in others. * * * 
 There is nobody who could not be made interesting put into a 
 story. And everybody has a story. Some have a whole series 
 of stories. * * * And yet what is the truth? As you see 
 him or as I see him? Which is the true man? Or is it as he 
 sees himself? The greatest gift of God is the insight into 
 others. * * * If we were all ticketed in the world's shop 
 window, how many now figured at a dollar would sell for a 
 cent, and how many marked at next to nothing might be worth 
 their weight in gold? * * * If we only knew what was the 
 truth. * * * It is Christmas time. Is it only a legend? Or 
 is it the God-sent truth? Whichever it be, it matters not. If 
 it were merely because the celebration of the Christmas birth, 
 once every year, calls millions of men and women to a halt, 
 and bids them lay down all weapons, shake hands with each 
 other, be they enemies or friends, forget all unkindness and love 
 each other, if only for a moment, it is a religion beyond all 
 question or dispute. It must be God-given.* * * I, for one, 
 gentlemen, do not believe that little moment of rest, that brief 
 softening of the heart, passes away without some lasting effect. 
 We seem to face the truth, the fact that there is a sentiment 
 that is universal in human nature, however it may be appar- 
 ently obliterated for a time by passion, misconception, misun- 
 derstanding, or what you will; smothered by a hundred cares 
 or worries ; a sentiment of fellow feeling, of brotherly love. 
 
 * * * You see, we rarely try to understand one another. 
 We are so sure of our own judgments that we decide every- 
 thing offhand. We take things at their face value, and, when 
 we find we have made a grave mistake, it is too late to go 
 back and begin over again. We are so busy! We take no 
 time to think; and, too often, if our friend does something we 
 don't like, we think it is deception; if somebody appears to 
 do us an injury, of course it is intentional. * * * Christmas 
 comes; and somehow it seems to me it brings to all people a 
 clearer view of men and women, of life, the true life, the true 
 interests of themselves and others, and the world is better for 
 it. * * * So hate, and fear, and vengeance, penalty and 
 punishment stop at the Christmas tide, and men come so near 
 loving each other that it gives us about the only hope we have 
 for the happiness of humanity. * * * Let us drink to char- 
 ity! It is the season when the world stops to recall the charity 
 of Him whose human form, nailed to the cross, the meanest 
 
DECEMBER 355 
 
 and the greatest now bow before in reverence. And, through 
 nineteen centuries, the gospel of love He taught has spread over 
 the civilized earth, the power behind all civilization." 
 
 "Our 11 Peter Robertson. 
 From "The Seedy Gentleman" ; 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, J 903. 
 
 ABOUT JERUSALEM 
 
 Jerusalem is not the largest city in the world, but it is 
 one of the longest. Its area is not great, but it sticks back 
 into the night of time like the tail of a comet. 
 
 From "A Levantine Log-Book"; 
 
 Longmans, Green & Co., . 
 
 Nevt York* London and Bombay, 1905. 
 
 Jerome A. Hart. 
 
 HOW SHALL YOU DESTROY THE BIBLE? 
 
 There is one more act to perform. 
 
 Let us try to show it to you. 
 
 You have entered into a dark conspiracy with but one end 
 in view. But you say, "Why! after all this, there is one copy 
 of the Bible still existing!" Existing where? "Ah, I have dis- 
 covered it here among the congregation of the dead; the cem- 
 eteries of the buried Christians ; while they exist there are 
 Bibles." 
 
 Then you enter into a conspiracy against the peace; against 
 the joys; against the affections; against splendid intellectual 
 possibilities ; against the immortal growth and strivings of man- 
 kind. A conspiracy against all these. It does not make man 
 immortal — there never was a more fallacious utterance than 
 that! It never professed to make man immortal; merely pro- 
 fessed to tell the fact; it merely informed him of such a thing. 
 
 The Bible does with immortality what Adams of Cam- 
 bridge and Leverrier of the Paris Observatory accomplished 
 with regard to the planet Neptune. It had long been thought 
 to exist from its influence on the planet Uranus, which it 
 disturbed in its motions. But not until within the last thirty-five 
 years was it positively known, until Adams planted his tele- 
 scope and accomplished the task of bringing upon his reflector 
 the planet, Neptune, the troubler of Uranus. There it was 
 shining brightly. It had always been there whether they had 
 seen it or not. 
 
356 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 That is what the Bible does. It merely brings to your mind 
 the vision. It calls you with a clarion tone to look out and see 
 rising through the mist in pomp and splendor, the vast, mag- 
 nificant orb of immortality and bids you walk in its sunlight 
 and die in its splendor. 
 
 You say, "Let us blot out the Bible in the graveyard". 
 The night shall be dark; the moon shall be dark; it shall be in 
 the dark of the moon. The conspirators shall be dressed in the 
 darkest robes, wearing, if you will, masks; they shall take 
 with them each a dark lantern ; one shall have a mallet ; an- 
 other a steel chisel; they shall all steal out at midnight, while 
 the whole world is wrapped in dream, s and pay a visit to the 
 postern-gate of some rustic graveyard, public cemetery or pri- 
 vate cenotaph; having entered and found a grave, one shall 
 stoop over and read — read, "My soul, together with my dead 
 body, shall arise; awake ye that sleep." 
 
 Then there is found written over a Hebrew's grave, "Thy 
 dead men shall live; together with my dead body shall they 
 arise. Awake and sing, ye that dwell in the dust, for thy 
 dew is as the dew of herbs, and the earth shall cast out the 
 dead." 
 
 "Ah, let me see it! Let me blot it out with the mallet and 
 chisel," is the cry ; and thus he works ; chip, chip, chip. He 
 sweeps the fragments away, and then, like a ghoul, moves on 
 further and approaches another, discovering graven thereon: 
 "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord." Again he chips, 
 chips, chips, and again wanders on, like a vampire until the 
 Bible of the graveyard is gone — and then our world is the 
 awful home of an orphaned race and every human being is a 
 Godless being. 
 
 Oh, let us move anywhere — anywhere out of a world bereft 
 of God and the Bible. Oh, sirs, you cannot, cannot do it. 
 
 Thomas Guard. 
 
 From an oration given at the Grand Opera House to a packed 
 house by Rev. Dr. Thomas Guard in reply to Col. Robert Ingersoll, and 
 which was taken down in shorthand by Adley H. Cummins and pub- 
 lished in the "Sacramento Record Union \ Saturday, July 14, 1877. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS WISH FOR YOU 
 
 May Joy be yours, and Peace abide, 
 
 With thee and thine this Christmas-tide; 
 
 And by the hearth-stone, through the dawning year, 
 
 Shall sit content, abounding love and cheer. 
 
 W. Kimball Briggs. 
 
DECEMBER 357 
 
 FAITH 
 
 An Experience in the Life of Annie E. K. Bidwell. 
 
 "I felt my life ebbing away. A terror had possessed me 
 (which only God could conquer), thinking of the lonely future 
 before me which would have to be passed now, without the 
 care and protection of my dearly beloved husband — now lying 
 in the other room, in his last sleep. A friend sat beside me, 
 but she passed from my thought so utterly that I forgot her 
 existence, for I was at sea, in a terrific rainless thunderstorm. 
 
 Before me somewhat to my right, and somewhat distant, 
 intense blackness reigned, — through which, from sky to sea, 
 poured three streams of blood-red lightning, yet shed no light 
 on the scene before me. Violent thunder-in-wind such as I 
 had not heard, even in the high Sierras, continued incessantly 
 their deafening noise, and to myself, I exclaimed, "What a 
 horrible storm, yet it must be the Hand of Love which is send- 
 ing that awful lightning, thunder and wind." I wondered that 
 but the cool moist fringe of the wind touched my cheek like a 
 zephyr, while the tempest raged so near. 
 
 Suddenly in the foreground, I saw a great surf of water 
 of dazzling whiteness pass me in rapid swells toward the East 
 where it rose to a height of a hundred feet, then broke into 
 white-caps which the wind tossed like bits of plume into the 
 air, and bore them away in its furious flight. On the silvery 
 swell of the wave before me rested a sea gull of a whiteness 
 which never had my eyes beheld before, its eyes cast upward 
 to the crest of the wave with an expression of triumph over 
 the elements and of ecstatic joy! And as I admired and won- 
 dered, I noticed that the on-rushing water had no power to 
 move the trusting bird, and to me came the thought, "Of course 
 the water carries you not away, for you obey God's law! He 
 made you to ride the sea." 
 
 Suddenly the realization came to me — that this was my 
 storm, and God but letting its fringe touch me, as the fringe 
 of the wind had touched my cheek, and that it was mine to 
 obey and trust Him as did the sea-bird, resting in His love 
 without a care, effort or fear. 
 
 Words cannot express the exaltation, the peace, the adora- 
 tion, gratitude and love which filled my soul in looking upon 
 this scene, and realizing that it was God's manifestation to me 
 of His inexpressible sympathy and love and His desire that I 
 should rest in His love. Then through a veil of silver I saw 
 the door of my room open and my friend pass out, and the 
 vision dissolve ! and I knew I was alone in my room, not at 
 
358 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 sea. And so overpowering was the joy that filled my soul with 
 the knowledge thus obtained from this symbolic dream, that 
 a wondrous strength came to me, out of my faltering and my 
 weakness. And I said, "On the ocean of Thy love I float, as 
 does the sea-bird with wings at rest! I understand the sweet 
 peace which comes from sense of power of Him who made 
 and rules the sea and me — His helpless sea-bird, weary from 
 flight and battling with the storm — with no care, no thought 
 save to repose on that great sea of Love, unfathomable, though 
 the waves toss high on that great sea of Love, wind's wild 
 rage and lightning's clash and thunder roar, for softly to my 
 soul is borne the PEACE OF GOD." 
 
 And so I lost all thought of self, "passed under the rod," 
 bore my burden of sorrow in parting with my best beloved, and 
 returned to my work which God had given me to do for my 
 poor Indians and others who have needed me so many years, 
 ever sustained by my Faith in the Goodness and the Great- 
 ness of God. 
 
 Annie E. K. Bidn>ell. 
 From a letter in the possession of "The Gatherer.*' 
 Dated May 17th, 1906. 
 
 A GRAIN OF WHEAT 
 
 "Except a grain of wheat fall into the ground and die it 
 abideth alone." — John xxii :24. 
 
 By surrendering its contracted, confined, individual life the 
 grain begins to multiply and widen its circle of life. Instead 
 of one small unit, great fields are waving with grain and beau- 
 tiful valleys are golden with ripening harvests. 
 
 The soil, rich with the deposits of vast eons of geologic 
 ages, is taken up and and the sun pours its wealth into the tiny 
 plumules peeping out of the warmed earth and the rains and 
 dews distill into food stored in the tiny homes of the multiplied 
 grains. This becomes nutriment for a civilization. 
 
 Translate this nutrition into action and we see great en- 
 gineers building trans-continental railroads, constructing the 
 mighty enginry that drives the wheels of commerce, tunneling 
 the hills from whence come the golden nuggets that bear a 
 nation's stamp when passed through its minting mills, or armies 
 of men digging a Panama Canal that ties two oceans and be- 
 comes a sea-road for the pilots of the world. 
 
 Translate it into harmony and we hear the symphony of a 
 master Beethoven or the oratorio of Haydn; into literature and 
 
DECEMBER 359 
 
 we are borne skyward by the "grand translunar music" of 
 Milton and softened by the simple melody of Stevenson ; into 
 speculation and we follow the meditations of Plato and the 
 high arguments of Kant; into moral conviction and we have 
 the stamina of Isaiah and the courage of Paul. 
 
 The stored sunshine in this multiplied grain of wheat may 
 become the smile on a baby's cheek, the lullaby of a mother's 
 love, the prayer of a father's soul for the boy of his hopes, the 
 sentiment that unites a home in the sweet bond that makes the 
 angels hunger for the paradise of earth. 
 
 Our grain sacrificed for the larger whole is heard in the 
 periods of a Gladstone pleading for international justice and 
 is written in the statutes that insure a nation its liberty; it rises 
 into the worship of a city that pays homage to Him who gave 
 the hills and valleys and lakes and oceans and suns and stars 
 for the joy of the children of time and the sons of eternity. 
 
 John A. B. Fry. 
 
 AFTER THE EXPOSITION 
 
 The TIME will come when Ruin's rage will lay 
 Its heartless hand upon these piles that soar, 
 And they in all their rich-abounding lore 
 Will like the dream they are, then pass away. 
 
 These avenues that swarm with life so gay 
 Will swell with rapture's paeans never more; 
 And all these palaces' eye-rapturing store 
 Will move along Oblivion's cypress way. 
 
 But Memory's bounteous wealth will then remain, 
 And here the far-reverberative strain 
 Of happy life will bless the willing ear; 
 
 Again these palaces will woo the air, 
 
 These breathing statues all our praises hear, 
 These blooms and fountains never know despair. 
 
 - tfT ,, ~ f .1 a ♦. Edward Robeson Taylor, 
 
 trom In the Court of the Ages; 
 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson. 1915. 
 
 THE THREAD OF LIFE 
 
 It is impossible to keep an eye on the thread of life at all. 
 The transmission of life from one grain of wheat to another is 
 as incomprehensible as the product of a new, powerful, glorious, 
 and incorruptible body from a dead one, buried in weakness, 
 dishonor and corruption. The living grain of wheat has in 
 
360 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 itself, no more self-raising power than the dead body of man. 
 Power comes to it in the ground. * * * Life from death 
 in the grain of wheat is an expansive movement from one to 
 many. * * * Nature cares more for the strong than the 
 weak; she cares more for the fruitful than the barren, she cares 
 more for the conscious than the unconscious. And in caring 
 for the unconscious wheat, she cares for the conscious man. 
 Conscious man is at the top of things, and all below are his 
 supporters. Everything directly or indirectly is to help him. 
 Ceasing to help they cease to be. Man continues, because con- 
 sciousness, like force and matter, is an independent and imper- 
 ishable substance. 
 
 Rev. W. H. Piatt 
 From "After Death— What?" 
 San Francisco: A. Roman & Co., 1878. 
 
 GOOD-BYE, BRET HARTE 
 
 Yon yellow sun melts in the sea; 
 A sombre ship sweeps silently 
 Past Alcatraz tow'rd Orient skies — 
 A mist is rising to the eye — 
 
 Good-bye, Bret Harte, good-night, good-night! 
 
 Yon sea-bank booms for funeral guns ! — 
 What secrets of His secret suns, 
 Companion of the peak and pine, 
 What secrets of the spheres are thine? 
 
 Good-bye, Bret Harte, good-night, good-night! 
 
 You loved the lowly, laughed at pride, 
 
 We mocked, we mocked, and pierced your side; 
 
 And yet for all harsh scoffings heard 
 
 You answered not one unkind word, 
 
 But went your way, as now; good-night! 
 
 How stately tall your ships, how vast 
 With night nailed to your leaning mast 
 With mighty stars of hammered gold 
 And moon-wrought cordage manifold, 
 
 Good-bye, Bret Harte, good-night, good-night. 
 
 Joaquin Miller, 1902. 
 
DECEMBER 361 
 
 A GRAIN OF MUSTARD SEED 
 
 What moved me most, dear friend, that happy day 
 At San Fernando in the early fall, 
 Was not the glory that its charms recall, 
 The saintly King of Spain, the arching gray 
 Of cloisters fronting on the Royal Way, 
 
 The roof of tiles, dove-haunted, nor the tall 
 Old palms that guard the olive orchard's wall, 
 Nor yet the church, impressive in decay; 
 
 But just a grave where weeds neglected grew 
 That bore two mustard stalks tied Christ-cross wise. 
 A grain of faith like that makes living sweet 
 It moves our mountains, makes us feel anew 
 The benediction of those smiling skies 
 
 The brooding presence of the Paraclete. 
 
 Charles S. Greene. 
 
 THE PIONEERS OF THE WEST 
 
 Would God that we, their children, were as they — 
 
 Great-souled, brave-hearted, and of dauntless will! 
 
 Ready to dare, responsive to the still, 
 Compelling voice that called them night and day 
 From this far West, where sleeping Greatness lay 
 
 Biding her time. Would God we knew the thrill 
 
 That exquisitely tormented them until 
 They stood up strong and resolute to obey! 
 
 God, make us like them, worthy of them; shake 
 Our souls with great desires; our dull eyes set 
 On some high star whose quenchless light will wake 
 
 Us from our dreams, and guide us from this fen 
 
 Of selfish ease won by our fathers' sweat. 
 Oh, lift us up — the West has need of Men ! 
 From "The Vanishing Race." £&* Higginson. 
 
 PRODIGALS 
 
 We tarry in a foreign land, 
 
 With pleasure's husks elate,. 
 When robe and ring and Father s hand 
 
 At home our coming Wait. Charles A. Murdoch 
 
 A PICTURESQUE COSTUME OF EARLY DAYS 
 
 Anybody who thinks that the Pioneers wore nothing but 
 red shirts and high boots and tight trousers thrust into the 
 boots, in early times should hear the interesting reminiscences 
 
362 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 of Mrs. Tilden-Brown, mother of Douglas Tilden, the sculptor. 
 She says that her father, Adna Hecox, who came here in '46, 
 often wore a swallow-tailed coat on occasions when he held 
 a Sunday service. She can also remember how the Chinese 
 traders had brought the most beautiful and gorgeous brocades 
 and crepes covered with embroidery to suit the Spanish tastes 
 of that time. It was so common amongst them all to use 
 these things, that she remembers her father wore a purple 
 brocade sort of long coat, upon some of the most important 
 occasions, and nobody thought anything of it, even though 
 it was lined with an equally gorgeous green silk flowered pat- 
 tern, which showed when the tails of his coat flew back. As 
 he had been made an Alcalde, he was justified in assuming 
 these brilliant hues, which were in common use among the 
 Spanish-Californians. 
 
 From "Grizzly Bear Magazine," 19$0. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO MRS. ELIZABETH MACK 
 
 Like an Arabian Night's beauty, with her sloe-black eyes, her raven- 
 black wings of waving hair framing her face, her milk-white complexion, 
 added to which was her grace of heart, it was no wonder that she was 
 the belle of the ball, and of the mining-camps wherever she went. Not 
 only was she acknowledged to be the best waltzer, but also was she the 
 most public-spirited woman in the town. She took an interest in every 
 one. Now this was in the days of the Vigilantes when they hanged 
 four murderers at one time, and drove twenty-five "toughs" out of town. 
 It was during this period of lawlessness that a man burst into her 
 kitchen, followed by another who was about to kill him. The first one 
 escaped from the window and she stood confronting the pursuer, who 
 stopped to apologize for the intrusion. She was equal to the moment 
 and urged him to go home to his wife, and to let the man live; that 
 it would be far better for him in the years to come. He lifted his hat 
 to her and returned to his home with unstained hands. And high hon- 
 ors were his in the annals of the country in his old age. 
 
 Little girls were invited to her house and taught to sew and em- 
 broider. Was there sickness or sorrow in any household, it was she 
 who bravely ventured to give sympathy and aid as a sister might. Even 
 when scandal spread its poisoned breath, nothing daunted, she was the 
 first to come forward and give a kindly word to the afflicted, and make 
 of no account the incident. When the snows were so deep the teams 
 could not get through and provisions grew scarce, and flour was nine 
 dollars a sack, it was she who proposed that there should be a free 
 Christmas tree in the town-hall, and that every child, even the babes- 
 in-arms, should receive a gift from the committee she gathered to- 
 gether. All the gulches were searched and unknown children were un- 
 earthed and with their parents made welcome on that memorable occa- 
 sion. Hampers of provisions were sent privately to certain homes and 
 fear driven away from the anxious hearts of wives and mothers. Se 
 was always like a guardian-angel protecting the weak and bringing 
 constructive benefit to all she knew. 
 
 From "Life in California". The Gatherer. 
 
DECEMBER 363 
 
 VOICES OF THE YEAR 
 
 List the voices of the year! 
 
 Softly, hear! 
 
 Wandering near, 
 Come their whispers to my ear, 
 
 As they fleet, 
 Crowding thoughts their joys repeat. 
 
 April sings in cloudy air, 
 
 So bright and fair, 
 
 All unaware 
 That pearls are shimmering down her hair; 
 
 While the sound 
 Seems like rain drops strewn around. 
 
 Through the passion song of May 
 
 Sweet hopes stray, 
 
 Such as play 
 O'er young hearts enwrought to pray, 
 
 Gladdening still 
 Lovers on the flowered hill. 
 
 Hark! The wild dove's plaintive tune. 
 
 It is June. 
 
 Far too soon 
 Reapers love the rest of noon. 
 
 The flowers die 
 All weary of the wide, hot sky. 
 
 Hear the rustling through the wheat! 
 
 Words complete — 
 
 Praises sweet — 
 Made the harvest wealth to greet, 
 
 While the days 
 Golden in the summer haze. 
 
 Now the tones of summer pale, 
 
 Fade and fail. 
 
 Hist! the quail 
 Whistling o'er the mountain trail; 
 
 Softly, hush, 
 Hunters in the underbrush. 
 
 Voices in a monotone 
 
 Seem to moan. 
 
 Dry and lone 
 Are the pathways we have known, 
 
 Falling leaves, 
 Flutter on the winged breeze. 
 
 Windy voices faint and fine 
 
 Weave in rhyme, 
 
 As ye chime; 
 Hopes and fears of seeding time; 
 
 When each grain 
 Listening, waits the sound of rain. 
 
 r ««/~ u r •• a i jooc Lilian H. S. Bailey. 
 
 From Golden Era; April, 1885. 
 
364 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE SEA OF LIFE 
 
 Into the open sea 
 My boat glides fearlessly, 
 Strong with rudder and sail, 
 To Thee, to Thee. 
 
 Waves carry my boat 
 Calmly, serenely afloat, 
 Sparkle sunlight and spray 
 For me, for me. 
 
 Breakers ahead I see, 
 
 Clouds roll over to me; 
 
 A voice in the wind I hear, 
 
 From Thee, from Thee. 
 
 Let not Thy courage fail, 
 Guide Thy rudder and sail 
 Over the sea of life 
 
 With me, with me. 
 
 Waves of sorrow and joy, 
 Laughter and tears, ahoy, 
 Away in the distance I see 
 Thee, only Thee. 
 
 Landed my boat, anchor cast, 
 Peaceful my soul at last 
 Safe in the harbor of rest 
 
 With Thee, with Thee. 
 
 Anna B. Newbegin. 
 
 ANOTHER DAY AND NIGHT 
 
 Another day, thank God, 
 
 The sun is smiling o'er the Eastern slope, 
 The busy stir of men has just begun, 
 
 And cometh once again, the new-born hope — 
 Another day! 
 
 Another night, thank God, 
 
 The moon is peeping o'er the distant hill, 
 The drowsy hum of voices now dies down, 
 The busy looms are still — 
 Another night ! 
 
 Ella Sterling Mighcls. 
 
DECEMBER 365 
 
 BEYOND 
 
 What may we take into vast Forever? 
 
 That marble door 
 Admits no fruit of all our long endeavor. 
 
 No frame-wreathed crown we wove, 
 
 No garnered lore. 
 
 What can we bear beyond the unknown portal? 
 
 Not gold, no gains; 
 Of all our toiling in the life immortal, 
 
 No hoarded wealth remains, 
 
 No gild, no stains. 
 
 Naked from out that far abyss behind us 
 
 We entered here: 
 No word came with our coming to remind us 
 
 What wondrous world was near, 
 
 No hope, no fear. 
 
 Into the silent, starless Night before us, 
 
 Naked we glide: 
 No hand has mapped the constellations o'er us, 
 
 No comrade at our side, 
 
 No chart, no guide. 
 
 Yet fearless toward that midnight black and hollow, 
 
 Our footsteps fare: 
 The beckoning of a father's hand we follow, 
 His love alone is there, 
 No curse, no care. 
 
 Edward Rowland Sill. 
 Extract from "Man the Spirit" written in 1865 for the 
 University of California Alumni Association — recently published. 
 
 ALL IS BEST 
 
 The world o'erflows its cup of woe, 
 
 Each heart has felt the knife of pain, 
 But I would have my soul to know 
 That all is best, that God doth reign. 
 
 Edward Robeson Taylor. 
 From "Lavender and Other Verse;" 
 San Francisco: Paul Elder, Publisher. 
 
366 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 IF YOU WOULD ADDRESS 
 
 Address me not where but till light 
 I halt my camel for the night; 
 Where on the desert, stand-storm swept, 
 Unsheltered from the blast I slept. 
 
 Beyond, a golden city waits, 
 And nearer swing the distant gates, 
 Inside of which are rest and calm 
 And crystal springs and groves of palm. 
 
 As o'er the worn and dusty road, 
 My patient camel on I goad, 
 We sometimes see oases green, 
 But wastes of desert lie between. 
 
 The well at which I kneel to drink 
 My parched lips mock with bitter brink; 
 The tree beneath whose shade I'd lie 
 Is leafless, and its boughs are dry. 
 
 Sometimes fair cities seem to rise 
 With minarets that pierce the skies; 
 I urge my camel on with blows — 
 They sink in sand from which they rose. 
 
 But these white walls that now I see 
 Mirage and mockery cannot be; 
 Upon the air a music swells 
 That drowns the sound of camel bells. 
 
 Hunger and Thirst, what are ye now? 
 I see the palm-tree's laden bough ; 
 I hear cool fountains plash inside 
 The gates that open swing and wide — 
 
 Quite wide enough for me — and, too, 
 I think, to let my camel through, 
 Though still outside the gates I plod, 
 Address me, "Pilgrim — care of God." 
 
 Charles Henry Webb. 
 From "With Lead and Line;** 
 Cambridge: Houghton & Mifflin, 1901. 
 
DECEMBER 367 
 
 1NA COOLBRITH 
 
 A clear white flame illumes her song. 
 The love of Truth, the hate of Wrong: 
 'Tis like a star wherein we see 
 The fire of Immortality. 
 
 SUNSET 
 
 Like some huge bird that sinks to res:. 
 
 The sun goes down — a wean,- thing — 
 And o'er the water's placid breast 
 
 It lays a scarlet outstretched wing. 
 From "The Shrine 'of Song." Hahai B ^ord. 
 
 THE ELOQUENCE OF CALVIN B. McDONALD 
 
 "What, if here and there a woman, discouraged, neglected 
 and despairing,, goes forth under maledictions thick and un- 
 sparing as Arctic hail? If one of the Pleiades, abandoning the 
 bright society of her sisters, fall, rayless forever, down the in- 
 finite depths of space, should we then the less admire the stead- 
 fastness of the six remaining Yergiliae. that unspotted in lustre 
 and in meek obedience to the Creator, tread their eternal orbits 
 sorrowing and unsinning? 
 
 As earl)) as in 1858, Calvin B. McDonald stood as a 
 champion for the women of California in "The Hesperian." 
 From the "Story of the Files of California, 1893. 
 
 A JEWEL SONG 
 
 Three gems upon a golden chain 
 
 I ever keep 
 Clasped round my neck, in joy, in pain, 
 
 Awake, asleep. 
 
 The red of flame, the green of spring, 
 
 The white of tears 
 Glow, gleam, and sparkle on my string 
 
 Of golden years. 
 
 The ruby of the Present, bright, 
 
 Of value vast. 
 The Future's emerald, and the white 
 Pearl of the Past. 
 From "A California Troubadour" Clarence Urmy. 
 
 A. M. Robertson, San Francisco: 1912. 
 
368 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE VESTALS OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Without any vow, without any order, it has come to pass in our 
 land that many beautiful and remarkable women of our early history 
 have chosen to devote their lives to the young exclusively, and have 
 passed by love and marriage. Year in and year out for half a cen- 
 tury or more, they have passed blameless lives in the ceaseless round 
 of school duties, assisting the mothers in rearing their broods to man- 
 hood and to womanhood for several generations of pupils, unchanging 
 and unchanged. 
 
 While the large and splendid army of these devoted women has 
 become absorbed and known but to those beneath their ministrations, 
 yet there are a few whose names have shone out with a brilliant light. 
 One of these was Kate Kennedy of the North Cosmopolitan school in 
 San Francisco in the early years, who brought with her from Ireland 
 a most remarkable personality. She was very advanced in her ideas, 
 and it was through her insistence that languages were first taught in 
 the public schools. She had a brilliant intellect and could debate with 
 men in their own societies and argue questions with judicial quality. 
 She gave a great impetus to learning by her inspiration and encour- 
 agement. There are gray-haired teachers with us today who give her 
 the credit for their own love of learning gained in the school-room 
 where Miss Kennedy reigned supreme. 
 
 Another of these is Miss Jean Parker, after whom a schoolhouse 
 has been named. Long ago, in the very early days, the parents of 
 Miss Parker embarked from Scotland for America. They then crossed 
 the plains, and it was the father who remarked to the mother that it 
 was going to be the girls of that family to whom they would have to 
 look for support in their old age, for it was the daughters who rose 
 early in the daylight to oil the wheels of the wagons, and prepare for 
 the day's journey and keep everything in order on the way. And so 
 it was during the long years after arriving in the land of gold! Such 
 energy, such power, such grasp on things material and spiritual as was 
 shown by those fine girls of the Parker family! Jean Parker's name 
 will never be forgotten for the part she played in forming character 
 and establishing records of high-born girls and boys in the educational 
 center where she prevailed against ignorance and against slothfulness. 
 Her life-work stands for her, marked as a shining star. 
 
 Emma Marwedel came from Germany, a pupil of the widow of 
 Froebel, to organize the first kindergarten in San Francisco. She was 
 the teacher of Kate Douglas Smith, afterwards Wiggin, who was se- 
 lected to teach the first free kindergarten known in the early days, the 
 one established on Silver street. It was Miss Marwedel to whom all 
 the credit was due for the original teaching here in our state of that 
 wonderful system which has entered in to smooth the way for learn- 
 ing, for the children of both the rich and the poor. She was the source 
 from whom it all came. Others benefited and gained the glory, but 
 it was her life-work from her youth to her old age. 
 
 Exquisitely fair, with violet eyes and waving chestnut hair, and as 
 beautiful as the pictures we used to see of an imaginary Evangeline, 
 was Laura Templeton of Sacramento, who came from Vermont. There 
 was a beauty on her brow I never saw upon another face than hers. 
 She was vestal-like in this spiritualized essence of hers. It carried 
 with it a strange power of authority. If some of the reckless boys 
 attempted to evade obeying the rules she laid down, it was only that 
 much worse for the boys. She quelled them, one by one, by her abso- 
 lute justice. There was a largeness about her that included all. She 
 
DECEMBER 369 
 
 had no favorites. Besides these elements in her make-up, she was 
 the bravest woman I ever knew, and I have known many courageous 
 Pioneer women who lived out in the wilds, miles away from the smoke 
 of another one's chimney. 
 
 But hers was a different kind of bravery. It was in the day when 
 the decalogue was taught in the public schools. Coming from the 
 Sierras to the city, it was my first day at the old Franklin grammar 
 school on L street, and in her class, where everything seemed strange 
 and extremely rigorous. It was my first experience at having Sun- 
 day-school exercises in day-school, and I did not like it; indeed, I had 
 always dreaded the reciting of the ten commandments in a mixed class 
 even at Sunday-school. There were always some frivolous boys who 
 made a mock of the words as we recited them. In my childish heart 
 there came a great melancholy that we had to recite this every day, 
 and I looked at the beautiful face of the teacher and wondered how 
 she could ask us to do it. The words were written on the blackboard 
 and the class began to read them off in unison. Presently we came to 
 a new way of expressing one of the commands — "Thou shalt keep thy 
 heart pure and free from evil." A great gratitude filled my heart. 
 From that day I worshiped Miss Templeton. 
 
 Many years later I had need for a copy of the ten commandments, 
 and I decided to obtain such a one as had been used by my teacher 
 for my own purpose. It was in New York City and I sought the great 
 centers of religious publishing-houses in search of this copy to place 
 before children. It was then I learned that no one but Miss Templeton 
 had taught this form of the decalogue, and that she, herself, was un- 
 doubtedly the originator of it. It seemed that no one was brave enough 
 to follow her example, for I interviewed many of the pastors of the 
 churches in the great metropolis, seeking to persuade them to do this 
 for the sake of the children. But they all were afraid to do so. 
 
 Then I realized the grandeur and the beauty of this vestal of the 
 Sacramento schools. If some father of the church a thousand years 
 before had dared to do this splendid thing for the world, how clean 
 and pure the world would be today! If that command were couched 
 in the affirmative even, it would bring a healing to the hearts of men 
 and women and children. Let it stand for her, then, to be taught to 
 the children, thus: "Thou shalt keep thy heart pure and be faithful to 
 the bond of marriage." 
 
 The debt we Pioneer children owe to these Vestals of California 
 should be expressed in pure-white marble to last a thousand years. 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From "Life in California.'* 
 
 NOEL 
 
 In every heart throughout the land 
 The Christ-child is given birth. 
 Ring out glad tidings o'er the earth, 
 Noel, Noel. 
 
 At last from darkness we awake, 
 The sun doth shine in every clime, 
 The bells peal out with chime, 
 Noel, Noel. 
 
370 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 We feel the stirring of the soul, 
 The still, small voice at last is heard, 
 And flutters like a tiny bird. 
 Noel, Noel. 
 
 We've found the Christ-child in our breast 
 
 Ring out, glad bells, the morning breaks, 
 
 And all the world at last awakes. 
 
 Noel, Noel. 
 
 rj, i.i, .in i Eugenie H. Schroeder. 
 
 1 ranslated from the trench; 
 
 San Jose: 1913. 
 
 AMERICANISM 
 
 In the long, upward struggle of the human race for indi- 
 vidual liberty, every form and variety of government has been 
 tried. * ■* * Finally culminating in the happy success of 
 American patriots in establishing in a newly discovered land 
 a government based not upon the rights of rulers, but upon 
 the rights of man, and for which no possible abiding-place 
 could have been found in all the world as it had theretofore 
 been known. * * * Upon this new and broad domain in 
 the wide, free spaces of a land of unknown limits, old theories 
 were overthrown and a new principle enunciated, that upon 
 foundations where liberty and law find equal support, a gov- 
 ernment could be maintained, not by the power of standing 
 armies, or the might of floating navies, but by the willing sup- 
 port of an enlightened, free and patriotic people.* * * * 
 Warned by the wrecks of the past, they liberated religion from 
 bondage to the temporal power, separated church from state, 
 and blotted from the statute books the crimes of non-conformity. 
 They quenched the fires that persecution had kindled, pre- 
 vented the enactment of any law to compel adherence to a 
 specified form of worship, disestablished churches and removed 
 religious disabilities; abolished all forced contributions to the 
 maintenance of ecclesiastical authority; gave equal protection 
 to every form of religious belief and restrained forever the 
 power of the government from being enlisted against the ad- 
 herents of any sect or creed, protecting with equal impartiality 
 the mosque of the Mussulman and the altar of the fire-wor- 
 shiper, the church of the Protestant, the Jewish synagogue and 
 the Roman cathedral. The result has been the absolute tri- 
 umph of disenthralled humanity. 
 
 Judge Dealing is a N. S. C. W ;< M ' T ' DooUng - 
 
 From "Address on Americanism" given to the members of the 
 Bohemian Club on "America Night, September 24th t 1918. 
 
DECEMBER 371 
 
 THE GIANT HOUR 
 
 Probably never before in the history of the world has any 
 man ever stood in the place of opportunity in which President 
 Wilson stands today. He stands there because of the present 
 world-crisis, which has put the nations in the crucible. The 
 acid test is being used. The institutions of civilization are 
 being tested. They are in solution. President Wilson, because 
 of his qualities of mind and heart, and because of his position 
 as president of the great nation whose resources are the de- 
 termining factor in the great struggle, has the opportunity that 
 no other living man today has, and therefore no man who ever 
 lived on earth had, to say what direction these new institu- 
 tions which shall arise out of the world-crisis shall take. 
 
 To shape the new principles of world democracy, human 
 freedom, international law and brotherhood, national and racial 
 development, co-operation in thought and commerce, and last- 
 ing peace — this is the great opportunity that has come to 
 Woodrow Wilson, historian, statesman, American President. 
 
 May God give him strength to do the task in such a way 
 that History shall forever make record that here stood a Giant 
 Man in a Giant Hour. 
 
 Godfrey Barney. 
 From "Life in California.' 1 
 An extract from a sermon given July 7th, 191 8, 
 San Francisco, California. 
 
 THE RED CROSS CALL 
 
 If I could save their lives — 
 The twenty thousand who will die today, 
 With the same toll the next day and the next, 
 And every day of this great Year of Doom, 
 Swept to the void by battle's iron broom, 
 While Senates wrangle and captains map their drives, 
 And in green fields or cities far away, 
 We sleep and rise and eat and laugh and play 
 As if this were the same sweet earth 
 In which we had our birth — 
 I should not be perplext 
 If it were mine the word to say 
 To win the lords of earth to lay aside 
 Diplomacy and precedent and pride 
 And weigh the awful waste of you and me, 
 Who pay the debt and slip into the pit 
 
372 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 And have no profit of the peace to be, 
 Nor even a vision of the hope of it; 
 If, by my word or action, I might hope 
 To stop the world from sliding down the slope 
 Into the bottomless abyss 
 That seethes with blood — 
 If by my Yes or No I could accomplish this, 
 
 God knows I would. 
 Yet this much I can do — 
 I can abide the thought of sudden death, 
 Even of thousands — 'tis but loss of breath 
 And sleep that lasts the whole night through — 
 But that one mortal man should lie 
 Thirsting and throbbing while the hours go by, 
 Each a century of agony — 
 No help, no hand, no answer to his plea, 
 Hell heaping horrors on his helpless head, 
 While horrors swarm about his torture-bed — 
 That this should be increased ten thousandfold, 
 Day after frightful day, and I withhold, 
 Through my neglect, the help that might be given. 
 Should rob my nights of sleep and turn me cold 
 With shameful chill 
 Even though I slept in Heaven; 
 I cannot stop the slaughter, but what I can, 
 To ease the agony of a fellowman 
 And mitigate the misery 
 
 Of those who tread the threshing-floor for me, 
 God knows I will. 
 
 Prof. W. H. Carruth, 
 of Leland Stanford, Jr., University, 
 Author of the famous poem, "Each in His Own Tongue." 
 From S. F. "Examiner" of May 20, 1918. 
 Copyright, San Francisco: A. B. Pierson, 1906. 
 
 VIVE L' AMERICA 
 
 Noble Republic ! happiest of lands 
 Foremost of nations, Columbia stands; 
 Freedom's proud banner floats in the skies 
 Where shouts of Liberty daily arise. 
 'United we stand, divided we fall," 
 Union forever, freedom to all. 
 
 
DECEMBER 373 
 
 Should ever traitor rise in the land, 
 Curs'd be his homestead, withered his hand, 
 Shame be his memory, scorn be his lot — 
 Exile his heritage, his name a blot! 
 "United we stand, divided we fall," 
 Granting a home and freedom to all. 
 
 CHORUS 
 Throughout the world our motto shall be, 
 Vive Y America, home of the free. 
 
 To all her heroes, Justice and Fame, 
 To all her foes, a traitor's foul name, 
 Our "stripes and stars" still proudly shall wave, 
 Emblem of liberty, Flag of the brave. 
 "United we stand, divided we fall," 
 Gladly we'll die at our country's call. 
 
 CHORUS 
 Throughout the world our motto shall be, 
 Vive 1' America, Home of the free. 
 
 Words and Music by the Composer, Millard. 
 Published by Wm. A. Pond & Co., 18 West 37th Street, New York- 
 Note. — 77ns war-song was sung with thrilling effect in the old 
 Mechanics' Pavilion at the Rallies of the Grand Army of the Republic, 
 by Margaret Blake- Alver son, a Pioneer soprano, and ought to be revived 
 and taught today to the children of the public schools, especially as the 
 chorus chimes in with the "Fighting in France' now going on, like a 
 prophecy. — The Gatherer. 
 
 ABOUT THE HIGH SIERRAS 
 
 There is a breeziness, a spaciousness, an undented ecstacy 
 of purity about the High Sierras. Nature, yet untainted by 
 man, has expressed himself largely in mighty pine-clad, snow- 
 topped blue mountains, and rolling stretches of foot-hills ; in 
 rivers whose clarity is as perfect as the first snow-formed drops 
 that heralded them ; and a sky of chaste and limpid blue, pale 
 as with awe of the celestial wonders it has gazed upon. But 
 there is an effect of simplicity with it all, an omission of sen- 
 sational landscape contrasts. 
 
 Miriam Michelson. 
 Extract from the novel, "Anthony Overman". 
 
374 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE MESSENGER 
 
 There soared an eagle in the West, 
 With mighty sunlight on his breast 
 And music in his wings. 
 Far-off, within the ravished East, 
 He saw the vultures at their feast, 
 Spread by the war of kings. 
 
 The very world was black and red 
 With furrows of the mangled dead, 
 On whom the red dust lay. 
 From all the lands a wailing came; 
 A million homesteads passed in flame; 
 The vultures tore their prey. 
 
 He gazed, and hesitant awhile, 
 Beheld the carrion horde defile 
 
 The wounded and the slain. 
 The feast grew fouler with the years; 
 The very heavens were gray with tears 
 Above that realm of pain * * * 
 
 Now, doubt and hesitation past, 
 The destined war-road rings at last 
 With onset of his young. 
 Lo! the swift eaglets follow him 
 To where all Europe's skies are dim 
 With cannon breath upflung. 
 
 Freeborn, oh soar in boundless light 
 Above the world's despotic night 
 Till the new dawn advance! 
 Cry to the foul and feasting horde 
 Our thunders follow and our sword, 
 In Love's deliverance! 
 * * * * 
 
 Eternal spirit of our Land, 
 
 By whom the guarded seas are spanned, 
 
 Grant to the coming years 
 
 The liberty our fathers sought — 
 
 The liberty by man unbought 
 
 Except by blood and tears ! 
 
 George Sterling. 
 Written for the "Chronicle" July 4th, 1918, San Francisco. 
 
 
DECEMBER 375 
 
 SUNSET 
 
 The evening's genius, with his sword of flame, 
 
 Guards well the portal of the dying day. 
 His lance of light he strikes against the hills, 
 Upon the highest breaks his glancing ray. 
 He marshals grandly on a crimson sea 
 His clouship navy's golden argosy, 
 Whose flaming banner, in the sunset glow, 
 Bids brave defiance to the dark'ning foe, 
 Who, swift advancing, o'er him softly flings 
 The purple shadow of the twilight's wings, 
 Till war's red flush, before the night wind's breath, 
 Fades out into the sullen gray of death, 
 And star-eyed night, prevailing all too soon, 
 Hangs out the silver sickle of the moon. 
 
 Anna Morrison Reed. 
 
 THE FAIRY CITY 
 
 Nothing is more delightful at the approaching sunset-hour 
 than to walk straight up the hills to the corner of Pacific 
 and Lyon streets and behold the glory of the scene spread out 
 before us. Behind us the Twin Peaks, before us Tamalpais, 
 to the east Diablo (when the air is clear), and to the west the 
 pageant of the sun in his going down to the caves of night, 
 drawing about him his robes of crimson and gold, paling away 
 into ashes of roses and gray, against the blue of the heavens. 
 Also there is the Bay of San Francisco, bluely tinted, and the 
 dark islands, and passing ferry-boats, sails, skiffs, little boats 
 giving life to the picture as we glance from point to point. 
 A forest of dark green shrouds the Presidio where the soldiers 
 have their homes, and voices coming up from there give a 
 mystery to the hour. The sea-gulls are homing to their night- 
 rest, and also add life to the strange world we find here on the 
 top of the world of San Francisco. 
 
 "Oh, see the little fairy city!" ecstatically calls one of the 
 children of the pilgrimage; and we gaze in delight and awe on 
 the opposite shore, where lie Berkeley, Oakland and Alameda. 
 It has come to life under the dying rays of the sun — invisible 
 otherwise to mortal eye. Separate and apart from buildings, 
 it seems to be built in the air, like the "Castles in Spain", but 
 the twinkling panes seem to tell of a genius akin to ethereal 
 beings occupying that delightful and mysterious realm. 
 
376 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 "Yes, it is a fairy city and the fairies live there/' explains 
 a little girl. "You see, they are very happy there; but once 
 there was a mean creature who got in there and caused so 
 much trouble for everybody, that the queen and the king de- 
 cided not to let anybody know they lived there any more. So 
 they became invisible — it's only us they are willing to show 
 themselves to; but if we went there we could not find them, 
 because some of us are mean creatures, too, sometimes — when 
 we pull the gold hearts out of the lilies and leave them stand- 
 ing there all ruined for the poor neighbors to see when we run 
 away. But we are good children, and the fairies let us see 
 their invisible city when we come up here to say 'Good-night' 
 to the seagulls and the ships and boats, and to the soldiers. 
 Isn't it the most beautiful thing in the world? I love that fairy 
 city, and I wish I could live there, some time, don't you?" 
 
 But as she speaks, it vanishes into the dark pall of night 
 and we turn our faces homeward, and the little ones run down 
 the hills and back again to the slower-paced tread of their 
 guardian to keep with her, and their merry laughter gives music 
 to the hour. How delightful it would be if all the children were 
 taken up there to seek the fairy city of innocent joys never to 
 be forgotten as long as life lasts! 
 
 The Gatherer. 
 From "Life in California" 1918. 
 
 THE GREAT PANORAMA 
 
 In December no one lacks for fruit of one kind or another. 
 This is the time to get out the dried peaches, pears, plums and 
 even seek to find the crystallized cactus confection, which is 
 good for the heart. Baskets of lovely sort may be had by the 
 wealthy, filled with beautiful things as well as well-flavored 
 ones. Those later varieties teem in our land. Almond, wal- 
 nuts and raisins and apples are for the winter season; and to 
 change with each season is the law of Nature. And already 
 the grass is springing and the orange trees bursting into bloom 
 once more to assure us of the coming of the New Year. 
 
 A. E. 
 
 WHAT IS THE WORLD'S DERISION? 
 
 What is the world's derision 
 To him who hath the vision? 
 
 Lorenzo Sosso. 
 From "Wisdom for the Wise." 
 
DECEMBER 377 
 
 MY PUCE OF DREAMS 
 
 Perhaps beyond the horizon, where lies the "over there," 
 Where dreamy fancies always turn to life without a care, 
 The land is fair, the land is bright — perhaps ! But give to me 
 The happiness of here and now, beside the Western sea. 
 
 Far, far away the Isles of Greece, far Egypt's mystic sands! 
 The call is in the very air from distant unknown lands ; 
 And yet — and yet my Place of Dreams is here beneath my feet, 
 And nowhere shines the sun more fair than down in Market street. 
 
 Somewhere there may be tropic lands, as fair as Eden's glades, 
 Where dwells romance, and love is sung, and life is love, and maids 
 Are beautiful as poets paint, but here, where beauty teems, 
 And God has smiled upon His work, shall be my Place of dreams. 
 
 Give me the Springtime sunshine, the Winter's cloudy frown, 
 The fog, the breeze from off the bay, my San Francisco town ! 
 No mirage fair shall tempt me, no rainbow I'll pursue — 
 My City by the Golden Gate, my dreams shall be of you! 
 
 Al C. Joy. 
 
 THE COLORADO 
 
 The wind rose to a gale. The waves were blowing over 
 the levee. At midnight the alarm was sounded. The bells of 
 the two churches kept ringing. Pale women and children fol- 
 lowed the men down the embankment. There was work for 
 everyone that night. Men were hustling like mad to raise the 
 levee an inch above the rising fury of the river. Men stood 
 a few feet apart measuring each white foamed wave to be 
 ready when it should strike the bank. Shovels stood at atten- 
 tion to throw earth on each new break. * * * Down the 
 stream rushed masses of debris, logs, sections of fence, rail- 
 road ties. Every one on the bank followed their course. Long 
 poles jumped to shove off into the stream the drift which 
 must not be allowed to lodge, to impede that stream for an 
 instant. And all night long into the gray of the morning, 
 over the roar of the rushing water, and the whistling of the 
 demons of the wind, boomed the dynamite. 
 
 Ednah Aiken. 
 From "The River' ; 
 Bobbi-Merrill. Publishers, 1914. 
 
378 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 GOOD NIGHT, DEAR HEART 
 
 Good-night, dear heart! Though great the distance 
 That severs thee from me; 
 ■■a Some kind breeze hieing hence, perchance, 
 Will waft the fond words unto thee. 
 
 Good-night, dear heart! What men call mortal 
 
 Of her who loves thee lingers here; 
 But far through space to seek thy portal, 
 My thoughts fly with this wish sincere. 
 
 Fannie H. Avery. 
 From "Golden Era" November, 1884. 
 
 CHRISTMAS GREETING 
 
 The winter bloom about us lies, 
 The green of a December spring, 
 
 And under happy, cloudless skies, 
 A thousand birds are caroling, 
 
 To you amid the eastern snows 
 
 I send a Californian rose. 
 
 To you whose hearth and heart are warm, 
 
 Tho' nature's guise be chill and gray, 
 To lend your holly wreath a charm, 
 
 I send my winter rose today, 
 For whether snows or rose leaves fall, 
 It's Christmas ! Christmas ! with us all ! 
 
 Martha Trent Tyler. 
 From "Sunset;" December, 1912. 
 
 THE PROMISE OF LIFE 
 
 The setting sun, a purple sea; 
 
 A shaft of golden light 
 That strikes the hilltops, and, to me, 
 
 Hints dawn-burst after night. 
 
 Fear not, my Soul, the gray of death 
 
 The still, uncharted main; 
 The light shall find thee, and the breath 
 
 Of God be thine again. 
 
 z? **tl zx. • / / v •> Howard V. Sutherland. 
 
 Jhrom I he rromtse of Life ; 
 
 Chicago: Rand, McNally & Co., 1914. 
 
DECEMBER 379 
 
 A HEAVEN ON EARTH 
 
 We cannot know what bliss, supreme, above, 
 We soon, in life eternal, shall attain; 
 
 But this we know — that human hearts may love, 
 And, in this life, a heaven on earth may gain. 
 
 One of the Old Oakland Writers. Leonard S. Clark. 
 
 ]ul\> 8, 1918. 
 
 fj 
 
 "IT IS OVER 
 
 Orion was still flashing brilliantly in the heavens when 
 came the early morning cry, electrifying the city of San Fran- 
 cisco: "It is over! The Great War is over!" Lights flashed 
 from house to house, men arose and went forth to bring in the 
 extras, and hearts rejoiced at the confirmation of the glad news. 
 
 Down town, men and women marched in parades in the 
 early morning light, the crowds growing larger and larger, un- 
 til the officials announced that it would be declared a holiday 
 that day in honor of the wonderful triumph of the Allies and 
 the United States of America in Europe over Autocracy and in 
 iavor of Democracy. All day the steam-whistles blew and 
 clangor of bells and jangling metal kept up the outburst of joy. 
 Thousands of impromptu processions began and ended to begin 
 all over again by the excited populace from morning till night. 
 
 At the luncheon-hour at the Palace Hotel gathered promi- 
 nent judges and lawyers and notables. Then a scene began 
 when Judge Thomas Y. Graham mounted a chair and called 
 for three cheers for President Wilson. They were given with 
 a will and more cheers followed for Pershing, Foch, Clemen- 
 ceau, Diaz, Haig and Lloyd George. 
 
 Tributes were paid by many illustrious ones present, then 
 calls for Shortridge arose, and he responded as follows : : 
 
 "There was an hour when the morning stars sang together 
 and all the sons of God shouted for joy. This is another such 
 an hour; for this is an hour of victory and deliverance — vic- 
 tory of light over darkness ; deliverance from despotism and 
 oppression. * * * Hail to all the heroes, dead and living, 
 who have fought and died to rescue and save Liberty and place 
 her on the throne of Eternal Peace ! Hail to martyred Bel- 
 gium ! Hail to suffering Serbia ! Hail to glorious Italy ! Hail 
 to unconquered Britain! Hail to immortal France! And with 
 hearts bursting with pride and gratitude and love, hail — thrice 
 hail — to our own blessed country ; to our own United States ; 
 to our stainless and triumphant Star-Spangled Banner!" 
 From "San Francisco Chronicle' ; 
 November 12th, 1918. 
 
380 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 THE CITY WOKE 
 
 The city woke from Bay to Sea 
 
 When midnight fires lit up the sky 
 
 To tell the folks that Victory 
 
 And Peace had come; the light on high 
 
 Glowed as the brightest, gayest flower 
 
 That ever bloomed in night's dark hour. 
 
 The city woke from Sea to Bay 
 
 When trumpets sounded in the street; 
 
 When clear and strong and brave and gay 
 The message echoed long and sweet — 
 
 And midnight was no longer dumb — 
 
 The hour was loud with "Peace has come !" 
 
 The city woke. From every side 
 
 Arose the sleeper, now awake, 
 To join the joyous, lilting tide 
 
 That swells as hostile armies break. 
 Democracy, triumphant, spoke: 
 "There's peace on earth !" The city woke. 
 
 Arthur Price, 
 From "San Francisco Examiner" ; 
 November J2th t 1918. 
 
 ON THE TOP OF MOUNT DIABLO 
 
 High as we are the air is warm, cordial; the wind not 
 unpleasant ; and after the first bursts of enthusiasm have become 
 subdued, the members of the party seem to be silent, thoughtful 
 and absorbed. Everyone strays off by himself to get a vantage- 
 point where he may be alone with his Universal Source while 
 saturating his soul with the wondrous thoughts that come to 
 him now from out the ether — filling him with such a sense of 
 the smallness of Man and the greatness of the Almighty that 
 all the nervousness and pettiness and talkativeness and impa- 
 tience and inharmony generally oozes out of the Man, and 
 he gets back to Principle for a sufficiently long period so that 
 he comes back to earth and humanity and to the Diablo Club 
 at the mountain's base — and thence back to his desk and his 
 daily life a silenter Soul — a person who sees life better and 
 brighter for everyone with whom he comes in contact. 
 
 Chauncey M' Govern. 
 
DECEMBER 381 
 
 FINIS 
 
 It seemed that from the west 
 
 The live red flame of sunset, 
 
 Eating the dead blue sky 
 
 And cold, insensate peaks, 
 
 Was loosened slowly, and fell. 
 
 Above it, a few red stars 
 
 Burned down like low candle-flames 
 
 Into the gaunt black sockets 
 
 Of the chill, insensible mountains. 
 
 But in the ascendant skies 
 
 (Cloudless, like some vast corpse 
 
 Unfeatured, cerementless) 
 
 Succeeded nor star nor planet. 
 
 It may have been that black, 
 
 Pulseless, dead stars arose 
 
 And crossed as of old the heavens. 
 
 But came no living orb, 
 
 Nor comet seeming the ghost, 
 
 Homeless, of an outcast world, 
 
 Seeking its former place 
 
 That is no more nor shall be 
 
 In all the Cosmos again. 
 
 Null, blank, and meaningless 
 
 As a burnt scroll that blackens 
 
 With the passing of the fire, 
 
 Lay the dead, infinite sky. 
 
 Lo! in the halls of Time, 
 
 I thought, the torches are out — 
 
 The revelry of the gods, 
 
 Or lamentation of demons 
 
 For which their flames were lit, 
 
 Over and quiet at last 
 
 With the closing peace of night, 
 
 Whose dumb, dead, passionless skies 
 
 Enfold the living world 
 
 As the sea a sinking pebble. 
 
 Clark Ashton Smith. 
 From "The Star-treader and Other Poems;" 
 San Francisco: A. M. Robertson. 1912. 
 
382 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 CALIFORNIA'S DAY OF PEACE 
 
 Near the close of the year 1918 Peace came. It was celebrated in 
 San Francisco and to the remotest parts of California in the unique 
 spirit of the West. Submerged, however, beneath the gayety, the noise 
 and the elation of a triumphant victory was the soul of Lowell — 
 
 When a deed is done for freedom, through 
 
 the broad earth's aching breast 
 Runs a thrill of Joy prophetic, trembling 
 
 on from east to west, 
 And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels 
 
 the soul within him climb 
 To the awful verge of manhood, 
 
 as the energy sublime 
 Of a century bursts full-blossomed 
 
 on the thorny stem of Time. 
 
 The high-born winter rains will wash the map of Europe clean of 
 blood. The people will return to the simple ways of peace. The com- 
 mon wealth of man will have no boundary lines. Internationalism is 
 seen — "in the parliament of man, the federation of the world." 
 
 This Republic with the sword of Justice in one hand and the sym- 
 bol of mercy in the other will consecrate itself anew to the reconstruc- 
 tion of social order — not only "over there" but here. 
 
 California will welcome back its men from the trenches, net as 
 heroes of a war of conquest, but as men who faced the supreme sacri- 
 fice so that the diplomacy of armament should end. 
 
 Those who died will be given a monument that shall be typical 
 not of war, but of peace. The injustice of might will not prevail. The 
 name of czar, of emperor and of king will cease as a representative of 
 power, except in the historical past. 
 
 The common wealth will not be measured in square miles, but in the 
 sense of social justice, the boundary of which encircles the globe and 
 includes all people. Let us have peace when humanity shall have elim- 
 inated injustice, fear, bigotry, prejudice, the malicious lie, the supersti- 
 tious creed, and weak selfishness. Then the commandment, "Thou shalt 
 not kill," will prevail, and a new commandment will be given, "Thou 
 shalt not possess that for which thou hast not given an equivalent." 
 
 Plato's Republic, Fourier's Social Paradise, Sir Thomas More's 
 Utopia were mighty revolutions, without tanks, or guns, or gas, or 
 aeroplanes, against unjust laws of Autocracy. The false Moon between 
 the smooth surface of the water tells of the true Moon somewhere. So 
 the dreams, not of warriors, but of the poets and idealists, will come true. 
 
 With tears for the dead and joy for the living, we hail the Liberty 
 that had its birth on Mt. Sinai, its cradle in Bethlehem, its childhood 
 in Rome, its youth in Switzerland, its education in France and Eng- 
 land, its manhood in the United States, and its future life the universal 
 world. HARR WAGNER. 
 
A CLASSIFIED LIST OF CALIFORNIA WRITERS- 
 POETS, PROSE-WRITERS, HISTORIANS, ORATORS, 
 DIVINES, JOURNALISTS, PUBLISHERS, ETC. 
 
 A Summary of Those Who Have Contributed to California Literature 
 
 as a Whole, with Brief Mentions of Their Work as an 
 
 Aid to Collectors of "Californiana." 
 
 (November, 1918) 
 
 AUTHORS OF ONE OR MORE PUBLISHED WORKS, 
 MAINLY FICTION 
 
 Adams, Walter — "Transmigration." 
 
 Aiken, Ednah Robinson — "The River," etc. 
 
 Aimard, Gustave— "The Gold Seekers," 1888. 
 
 Allen, Mrs. G. M. 
 
 Amsden, Dora — "Heritage of Hoorshige." 
 
 Anderson, Olive — "Santa Louise," Sacramento, 1886. 
 
 Andre (pseud.) — "Overcome," San Francisco, 1877. 
 
 Angellotti, Marion Polk — "The Firefly of France," "Sir John Hawks- 
 hurst," etc. 
 
 Anthony, Helen Virginia — Juvenile. 
 
 Ashe, Elizabeth — "Intimate Letters from France" (Philopolis Press. 
 San Francisco), 1918. 
 
 Atherton, Gertrude — "Ancestors," "The Conqueror," "Senator North," 
 "Tower of Ivory," "Patience Sparhawk," "The Splendid Idle 
 Forties," etc. 
 
 Austin, Mary — "Isidro," "The Land of Little Rain," "California." etc. 
 
 Bamford, Mary Ellen. 
 
 Bancroft, Griffing— "The Interloper," 1917. 
 
 Barnes, W. H.— "The Story of Laulux," 1889. 
 
 Barnes, W. H. L. — "Solid Silver" (a play), also Political Addresses. 
 
 Baron, Virgilia Bogue — Novel. 
 
 Barrett, Frances Fuller Victor — Novels and Historical Works. 
 
 Barry, John D. — (San Francisco "Bulletin" and "Call"), "Imitations"; 
 
 also Novels. 
 Bartlett, Washington — "A Breeze from the Woods," 1880. 
 Bartnett, Harriet — "Angelo the Musician." 
 Bechdoldt, Frederick Ritchie— "The Hard Rock Man," etc. 
 Beckman, Mrs. William — "Backsheesh, etc. (Sacramento). 
 Behr, Dr. H.— "Hoot of the Owl" (A. M. Robertson, San Francisco). 
 Bell, William Mora. 
 
 Benton, M. Y.— "Who Would Have Thought It?" 
 Bidwell, Jennie — "There's Nothing In It." 
 
 Bierce, Ambrose — "Black Beetles in Amber"; short stories, essays, poems. 
 Bigelow, Harry — "Slow Methods of Becoming a Criminal," 1893. 
 Blades, Paul Harcourt — "Don Sagasto's Daughter," 1911. 
 Blow, Ben — Juvenile. 
 Bohan, Elizabeth Baker. 
 Bonner, Geraldine — "The Pioneer," "Tomorrow's Tangle." "Hard Pan." 
 
 etc.; also Plays. 
 Bonnet, Theodore (Editor "Town Talk")— "The Regenerators," "A 
 
 Friend of the People" (play), etc. 
 Bornemann, Mary (Oraquille) — "Madame Jane Junk and Joe," 1876. 
 Bower, Bertha Sinclair — "The Gringoes." 
 Bowman, Mrs. James — "The Island Home" (Juvenile). 
 ^ Boyd, John Edward — "The Berkeley Heroine," etc. 
 Boyne, R. E. — "A Grass Widow." 
 
384 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Brainerd, George (see Jarboe). 
 
 Brennan— "Brin Mor," 1892. 
 
 Brooks, Noah— "The Boy Emigrants," etc. 
 
 Brown, Clara Spaulding— "Life at Shut-In Valley," 1895. 
 
 Brown, Ruth Alberta— "Tabitha at Ivy Hall," 1911. 
 
 Bruner, Jane Woodworth — "Free Prisoners," 1877. 
 
 Burgess; Gelett— "The Heart Line," "The Picaroons" (with Will Irvin), 
 
 etc. 
 Burton, Mrs. Maria Amparo (Ruiz) — C. Loyal — "The Squatter and the 
 
 Don," 1885. 
 
 Cameron, Capt. John Stanley — "Ten Months in a German Raider (Do- 
 ran, N. Y., 1918). 
 
 Canfield, Chauncey— "The City of Six," 1910 (McClurg. Chicago). 
 
 Carlton, Carrie — "Inglenook" (Juvenile), 1868. 
 
 Carr, Sarah Pratt— "The Iron Way," etc. 
 
 Casey, Patrick— "The Wolf Cub," 1917 (with Terence Casey). 
 
 Casey, Terence— "The Wolf Cub," 1917 (with Patrick Casey). 
 
 Cather, Katherine Dunlap — "Boyhood Stories of Famous Men" (pub- 
 lished in St. Nicholas Magazine, originally). 
 
 Caxton — See Rhodes . 
 
 Chamberlain, Esther — Novels (in collaboration with Lucia). 
 
 Chamberlain, H. L.— "Judah and Israel," 1888. 
 
 Chamberlain, Lucia — "Son of the Wind," etc. 
 
 Chard, Cecil — (See Heynemann.) 
 
 Charles, Frances — "The Country God Forgot," etc. 
 
 Chase, J. Munsell— "The Riddle of the Sphinx," 1915. 
 
 Cheney, Warren— "His Wife." 
 
 Cheney, William Atwell— "Almond-Eyed," 1873. 
 
 Churchill, Mrs. Eugenia Kellogg Holmes — "The Awakening of Pocca- 
 lito," and Other Tales, 1903. 
 
 Clark, J. B.— "Society in Search of Truth," 1878. 
 
 Clemens, Samuel (Mark Twain) — "Innocents Abroad," "Roughing It," 
 etc. etc. 
 
 Clippinger, J. A.— "The Pedagogue of Widow's Gulch," 1876. 
 
 Colburn, Frona Eunice Waite — "Yermah the Colorado." 
 
 Comstock, Sarah— "The Soddy," "Mothercraft," etc. 
 
 Conner, J. Torrey — "A Red Parasol in Mexico" (see Poets). 
 
 Cook, N. F.— "Satan in Society" (anon.), 1881. 
 
 Cooley, Alice Kingsbury — Juveniles; Fairy Tales. 
 
 Cooper, Louise B. — "Behind a Mask." 
 
 Cox, Palmer— "Squibbs of California," 1894. 
 
 Crabb, W. D.— "Silver Shimer." 
 
 Cucuel, Ed. (with W. C. Morrow) — "Bohemian Paris of Today." 
 
 Cumming, Duncan — "A Change with the Seasons," 1897. 
 
 Curran, John Joseph — "Mr. Foley of Salmon." 
 
 Daggett, Mary Stewart— "The Higher Court," 1911. 
 
 Danziger, Dr. Gustave Adolph — "The Monk and the Hangman's Daugh- 
 ter" (collab. Ambrose Bierce). 
 Davis, John F. — "California — Romantic and Resourceful." 
 Davis, Andrew McFarland — "The Journal of a Moncacht" (Man-Ape). 
 Davis, Leila B. — "Modern Argonaut." 
 Davis, Margaret B.— "Mother Bickerdyke," 1896. 
 Dawson, Emma Frances — "An Itinerant House" (see Poets). 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 385 
 
 Dean, Sarah— "Travers," etc. 
 
 Deasey, Isabel Josephine — "The Princess Eileen." 
 
 Deering, Mabel Clare Craft — "Hawaii Nei." 
 
 Delanoy, Frances — Novels; Books of History. 
 
 Delter, T.— "Nellie Brown" and Other Sketches, 1871. 
 
 Derby, Colonel George Haskel (John Phoenix) — "The Squibob Papers,' 1 
 
 etc. etc. 
 Doran, James— "Zanthon," 1891. 
 Doyle, Dr. C. W.— "The Shadow of Quon Lung," "Awakening of the 
 
 Jungle." 
 Dubois, Constance Goddard — "Soul in Bronze." 
 Dunniway, Abigail Scott — "The New Northwest"; Books and Short 
 
 Stories. 
 
 Edwards, Henry— "A Mingled Yarn"; Sketches, 1883. 
 Evans, George Samuel — "Wylackie Jake of Covelo," 1904. 
 Ewer, Ferdinand — "The Eventful Nights." etc. 
 Ewing, Hugh Boyle— "The Black List, 1893. 
 
 Fadden, Chimmie — (See Townsend.) 
 
 Farnham, Eliza Woodson (Burhaus)— "The Ideal Attained," 1865. 
 Farrington, Mary L.— "Facing the Sphinx," 1889. 
 Faverell, Lieutenant— "A. D. 2000." 
 Fenn, R. W.— "The Hidden Empire," 1911. 
 
 Ferguson, Mrs. Esther (Baldwin)— "The Lump of Gold." 1910. 
 Fernald, Chester Bailey— "The Cat and the Cherub," etc. 
 Field, Charles K.— "Stanford Stories" (with Will Irwin), (see Poets). 
 Fisher, W. M. — "The Californians," 1873, San Francisco. 
 Fitch, Anna Mariska — "Bound Down," etc. 
 
 Fitch, George Hamlin — "Comfort to be Found in Good Old Books," etc. 
 Florence, William Jermyn — "Florence Fables," 1868. 
 Florinda, Aunt (pseud.) — "Phoebe Travers." 
 
 Foote, Mary Hallock— "The Led Horse Claim," "The Valley Road," etc. 
 Fowler, Mrs. William H. B. (Laura Wells)— "Not Included in a Sheep- 
 skin." 
 Franklin, Annie— "Billy Fairchild, Widow," 1917. 
 French, Davida (Ure) — "Not Included in a Sheepskin." 
 Frost, Mrs. Janette Blakeslee — "Gem of the Mines," 1866. 
 
 Gallatin, Grace — (See Seton-Thompson.) 
 
 Gaily, James W.— "Big Jack Small," "Quartz," etc. 
 
 Gates, Eleanor— (See Tully.) 
 
 Gerberding, Elizabeth Sears (Bates) — "The Golden Chimney" (also 
 
 Poems). 
 Glasscock, Mary Willis— "Dare." 
 
 Gray, C— "Tales of Old California" (C. C. Park-London). 
 Green, Will S.— "Sacrifice, or The Living Dead." 
 Grinnell, Dr. Morton — "An Eclipse of Memory," 1899. 
 Groves, May Showier — "Twilight Fairy Tales." 
 Gould, Mrs. Howard (Katherine Clemmons) — "The Crystal Rood." 
 
 Habberton, John— "Romance of California Life," 1883, San Francisco, 
 
 1879; "Some Folks," 1877. 
 Harker, Charles H. — "A Singular Sinner" (San Jose). 
 
386 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Hart, F. H. — "Sazerac Lying Club," 1873, San Francisco. 
 
 Hart, Jerome A. — "A Vigilante Girl," 'Two Argonauts in Spain," etc. 
 
 (see Editors). 
 Hayes, J. W.— "Sierra Tales." 
 
 Heaven, Mrs. L. M. (Lucia Norman) — "Laura Preston," etc., 1867-69. 
 Heaven, Louise Palmer — . 
 Heynemann, Julie (Cecil Chard) — London. 
 Hill, Marion— "The Pettison Twins," "Georgette," etc. 
 Holder, Charles Frederick — Nature Stories. 
 Hopkins, Pauline Bradford Mackie— "The Story of Kate." 
 Hopkins, Prince — "Instinctive Philosophy" and Publicist. 
 Hopper, James M. — "What Happened in the Night," etc. 
 Hosmer, Judge Hezekiah — "The Octoroon" (dramatized by Dion Bou- 
 
 cicault). 
 Hurlburt, Ed. H. — "Lanigan," etc. 
 Hutchings, J. M. — "The Heart of the Sierras." 
 
 Irvine, Leigh — "An Affair in the South Seas" (T. Fisher Unwin, Lon- 
 don); also text and other books. 
 
 Irwin, Wallace — "Venus in New York," etc. (see Poets). 
 
 Irwin, Will — "The Picaroons (with Burgess), etc; "Stanford Stories" 
 (with Charles K. Field). 
 
 Jarboe, Mrs. Mary H. (Thomas George Brainerd) — "Go Forth and 
 Find," "Robert Atterbury." 
 
 Jessup, George H. — "Gerald French's Friends," 1889. 
 
 James, Julia Clinton — "Christmas Carol," "Story of the Shop," "Cleo- 
 patra"; Bosqui, San Francisco, 1878. 
 
 Jones, Mary Joss — "Hump Tree Stories" (Elder) 
 
 Jordan, David Starr — "California and the Californians," "The Philoso- 
 phy of Despair," "Matka," etc. 
 
 Josaphare, Lionel — "A Man Who Wanted a Bungalow" (see Poets). 
 
 Keeler, Ralph— " Glover son and His Silent Partner," 1869. 
 
 Kelly, Allan— "Bears I Have Met," 1903. 
 
 Kenyon, Camilla E. L. — "Spanish Doubloons" (Sunset), etc. 
 
 Knapp, Adeline — (See Textbooks.) 
 
 Kouns, Nathan — "Aryus, the Libyan." 
 
 Kyne, Peter B— "Cappy Ricks," "The Valley of Giants," etc. 
 
 Lane, Rose Wilder — Novels and Biographies. 
 
 Lea, Homer — "Valor of Ignorance," "Home of the Saxon," etc. 
 
 Le Page, Gertrude— "Children of the Thorn Wreath." 
 
 Lewis, Arthur— "The Rag Tags." 
 
 Lewis, Sinclair— "Trail of the Hawk," (Harper), 1915. 
 
 Lichtenstein, Joy— "The Blue and the Gold" (A. M. Robertson). 
 
 London, Jack— "The God of His Fathers," "Children of the Frost," 
 
 "Martin Eden," "People of the Abyss," "John Barleycorn," "The 
 
 Call of the Wild," ^The Sea Wolf," "The Valley of the Moon," 
 
 etc., etc. 
 London, Charmian (Mrs. Jack) — "The Cruise of the Snark." 
 Longworth, Mira Theresa (see Yelverton) — "Zanita, a Tale of the Yo- 
 
 semite," 1872. 
 Loughhead, Flora Haines (Apponyi-Guittierez)— "The Man Who Was 
 
 Guilty," etc. 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 387 
 
 Lowenberg, Mrs. I. — "The Irresistible Current," "A Nation's Crime," etc. 
 
 Loyal, C. — (See Burton.) 
 
 Lucas, Mrs. William Palmer (Jane Richardson) — "The Children of 
 
 France and the Red Cross," 1918. 
 Lumrnis, Charles F. — Books on Mexico, Arizona, California. 
 Lynch, Jeremiah — "A Senator of the Fifties"; also books on Alaska, 
 
 Egypt, etc. 
 Marryatt, Frederick — "Narratives of Travels, and Adventures of M. 
 
 Violet.', 1843' 
 
 Mason, B. F. — "Through War to Peace," and "The Village Mystery." 
 
 McDevitt, William — "From Lone Mountain to Twin Peaks"; in mem- 
 ory of Richard Realf, Poet, Social Pioneer and Emancipator. 
 
 Mathews, Amanda — "The Hieroglyphics of Love," Los Angeles, 1906. 
 
 Max, Major — (See Townsend.) 
 
 Meloney, William Brown — (See Short Stories.) 
 
 Merrill, Mollie Slater — "Gullible's Travels," San Francisco. 
 
 Meyer, George Homer — "The Nine Swords of Morales," etc. 
 
 McGovern, Chauncey — "Moonbeams, Maybe," "Sergt. Larry" (by Bolo 
 & Krag), and other books. 
 
 Michaels, Janie Chase— "Polly of the Midway" (Sunset), 1917 (Harr 
 Wagner, publisher). 
 
 Michelson, Miriam — "In the Bishop's Carriage," etc. 
 
 Mighels, Ella Sterling — "Society and Babe Robinson," "Fairy Tale of 
 the White Man," "The Full Glory of Diantha," "The Story of the 
 Files," etc. 
 
 Mighels, Philip Verrill — "Bruwer Jim's Baby," "The Inevitable," etc. 
 
 Millard, Bailey— "The Lure of Gold,' etc. 
 
 Mitchell, Edmund — "In Desert Keeping," Los Angeles, 1905. 
 
 Mitchell, Frances Marian — "Joan of Rainbow Springs" (Lothrop, Lee & 
 Shepard, Boston). 
 
 Mizner, Addison — "Cynic's Calendar," etc. 
 
 Montgomery, Zach. — "The Poison Fountain," 1878 (see Editors). 
 
 Morehouse, William Russell — "Mystica Alogoat," 1903. 
 
 Morgan, Sallie B.— "Tahoe, or Life in California," 1881. 
 
 Moore, B. P. — "Endura," 1885, San Francisco. 
 
 Morrow, W. C. — "The Ape, the Idiot, and Other People," etc. 
 
 Muir, John — Books on California. 
 
 McChesney, L. Studdiford — "Under Shadow of the Mission," 1897. 
 
 McGhimsey, Grover C. — "Eulogy on Jack London" (Ukiah). 
 
 McNeil, Everett— "The Cave of Gold," 1911. 
 
 Neson, Frank Lewis— "The Vision of Elijah Bed," 1906. 
 
 Neumann, Mrs. (May Wentworth) — "Fairy Tales of Gold Lands." 
 
 Neville, Constance (pseud.) — "Behind the Arras." 
 
 Nevins, Melissa J.— "Cat Tales" (Santa Clara). 
 
 Noll, Arthur Howard (with Barndon Wilson) — "In Search of Aztec 
 
 Treasure" (Neall, publisher, San Francisco). 
 Norris, Charles — "Salt" (Doran, New York). 
 Norris, Frank— "The Octopus," "The Pit," "McTeague," "Moran of the 
 
 Lady Letty," "Blix"; also a poem, "Yvonelle" (Philadelphia, 1892). 
 Norris, Kathleen Thomason — "Saturday's Child," "Marty the Uncon- 
 
 quered," "The Joselyns" (Doubleday, Page & Co., 1918). 
 Nunan, Thomas — "Out of Nature's Creed." 
 
388 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Older, Mrs. Fremont (Cora Miranda Baggerly)— "The Giants," "The 
 
 Prince and the Socialist," "Esther Damon," etc. 
 Croquill — (See Bornemann.) 
 Osbourne, Lloyd — Novels. 
 
 Osbourne, Katherine — "Stevenson in California," etc. 
 Overton, Gwendolen — "Heritage of Unrest," etc. 
 
 Park, Charles Caldwell— "A Plaything of the Gods," 1912. 
 
 Pawson, A. H.— "The Junior Partners." 
 
 Peck, George Washington — "Aurofidona," 1849. 
 
 Peixotto, Ernest — Sketches and Travels, illusttrated by the author. 
 
 Perry, Stella — Juvenile. 
 
 Pex (pseud.)— "Nicholas Nickelton," 1876. 
 
 Phoenix, John — (See Derby.) 
 
 Powers, Frank H.— "I Swear." 
 
 Reed, C. — "John Halsey, the Anti-Monopolist," San Francisco, 1884. 
 
 Reimers, Johannes — "On the Heights of Simplicity." 
 
 Rhodes, W. H. (Caxton)— "Caxton's Book," 1875. 
 
 Rich, Winifred— "Tony's White Room." 
 
 Richards, C. F.— "John Guilderstring's Sin." 
 
 Richards, Jerrett T. — "Romance on El Camino Real" (San Diego). 
 
 Richards, John E. — "Legend of the Cypress Trees" (San Jose). 
 
 Riggs, Kate Douglas Wiggin— "Patsy," "The Bird's Christmas Carol," 
 
 "A Summer in a Canyon," etc. 
 Roberts, E.— "With the Invader," 1885. 
 
 Roberts, Elizabeth Judson — Indian Stories of the Southwest. 
 Roberts, Myrtle Glenn — "The Foot of the Rainbow." 
 Robertson, Peter— "The Seedy Gentleman" (A. M. Robertson). 
 Royce, Josiah— "Feud of Vakfield," 1887. 
 Ryder, Prof. Arthur (U. of C.)— "Woman's Eyes" (A. M. Robertson). 
 
 Sade, H.— "Legend of a Kiss." 
 
 Savage, Col. Richard Henry — "A Little Lady of Lagunitas," "My Offi- 
 cial Wife," etc. 
 
 Sawyer, Eugene T. — "Life and Career of Tilurcio Vasquez"; also "Nick 
 Carter" books, 1875. 
 
 Scarlet, Patrick (pseud.) — "Clown's Courage" (Los Angeles, 1915). 
 
 Seton-Thompson, Grace (Gallatin) — Collaborator with husband in Na- 
 ture Books. 
 
 Simpson, William— "The Man from Mars," 1893. 
 
 Sinclair, Mrs. Bertha — (See Bower.) 
 
 Smile, R. E. (or E. R. Smilie)— "The Manatitla," 1877. 
 
 Smith, Alice Prescott — "The Legatee," etc. 
 
 Smith, Gertrude — "Arabella and Araminta" Stories. 
 
 Sonnischen, Albert — "Ten Months a Captive Among Filipinos," etc. 
 
 Spalding, Phebe Estelle— "The Tahquitah Maiden." 
 
 Spearman, Charles — "Whispering Smith." 
 
 Sproule, E. B. — "Mystery" (San Francisco, 1875). 
 
 Stanton, Mary O.— "How to Read Faces" (S. F, 1881). 
 
 Steffens, Lincoln — Publicist books. 
 
 Stellman, Edith Fenney— "Katie of Birdland." 
 
 Stephens, L. Dow— "Life Sketches of a Jay Hawker of '49." 
 
 Stevens, Esther Stuart — "Not Included in a Sheepskin." 
 
 Stevens, Mrs. H. H.— "Grandma's Stories for the Little Folks" 1869, 
 New York). 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 389 
 
 Strobridge, Idah Meacham — "The Loom of the Desert," 1908. 
 
 Strong, Isobel (Osbourne) — "Days at Vailima," etc. 
 
 Stuart, Charles D.— "Casa Grande." 
 
 Swett, Mrs. Frank — "The Bachelor's Surrender." 
 
 Swift, John F.— "Robert Greathouse." 
 
 Symanowski, Stephen Korwin — "The Searchers" (1908, Los Angeles. 
 
 Taber, Louise— "The Flame," 1911. 
 
 Thorpe, Rose Hartwick — Juveniles (see Poets). 
 
 Tompkins, Juliet Wilbor (Pottle) — Novels, short stories. 
 
 Townsend, Annie Lake (Philip Shirley) — "On the Verge." 
 
 Townsend, Edward W.— "Chimmie Fadden," "Major Max," etc. (New 
 
 York Sun). 
 Tracy, Martha Desire — Juveniles. 
 Tully, Eleanor Gates— "The Prairie Girl," "The Plow Woman," "Cupid 
 
 the Cowpunch," "The Poor Little Rich Girl," etc. 
 Tully, Richard Walton— (See Playwrights.) 
 Twain, Mark — (See Clemens.) 
 
 Ure, Mrs. C. W.— (See French.) 
 
 Van Den Bergh, Mary Turrill— Ye One's Ten Hundred Sorrows," 1907. 
 
 Van Loan, Charles Emmett — "The Big League," etc. 
 
 Van Loben Sels, Helen Adelaide — "Blue Jays in the Sierras." etc. (the 
 
 Century Co., New York). 
 Victor, Frances Fuller — (See Barrett.) 
 Vivian, Thomas J. — "Luther Strong" (Fenno, Publisher, 1899). 
 
 Wakeman, Annie — "Autobiography of a Charwoman" (McQueen, Lon- 
 don, 1900). 
 
 Walcott, Earle Ashley—. 
 
 Walker, W. S.— 
 
 Walling, Anna Strunsky — "The Kempton-Wace Letters" (in collabora- 
 tion with Jack London). 
 
 Waters, Russell Judson— "The Stranger" (New York, 1868). 
 
 Welty, Elizabeth D. W.— "Self-Made" (New York, 1868). 
 
 Wentworth, May — (See Neumann.) 
 
 Wheeler, Jeannette — "The Curse of Three Generations" (San Jose). 
 
 Whiting, Robert Rudd— "A Ball of Yarn" (Elder, San Francisco). 
 
 Whitaker, Herman— "The Planter," etc. 
 
 Wiggin, Kate Douglas — (See Riggs.) 
 
 Willard, Madeline — "Deaderick, the King's Highway," 1904. 
 
 Wiliamson, Mrs. M. B.— "Lamech" (Whittaker & Ray, S. F., 1904). 
 
 Williamson, Sarah M. — "How the Gardens Grew" (Juvenile, Philadel- 
 phia, 1890). 
 
 Wishaer, John H. — "The Transformation," "Sonnets of the Frozen 
 Seas," etc. 
 
 Wilkins, James H. — "Glimpses of Old Mexico." 
 
 Williams, Michael — Spiritual Novel. 
 
 Wilson, Barndon (with A. H. Noll) — "In Search of Aztec Treasure." 
 
 Wolf, Alice S.— "House of Cards," 1896. 
 
 Wolf, Emma — "Other Things Being Equal," "A Prodigal in Love," 
 "Fulfillment." 
 
 Woodbury, Mrs. Charles J.— "The Potato Children and Others" (Elder). 
 
 Woods, Virna — "An Elusive Lover," "A Modern Magdalene," 1894. 
 
390 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Worth, Pauline Wilson— "Death Valley Slim," 1909. 
 Worthington, Elizabeth Strong — (Los Angeles). 
 Wyneken, L. Ernest — "Chronicles of Manuel Alanus," 1908. 
 Yelverton, Theresa (Countess of Avonmore) — (See Longworth.) 
 Young, G. A.— "Whatever Is, Was." 
 
 Young, John P. — (See Historians.) 
 
 Zeigler, Wilbus Gleason— "It Was Marlowe," "The Disaster of 1906," 
 "The Heart of the Alleghanies," 1883. 
 
 POETS AND WRITERS OF MAGAZINE VERSE 
 
 Alambaugh, Frank — Poems (Napa). 
 Avery, Fannie — Golden Era. 
 
 Bailey, Lillian Hinman Shuey — "California Sunshine," "Among the Red- 
 woods" (Whittaker & Ray, San Francisco, 1901). 
 
 Baldy, Lizzie — "The California Pioneer and Other Poems," 1879. 
 
 Barker, Robert — "The Invasion of California and Other Poems." 
 
 Bartchael, Mrs. — (See Dolliver.) 
 
 Bashford, Herbert — "At the Shrine of Song." 
 
 Beamer, Frances Glass — Verses. 
 
 Bennett, Ella Costillo — "Abelard and Heloise," etc. 
 
 Bernard, Henry F. — "Mr. Fangle and Other Verses" (San Jose). 
 
 Bigler, Mabel Rice — (Berkeley.) 
 
 Binckley, Christian — "Sonnets from a House of Days" (A. M. Robert- 
 son, San Francisco). 
 
 Birkeier, Eliza G. — Verses. 
 
 Bishop, Kate M. — (See M. Quad and Karen Brendt.) 
 
 Black, Anita Ciprico — "Sketches in Prose and Verse" (Crocker, San 
 Francisco, 1897). 
 
 Bland, Henry Meade — "Songs of Autumn." 
 
 Brendt, Karen — (See Bishop.) 
 
 Brininstool, E. A. — Humorous and Other Verses (Los Angeles). 
 
 Bristol, W. M.— "Sketches of the Southland," 1901. 
 
 Bromley, Charlotte Elizabeth — (See Shuey.) 
 
 Brooks, Fred Emerson — "Old Abe and Other Poems," etc. 
 
 Brown, W. E.— "Jack and Jill," 1891-1893. 
 
 Buchanan, John A. — "Indian Legends and Other Poems." 
 
 Burbank, Blanche — "Reed Notes." 
 
 Burbank, William F. — Poems. 
 
 Burnett, Sarah G. — Verses. 
 
 Butler, Gabriel Furlong — (Grizzly Bear Magazine, Los Angeles.) 
 
 Cactus— (See Wiley)— (The Wasp, Golden Era, etc.) 
 
 Callaghan, Daniel T.— "Madrona," 1876. 
 
 Campbell, Kenneth — Verses. 
 
 Carmichael, Sarah — Verses. 
 
 Cartwright, H. A. — "A Bundle of Saints and Sinners," 1879. 
 
 Carruth, William H. — "Each in His Own Tongue." 
 
 Cheney, Elizabeth — Verses. 
 
 Cheney, John Vance — Poems. 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 391 
 
 Clark, Leonard S. — (Overland Monthly), Verses. 
 
 Coghill, Stanley— "Hathor." 
 
 Coleman, James B. — Poems. 
 
 Connolly, James — Verses. 
 
 Conner, J. Torrey — (See Authors.) 
 
 Coolbrith, Ina Donna — California Laureate, crowned June 30, 1915, by 
 desire of Authors' Congress, Panama-Pacific International Expo- 
 sition, San Francisco. 
 
 Cooke, Ina Lillian — California Magazines and others. 
 
 Cooper, Edna Poppe — "Song of the Wind," Petaluma. 
 
 Cothran, E. E.— "Smiles and Tears." 
 
 Courvet, Pierre A. (French-Californian) — "Poesies." 
 
 Cowell, Harry — "Life," "Smart Set," etc. 
 
 Crane, Allen — Poems for Children (also short stories). 
 
 Crane, Lauren E. — Sacramento Union and Overland. 
 
 Crawford, Captain Jack (J. H.) — Poet-Scout. 
 
 Crowley, Rev. D. O. — Poems. 
 
 Croudace, Lenore — Poems (two volumes). 
 
 Dawson, Emma Frances — "Old Glory" (see Authors). 
 
 Daggett, Rollin Mallory — "Braxton's Bar." 
 
 Day, Sarah J.— "From May Flowers to Mistletoe," 1901. 
 
 Dole, S. — Verses. 
 
 Dolliver, Clara (see Bartchaell) — "Candy Elephant," "No Baby in The 
 
 House," etc. 
 Douglas, George — Verse in Chronicle, San Francisco. 
 Dorney, Patrick — Poems. 
 Dowling, Bartholomew — "Hurrah for the Next That Dies," "Chaplet of 
 
 Verse by California Catholic Poets." 
 Driscoll, Fannie A. — (Argonaut.) 
 
 Elder, Paul — "Friendship," etc. (see Historians). 
 
 Ferguson, Lillian (Plunkett) — (See Editors.) 
 
 Ferre, Ella K. (see Gage)— "Land of the Sunset Sea" (S. F., 1883). 
 
 Field, Ben — Poems. 
 
 Field, Charles K. — (See Authors and Editors.) 
 
 Field, Mary H. — "An Arboreal Song of the Alameda." 
 
 Fitzgerald, Sister Anna Raphael. 
 
 Fitzgerald, Marcella A. 
 
 Florine, Margaret Helen— "Songs of a Nurse" (A. M. Robertson, 1917). 
 
 Foote, Lucius Harwood — Poems. 
 
 Foster, Joel W. — Verses. 
 
 Foster,Nancy K. — "Sonnets and Lyrics" (Elder, 1917). 
 
 Frazer, Isaac Jenkinson — (Moosa, San Diego, 1901.) 
 
 French, Nora May — Poems. 
 
 Furlong, Mary Lacy M.— "Cozenza," 1879. 
 
 Furlong, Mrs. N. H. — (Sacramento.) 
 
 Garlick, Etna — Verses. 
 
 Gassaway, Frank H. — "Pride of Battery B," etc. (see Editors). 
 
 Gerberding, Elizabeth — (See Authors.) 
 
 Gibbs, Ralph Irwin— "Songs of Content" (Elder). 
 
 Goodhue, E. E.— "Verses from the Valley" (Oakland, 1888). 
 
 Goodloe, Rife — Poems. 
 
392 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Goodrich, June — Verses (Redding). 
 
 Granger, Grace— "The Light of the Gods" (New York, 1911). 
 Greenwood, May S.— "The Mother Pioneers" (Petaluma, 1913. 
 Gunnison, Charles A.— "In the San Benito Hills," 1891. 
 Guiterman, Arthur — "Betel Nuts, Rhymed in English" (Elder). 
 
 Hall, Caroline Pettinos— Poems, 1865-1870. 
 
 Hall, John T.— (Sacramento.) 
 
 Hall-Wood, Mrs.— (See Von Kirn.) 
 
 Hamilton, Marion Ethel — Verses. 
 
 Harris, Lawrence W. — "The Damnedest Finest Ruins." 
 
 Hart, A.— Poems, 1873. 
 
 Harvey, Margaret — "The National Flower and Other Poems," "The 
 
 Trailing Arbutus." 
 Hawley, Margaret May — 
 
 Heath, T.— "Ellen Seymour and Other Poems," 1868. 
 Hebbard, Judge J. C. B. — Two volumes of verse. 
 Herron, Ralph — "Bathsheba" (published in Stanford University "Se- 
 
 qouia"). 
 Hibbard, Grace — Poems. 
 Higginson, Ella— "The Voice of April Land," "When the Birds Go 
 
 North Again" (Macmillan, 1909). 
 Hill, A. F.— "Sonnets of the Sanctum." 
 Hillis, Delia M.— "Whisperings of Time." 
 Hoffman, Elwyn — (Sunset, Overland, Town Talk, etc.) 
 Hogg, H.— "California," 1857-1878. 
 
 Holloway, Elvira H.— "Gleanings from the Golden State" (1893, S. F.) 
 Howe, Harriet — "Along the Way." 
 Hughes, Glenn — "Souls" (Elder). 
 Hyde, Mabel Helen — "Jingles from Japan." 
 
 Irwin, Wallace — "Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum" (see Authors). 
 Izod, Dr. Kevin— (See O'Doherty.) 
 
 Jenney, Charles Elmer — "California Nights Entertainment" (Edinburgh) 
 Josaphare, Lionel— "The Lion at the Well," "Turquoise and Iron," etc. 
 
 (see Authors). 
 Jury, John G. — San Jose's Author of Verses, "Omar Fitzgerald and 
 
 Other Poems." 
 
 Keeler, Charles— "A Light Through the Storm," "Bird Notes Afield," 
 
 etc., etc. 
 Kemp, G. — "Shadows." 
 Kendall, W. S.— 
 Kercheval, Rosalie — Poems. 
 
 Kewen, J. C. — "Idealism and Other Poems" (San Francisco, 1853). 
 King, P. M. — Verses (San Francisco, 1890). 
 Kleckner, Thomas — Soldier-Poet. 
 
 Knox, Jessie Juliet— "Little Almond Blossom," "Poems," 1904. 
 Krebs, Florence Kellogg — "Army Goose Melodies" (Elder). 
 
 Lambert, Mary — "Cogitots." 
 
 Lampson, Merle Robbins — "On Reaching Sixteen and Other Poems." 
 Laroche, G. A. — "Fables in French Verse" (San Francisco, 1869). 
 Lawrence, Elizabeth A. — "Poem on Southern California" "booklet). 
 Lezinsky, David Lesser — Poems. 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 393 
 
 Linen, James — Poems. 
 
 Longley, Snow — "Love Sonnets of a Spinster." 
 Loring, Lucia Etta (Smith)— "By the Way" (Elder). 
 Lowe, George N. — 
 
 Mace, Frances — Poems. 
 
 Maloney, Mary T. — "The Legend of a Monument and Other Poems" 
 San Jose, 1876). 
 
 Manners, Guy— "The Soul of the Trenches" (A. M. Robertson, 1918). 
 
 Mannix, Mary E. — Verses. 
 
 Markham, Anna Catherine — Magazines. 
 
 Markham, Edwin — "The Man with a Hoe," "Lincoln," "Shoes of Hap- 
 piness," etc. 
 
 Marien, J. — (See Von Schroeder.) 
 
 Martin, A.— "Verses in the Valley and Mountains" (Oakland, 1888). 
 
 Martin, Lannie Haynes — Verses. 
 
 Masten, Warren Jones — "Brotherhood Poems" (San Francisco, 1914, 
 Wilson, Publisher). 
 
 Maybell, Steve — "Sandlot Lyrics." 
 
 McCracken, Josephine Clifford— "The Woman Who Lost Him." 
 
 McGinisley, Grover C— "A Son of the Gods" (Ukiah, 1917). 
 
 McLaren, James Henry — 
 
 McRoskey, Racine — "Poems." 
 
 Menken, Adah Isaacs — "Poems." 
 
 Meyer, Isador — Translator and versifier of Talmud into English. 
 
 Myrick, Geraldine — "Songs of a Fool and Other Verses" 1895, San 
 Jose). 
 
 Miller, Joaquin — Complete Poetical Works of Joaquin Miller (Harr 
 Wagner Publishing Company). 
 
 Miller, Mamie Lowe — Verses. 
 
 Miller, Minnie Myrtle — (Golden Era.) 
 
 Milne, Frances Margaret — "Heliotrope." 
 
 Monroe, K.— "Opus I— Poems," 1917. 
 
 Morgan, G. G. W.— "Poems" (San Francisco, 1877). 
 
 Morse, Philip — Poems. 
 
 Newbegin, Anna — "Poems of Life from California" (Newbegin, S. F.) 
 
 Newman, Fanny Hodges — "Out of Bondage (Elder). 
 
 Newton, Emma Mersereau — "Veil of Solano," 1902. 
 
 Norris, Frank — "Yvonelle." 
 
 Northup, John Wood— "Songs of Nature, Love and Life," 1917 (Elder). 
 
 O'Connell, Dan — "Songs of Bohemia." 
 
 O'Doherty, Mr. (see Izod) — "Poems by Eva," 1887 (San Francisco). 
 
 Otis, Eliza A. — Poems. 
 
 Page, Annie S. — "Poems" (San Francisco, 1893). 
 
 Palmer, Elinor — (Los Angeles.) 
 
 Palmer, Fannie — (Golden Era.) 
 
 Parburto — "Anselmo, A Poem" (San Francisco, 1885). 
 
 Paul, John— (See Webb.) 
 
 Peckham, Lizzie Cross — 
 
 Pendleton, Alvah — 
 
 Perry, Marion B. — (Vallejo.) 
 
 Philan, John N.— "The Wave." 
 
394 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Phillips, Charles — (See Dramatists.) 
 
 Pitts, Mabel Porter— Poems. 
 
 Pittsinger, Eliza — Poems. 
 
 Pollock, Edward — "Poems." 
 
 Pollock, Dr. William D.— Poems. 
 
 Poston, C. D.— "Apache Land, A Poem" and "Sun Worshipers of Asia" 
 
 (1877, San Francisco). 
 Potter, Jane B. 
 
 Powell, Emily Browne — "Poems." 
 
 Pratt, Alice E.— "The Sleeping Princess of Tamalpais" (S. F., 1893). 
 Price, Arthur — Newspaper verse. 
 
 Quad, M.— (See Bishop.) 
 
 Raphael, Sister Anna — (See Fitzgerald.) 
 Realf, Richard — "Indirection," "Vale." 
 Reed, Anna Morrison — (See Editors.) 
 Reese, Lowell Otus — Poems. 
 Richards, John E. — Poems. 
 
 Richards, Susan— "Wayside Thoughts" (Oakland, 1885). 
 Richardson, Daniel S.— "Trail Dust," etc. 
 Richmond, Florence — "Golden Lark," etc. 
 Richmond, Hiram Hoyt — "Montezuma." 
 
 Robertson, Louis Alexander — "The Dead Calypso," "Beyond the Re- 
 quiems," etc. (A. M. Robertson, Publisher). 
 Rogers, J. H.— "The California Hundred." 
 Rogers, Maud (Goshen) — Verse. 
 
 Ross, Joseph (Walking Hiller) — "Songs of the Sand-Hills." 
 Rucker, Mrs. V. M. — Verse (Oakland). 
 
 Sage, John E. — Verse. 
 
 Sain, Charles McK. — Verse. 
 
 Samuels, Maurice V. — (See Playwrights.) 
 
 Sargent, Mrs. E. S., and 
 
 Sargent, J. L. — "Sugar-Pine Murmurings," 1899. 
 
 Savage, Belle — Verse. 
 
 Saxon, Isabel — Verse. 
 
 Scheffauer, Herman — "Poems"; also essays and magazine articles. 
 
 Scheffauer, Mrs. Herman (Ethel Talbot)— 
 
 Schroeder, Eugenie McLane (Hawes) — "Poems." 
 
 Seares, Mabel Urmy — "The Lyric Land of California" (Pasadena). 
 
 Sexton, Ella M.— Poems. 
 
 Shepard, Morgan — Poems. 
 
 Shipman, Clare — "Seven Stars" (Newbegin, San Francisco). 
 
 Shores, Robert — "At Molokai." 
 
 Shuey, Mrs. G. E. (Charlotte Elizabeth Bromley)— (Overland and Gol- 
 den Era). 
 
 Sill, Edward Rowland— Poems. 
 
 Skidmore, Harriet M. — "Beside the Western Sea." 
 
 Smith, Clark Ashton— "The Star-Treader and Other Poems" (A. M. 
 Robertson. 
 
 Smith, S. W.— "Gems from the Tailings" (San Francisco, 1875). 
 
 Sorace, Richard (Guelph) — Verses. 
 
 Sosso, Lorenzo — "Poems of Humanity," "Wisdom of the Wise." 
 
 Southworth, May — Verses. 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 395 
 
 Spencer, Henry MacDonald — Verses. 
 
 Starr, Frank Rose — Verses. 
 
 Steele, J. D.— "Poems" (San Francisco, 1885). 
 
 Sterling, George — "The Testimony of the Suns," "House of Orchids," 
 
 "The Messenger," etc. 
 Stewart, Hector A. — Verses. 
 Stewart, Marcus A. — (Sacramento.) 
 Stoddard, Charles Warren — "Poems Collected." 
 Sutherland, Howard V.— Poems, "Idylls of Greece," 1918. 
 Sumner, C. A. — Poems. 
 
 Sumner, S. B.— "Poems" New York, 1877). 
 Swain, Gertrude M. — "Early Poems" (San Francisco, 1887). 
 
 Talbot, Ethel— (See Scheffauer.) 
 
 Tarleton, Dick— Town Talk and Wasp), Verse. 
 
 Taylor, Edward Robeson — "In the Court of the Ages," "Lavender," 
 
 "Into the Light," etc. (A. M. Robertson). 
 Taylor, Mart — Verse, Poems. 
 Thomson, Estelle — Verse, Poems. 
 Thorndyke, Mrs. E. P.— Verse. 
 Thorp, Jennie L. — (Healdsburg), "Poems." 
 
 Thorpe, Rose Hartwick — "Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight," etc. 
 Tobin, Agnes — Translation of Petrarch. 
 Toland, Mrs. M. B. M. — Illustrated books de luxe. 
 Todd, Mrs. W. P. (Alice Fiske)— Verses. 
 True, Eliot C. 
 
 Truesdell, Amelia Woodward — "Poems." 
 Tuomey, Honoria R. P. — Verses. 
 Tyler, Martha Trent — (Overland and other magazines), verses. 
 
 Urmy, Clarence W. — "A Rosary of Rhyme," "A California Troubadour," 
 etc. (the first native of California to publish a book of poems). 
 
 Van Bibber (Oatman)— "The Flight Into Egypt and Other Poems" 
 (San Francisco, 1880). 
 
 Von Kirn, Camilla K. (Mrs. Hall-Wood)— "Sea Leaves" (Santa Bar- 
 bara, 1887). 
 
 Von Schroeder, Janet (see Marien) — "Sonnets." 
 
 Wagner, Madge Morris — "Liberty's Bell," "Debris," "The Lure of the 
 
 Desert." 
 Wagstaff, Colonel Denman S.— "The End of the Trail" (poems in 
 
 "Call," etc.) 
 Walter, Carrie Stevens — "Rose Ashes" (see Editors). 
 Washburn, Jean Bruce — "Yo Semite," 1871. 
 Watson, Irving S. — (Ontario.) 
 Waterhouse, A. J. — "Poems." 
 Webb, Charles Henry (John Paul)— "With Lead and Line" (Houghton.. 
 
 Mifflin & Co.) 
 Webb, Louise H. — Verses in Magazines. 
 Weister, Mrs. W. H.— Verse. 
 
 Weller, Ella F.— "Nestlings, a Collection of Poems" (S. F., 1890). 
 Werner, Anna — Verse. 
 
 Wells, Amy L. — Magazine verse), Town Talk, etc.) 
 Westbrook, Marie K.— "A Collection of Verses," 1888; "The Two 
 
 Worlds" (Stockton, 1889). 
 Wheeler, Alfred— Verse. 
 
396 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Wright, Mrs. C. W. (Georgiana) — (Poet and Playwright.) 
 
 White, Richard Edward— "Poems," "Brother Felix/' etc. 
 
 Wiley, Alice Denison (Cactus). 
 
 Wilkinson, Marguerite — "Golden Songs of the Golden State" McClurg, 
 
 Chicago, 1917). 
 Williams, A.— "Fernwood Leaves," 1891. 
 Williams, Cora L. — "Involutions." 
 
 Willis, Mrs. Ambrose Madison — "Social Rubaiyat of a Bud" (Elder). 
 Willis, Frederick Milton— "The City of Is" (Mercury Press, S. F.) 
 Wilson, Elizabeth Sargent — (See Sargent.) 
 
 Wise, Lilian— "Three Jewels and Other Poems" (San Francisco, 1887). 
 Wood, Mrs. M. C. F.— "Poems" (Santa Barbara, 1903). 
 Woods, Maude Newton — Verse. 
 
 POETS REPRESENTED IN THE "CALIFORNIA POPPY," POEM 
 AND PROSE— COMPILATION BY EMORY A. SMITH 
 
 Allen, Charles H.; Brainerd, Maggie D.; Bruce, R. L. (Redlands); Car- 
 penter, Helen M. (Overland, 1894); Chase, Cora E.; Clarke, Ar- 
 thur F.; Cowan, Alice Gray; Featherstone, Gertrude D.; Gamier, 
 T. R.; Greene, Charles S.; Gregg, Charlotte; Hall, Sharlot M.; 
 Culver, M. E. ; Hanchett, Frank Pardee; Hare, Emma E.; Lom- 
 bard, Mary A.; Metcalfe, Sadie B.; Moody, Mrs. A. D. (San Jose). 
 
 WRITERS OF HISTORIES, ANTHOLOGIES, LEGENDS, AUTO- 
 BIOGRAPHIES AND BIOGRAPHIES, ETC. 
 
 Abbott, Carlisle S.— "Recollections of a California Pioneer" (Neale, 
 
 1917). 
 Aimard, Gustave— "The Gold Seekers," 1888. 
 Allen, Margaret V. — "Ramona's Home Land." 
 Alverson-Blake, Margaret — "Personal Reminiscences." 
 Arturo, Helen Elliott Bandini — "History of California." 
 Atwell, H. W. — "History of Woodland (with Sprague). 
 Austin, Mary — "California." 
 
 Badlam, Alexander — "Wonders of Alaska," 1891. 
 
 Bahler, J. F.— "Autobiography," 1889. 
 
 Bancroft, H. H.— "History of Pacific Coast." 
 
 Barra, Ezekiel I.— "A Tale of Two Oceans," 1893. 
 
 Barry, T. A. (with B. A. Patton) — "Men and Memories of San Fran- 
 cisco in 1850." 
 
 Bartlett, John Russell — "Personal Narrative." 
 
 Beasley, Thomas Dykes — "A Tramp Through the Bret Harte Country" 
 (Elder). 
 
 Bell, Major Horace — "Reminiscences of a Ranger," 1881. 
 
 Bennett, John E., L. L.B. — "The World Question and Its Answer" 
 (Menlo Pub. Co., San Francisco, 1918). 
 
 Benton, Rev. J. A. — "A California Pilgrim" (Sacramento, 1853). 
 
 Bledsoe, H. J.— "Indian Wars of the Northwest, 1849-'69," 1885. 
 
 Bosqui, Edward — "Reminiscences." 
 
 Bowers, Mrs. D. P. — "Reminiscences." 
 
 Bozenta, Countess (Modjeska) — "Reminiscences." 
 
 Bromley, George Tisdale — "The Long Ago and the Later On" (A. M. 
 Robertson, Pub.) 
 
 Browne, J. R. — "History and Sacrifice and Adventure." 1851-71. 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 397 
 
 Bryant, E.— "What I Saw in California" (New York, 1848; London, 
 1849). 
 
 Buffum, E. G.— "Six Months in Gold Mines" (Philadelphia, 1850). 
 
 Bunnell, L. H. — "Discovery of Yosemite, and Indian War of 1861" 
 (Chicago, 1880). 
 
 Butters, Harry, R. F. A.— "Lif e and Letters" (see O'Sullivan). 
 
 Burnett, Peter (Governor of California) — Political Books, and "Rec- 
 ord and Opinions of An Old Pioneer" (New York, 1880). 
 
 Canfield, Chauncey L.— "The Diary of a '49er," "City of Six," etc. (Chi- 
 cago, McClurg, 1910). 
 
 Carey— "California As It Is." 
 
 Carr, I. — "Pioneer Days in California." 
 
 Carr, Jeanne C. — "Basket Making Among the Indians." 
 
 Carr, Sarah Pratt— "The Iron Way" (see Authors). 
 
 Carter, Charles Franklin — "Missions of San Francisco," "Stories of the 
 Old Missions in California," "Some By-Ways of California" (Harr 
 Wagner Pub. Co., San Francisco. 
 
 Cary, J. H.— "Restoration of the Earth's Lost History" (anon.), 1868. 
 
 Chambliss, William H.— -"Society as I Found It." 
 
 Chase, J. Smeaton. 
 
 Chetwood, John — "Our Search for the Missing Millions of Cocos Is- 
 land," 1904. 
 
 Clapp, Louise — "The Shirley Letters," "Pioneer Days," Legends, etc. 
 
 Clark, Galen— "Yo Semite Lore." 
 
 Clark, Sterling B. F.— "Diary of a '49er" (Grizzly Bear Magazine). 
 
 Clemens, Will S.— "Life of Mark Twain," 1892. 
 
 Cole, Cornelius (U. S. Senator from California) — "California 350 Years 
 Ago"; also book of Reminiscences, 1908. 
 
 Colton, Rev. Walter— "Three Years in California," 1850. 
 
 Conklin — "Picturesque Arizona" (Frank Leslie's special correspondent, 
 1878). 
 
 Cowan, Robert Ernest — "Bibliography of the History of California and 
 the Pacific West, 1510-1906" (Newbegin). 
 
 Cozzens, Samuel Woodworth — "Crossing the Quicksands," 1905. 
 
 Cremony, Colonel John C. — "Life Among the Apaches." 
 
 Cronise, Titus Fay— "Natural Wealth of California" (Bancroft, 1868). 
 
 Cummins-Mighels, Ella Sterling — "Story of the Files: A Review of 
 California Writers and Literature, 1893. 
 
 Daggett, Hon. John — Reminiscences. 
 
 Dameron, J. P. — Autobiography and Writings. 
 
 Davis, C. C— "The True Story of Ramona." 
 
 Davis, William Heath — "Sixty Years in California." 
 
 Day, Mrs. Frank B.— "The Princess of Manoa," Folk-lore (Elder). 
 
 Dean, John M.— "Rainier of the Last Frontier" (Crowell, Pub., 1911). 
 
 Dillenbrough, F. S.— "Fremont and '49." 
 
 De Urculla, Don Jose — Full Description of California (text-book), (Mar- 
 vin & Hitchcock, 1852). 
 
 Dietrich, Dr.— "The German Emigrants" (translated by Leopold Wray). 
 
 Dinsmore, John Walker (Rev)— Author of "The Scotch-Irish in Amer- 
 ica." 
 
 Donner, C. W.— "Last Days of the Republic," 1880. 
 
 Dorsey, Geo. A., Ph.D.— "Indians of the Southwest" (pamphlet). 
 
 Duke, T. S.— "Celebrated Criminal Cases of America," 1910 (Barry,. 
 Publisher). 
 
398 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Dumbell, K. E. M.— "California and the Far West" (New York, Jos. 
 
 Pott & Co.) 
 Dunn, Allan — "Carefree San Francisco" (A. M. Robertson). 
 Dvinelle, C. — "Colonial History of San Francisco," 1863-67. 
 
 Edwords, Clarence — "Bohemian San Francisco" (Elder). 
 
 Eldredge, Zoeth Skinner — "Beginnings of San Francisco," "The March 
 
 of Portola." 
 Elder, Paul — "The Old Spanish Missions of California." 
 
 Farnham, T. J. — "Life and Adventures in California," 1847. 
 
 Faust, Karl Irving — "Campaigning in the Philippines" Hicks-Judd Co., 
 
 Pub., 1890). 
 Filcher, Joseph Adams — "Untold Stories of California." 1903. 
 Fitzgerald, O. P.— "California Sketches" (Nashville, 1879-81). 
 Forbes, A. B. — History of California. 
 
 Forbes, Harrye Smith (Mrs. A. S. C.) — "The Missions of California." 
 Foote, Horace S. — Author of Santa Clara County. 
 Forgo, Dr. Wm.— "Forgo Guides." 
 Formes, Karl — Autobiography. 
 
 Foster, Julia B. (Kate Heath)— "Little Padres," etc. 
 Fraser, J. B. M.— History, 1881-'83. 
 Fremont, John C. (General) — Journal. 
 
 Garnett, Porter — "Stately Homes of California" (Little, Brown & Co., 
 Boston). 
 
 Gleeson, Rev. W.— History, 1872-'83. 
 
 Glisam, R. — "Journal of Army Life in San Francisco." 1874. 
 
 Goodwin, Judge C. C— "As I Remember Them." 
 
 Graham, Mary — "California Missions," 1876. 
 
 Gray, J. M. 
 
 Gray, M. T.— "The Lure of San Francisco." 
 
 Greenway, Edward M. — First Blue Book of San Francisco, with a So- 
 cial History. 
 
 Grinnell, Joseph — "Nature and Science on the Pacific Coast" (Elder). 
 
 Guinn, J. M. — "History of the Coast Counties." 
 
 Hall, Frederic— "The Life of Maximilian," "The History of San Jese," 
 and "Surroundings with Biographical Sketches of Early Set- 
 tlers," 1871. 
 
 Harris, W. B. — "Pioneer Life in California," 1884. 
 
 Heath, Kate— (See Julia Foster.) 
 
 Hittell, John S.— Publicist. 
 
 Hittell, Theodore H.— History of California. 
 
 Hopkins, Sarah Winnemucca — "Life Among the Piutes" Ed. by Mrs. 
 Horace Mann), (Boston, 1883). 
 
 Houghton, Eliza P. Donner — "The Expedition of the Donner Party" 
 (McClurg, Pub, Chicago, 1911). 
 
 Howe, T. H. — "Adventures of An Escaped Union Soldier" (pamp.), 1886. 
 
 Hughes, Mrs. Elizabeth— "The California of the Padres" (pamp.), 1875. 
 
 Hunsaker, W. J. — Introduction to Roderman's "Bench and Bar," 1909. 
 
 Hunter, G. — "Reminiscences of An Old-Timer" (San Francisco, 1887). 
 
 Hutchinson — "By-Ways Around San Francisco Bay." 
 
 Irwin, Will— "The City That Was." 
 
 Isaman, Sara (White)— "Tourist Tales of California," 1909. 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 399 
 
 James, George Wharton — "History and Literature of California" (sev- 
 eral volumes). 
 
 Jones, Judge Theodore Elden — "Leaves from An Argonaut's Note- 
 Book," 1905. 
 
 Judson, Katherine B. — "Myths and Legends of California" (McClurg, 
 Chicago). 
 
 King, Joseph — "History of the San Francisco Stock Board." 
 Kirby, Georgiana Bruce — "Years of Experience," "My Life in Cali- 
 fornia." 
 Kip, Lieut. Lawrence, U. S. N. — Journal. 
 Klopfer, E.— "Carrie's Letter to Her Emil," 1890. 
 
 Laub, Agnes — "The Highways and Byways of the Pacific Coast." 
 
 Leman, Walter — Reminiscences. 
 
 Likins, Mrs. J. W. — "Six Years a Book Agent." 
 
 Lloyd, B. E. — "Lights and Shades in San Francisco." 
 
 Lloyd, Robert— "The Treasure of Shag Rock," 1902. 
 
 Love, Mrs. L. C. — Letters of Travel (San Francisco, 1886). 
 
 O'Sullivan, Elizabeth Curtis — "Life and Letters of Harry Butters." 
 
 Mann, Mrs. Horace — (See Hopkins.) 
 
 Marshall, Dr. Benjamin — Sketches. 
 
 Matthews, W. M. — "Ten Years in Nevada." 
 
 Maybeck, Bernard R. — "Palace of Fire," "California"; Arts, a Mono- 
 graph (Elder). 
 
 Metlar, G. W.— History of Northern California (Yreka, 1856). 
 
 Miller, Mrs. Elizabeth Gore — "Romances of the California Mission 
 Days," 1905. 
 
 Miller, Fannie de C— "Snap Notes of An Eastern Trip" (S. F., 1892). 
 
 Munro-Fraser, J. P. — "History of Santa Clara County," 1881. 
 
 Moses, Professor Bernard — Economics. 
 
 Mulgardt, Louis Christian — "The Architecture and Landscape Garden- 
 ing of the Exposition" (Elder). 
 
 Murphy, Thcs. D. — "On Smooth Highways" (Page, Boston). 
 
 McCue, J. — "Twenty-one Years in California" (S. F., 1875; pamp... 
 
 McGowan, E. — Narrative (San Francisco, 1857). 
 
 Mclntire, John J.— "As I Saw It." 1902. 
 
 McKinley, Duncan E. — "Panama Canal." 
 
 Morrow, Judge William W. — "The Earthquake of April 18th: Personal 
 Experiences" (San Francisco, 1901). 
 
 Muir, John. 
 
 Nichols, Bishop. 
 
 Nisbet, James — "Annals of San Francisco." 
 
 Noll, A. H.— (See Barndon Wilson.) 
 
 Nordhoff, Charles — "Years in California." 
 
 Norton, Henry K. — "The Story of California." 
 
 Oatman Family — History of. 
 
 O'Meara, James— History, etc., 1881-1890. 
 
 Osbourne, Katherine Durham — "Stevenson in California." 
 
 Ott, Manford Allen— "Across the Plains in 1854" (Chase & Rae). 
 
 Palmer, John Waldemar — "Pioneer Days in California" see Century 
 Magazine for 1880). 
 
400 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Palou, F. — "Life of Juniperro Serra." 
 
 Parsons, George F.— "Life and Adventures of James Marshall," 1870; 
 
 "Middleground" (Sacramento, 1891). 
 Pelton, J. C— "Life's Sunbeams and Shadows," 1893. 
 Pennell, Joseph— "The City of the Golden Gate." 
 Potter, E. G.— "The Lure of San Francisco" (with M. T. Gray). 
 Powell, E. Alexander— "The End of the Trail." 
 Powell, J. J.— "The Golden State." 
 Powers, S. — "California Indian Legends." 
 Purdy, Helen Throop — "San Francisco as It Was" (Elder). 
 
 Reed, Thomas Harrison — "Form and Functions of American Govern- 
 ment." 
 
 Reeder, A. P.— "Around the Golden Deep," 1888. 
 
 Richman, Irving B. — "California Under Spain and Mexico" (Houghton, 
 Mifflin & McClurg). 
 
 Rideout, J. B. — "Camping Out in California." 
 
 Robinson, A.— "California, His Home," 1889; "Life in California" (New 
 York, 1846). 
 
 Rockwell, Dennis Hunt — "California the Golden" (history). 
 
 Robinson, Charles Mulford— "The Call of the City" (Elder). 
 
 Roderman, Willoughby — "History of the Bench and Bar" (Los Ange- 
 les, 1909). 
 
 Sanborn, Kate — "Unknown California." 
 
 Sanchez, Nellie Vandergrift — "Spanish and Indian Places and Names." 
 
 Sanford, F. R.— "The Bursting of a Boom" (Ventura, 1889). 
 
 Sawtelle, Mrs. M. P.— "Heroines of '49." 
 
 Sawyer, E. T— "Life of Tiburcio Vasquez" (San Jose, 1875). 
 
 Shafter, Judge Oscar Lovell — "Life and Letters" (edited by Flora 
 Haines Loughhead). 
 
 Sherman, Major Edwin P. — "Reminiscences: Admiral Sloat Memoir." 
 
 Simonds, William Day — "Starr King in California." 
 
 Shuck, Oscar C. — "Representative Men of the Pacific — A California 
 Anthology." 
 
 Sieghold, M. P.— "Old Mission Tales." 
 
 Smith, Bertha H.— "Yo Semite Legends" (Elder). 
 
 Smythe, William E. — History (San Diego). 
 
 Soule, Frank — "Annals of San Francisco" (in collab.) 
 
 Sprague, C. B. (with H. W. Atwell)— History of Woodland, 1870. 
 
 Spurr, George Graham— "A Fight with a Grizzly Bear," 1886; "The 
 Land of Gold," 1881. 
 
 Stephens, Prof. Henry Morse — "History of the San Francisco Earth- 
 quake" (edited by). 
 
 Stewart, W. F.— "Last of the Filibusters" (Sacramento, 1857). 
 
 Stiles— "New Footprints in Old Places" (Wilder, 1917). 
 
 Stillman, J. D. B.— "Seeking the Golden Fleece" (S. F., 1877). 
 
 Stratton, W. C— "The Oatman Children." 
 
 Swasey, Captain William F. — "Early Days and Men of California" (Oak- 
 land, 1891). 
 
 Tassie, James and William. 
 
 Taylor, Rev. W.— "California Life Illustrated" (New York, 1858); 
 
 "Seven Years Street Preaching in San Francisco," 1867. 
 Taylor, W. B.— "Old California Missions." 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 401 
 
 Thompson, R. A.— "Brief Description of Santa Rosa," 1854; "Sketch 
 
 of Sonoma County" (Philadelphia, 1877). 
 Tinkham, G. H.— "History of Stockton" (San Francisco, 1880). 
 Torrey, Bradford — "Field Days in California." 
 Truman, Ben C. — Reminiscences, etc. 
 Turrill, Charles B. — "Lectures on the Early Days." 
 
 Van Dyke, Theodore Strong— "Flirtation Camp," 1889 : "Rifle, Rod and 
 Gun." 
 
 Van Mehr, Rev. J. L.— "Checkered Life" (San Francisco, 1877). 
 
 Wagner, Harr — "Short Stories by California Writers," "Notable Speech- 
 es," "Pacific History Stories." 
 
 Wakeman, Captain Edgar — "Log of An Ancient Mariner" (S. F., 1878). 
 
 Walker, W.— "The War in Nicaragua" (Mobile, 1860.) 
 
 Watson, Mrs. Mary — "People I Have Met" (San Francisco, 1890). 
 
 Webster, Jonathan Vinton — "Two True California Stories," 1883. 
 
 Wheat, W. T.— "Pioneer Times in California" (San Francisco, 1881. 
 
 Whitney, Professor J. D. — "Scientific and Descriptive California." 
 
 Whitney, Joel Parker — "Reminiscences of a Sportsman." 
 
 Wierzbicki— "California As It Is" (S. F., 1849); "The Ideal Man" 
 (Boston, 1882). 
 
 Willard, Charles Dwight — "History of Los Angeles." 
 
 Willey, Rev. S. H.— "California's Transition Period." 
 
 Williams, A. — "A Pioneer Pastorate" (San Francisco, 1879). 
 
 Williams, C. E. — "History of Yuba and Sutter Counties." 
 
 Williams, John H. — "Yosemite and the High Sierras." 
 
 Wilson, Barndon (with A. H. Noll) — "In Quest of Aztec Treasure" 
 (Neall Press, San Francisco). 
 
 Wood, J. W.— "Pasadena" (Newbegin, Pub., 1918). 
 
 Woods, Samuel D. — "Lights and Shadows of Life on the Pacific Coast." 
 
 Woods, J.— "Record of Pioneer Work in California," 1878. 
 
 Woolley, Lell Hawley— "California 1849," 1913. 
 
 Young, John P. — "The History of San Francisco," etc. 
 
 Zepphyrin, Fr. — "Missions in California." 
 
 Zeigler, Wilbur Gleason— "The Disaster of 1906." 
 
 COMPILERS OF PROSE AND VERSE 
 
 Cubberley, Dr. E. P. — "Poems for Memorizing" (with Alice Power). 
 
 Cummins-Mighels, Ella Sterling — "Story of the Files of California; 
 Writers and Literature with Selections" (San Francisco, 1893). 
 
 Deming, Mrs. H. A. — "Admonitory Couplets." 
 
 Elder, Paul— "West Winds." 
 
 Gaines, Nettie Stewart — "Pathway to Western Literature" (Stockton). 
 
 Granice, Rowena (Steele) — "The Family Gem," 1856. 
 
 Haines, Jennie Day (Elder). 
 
 James, George Wharton— "The California Birthday Book," 1909 (Los 
 Angeles, Cal.) 
 
 Lawrence, Mary Viola Tingley — "Outcroppings." 
 
 Macdonald, Augustin G. — "Collection of Verse by California Poets." 
 
 MacKenzie, Isabel O. — Author of "A Classified List of Stories for Story- 
 Telling." 
 
 Power, Alice Rose — "Poems for Memorizing" (Harr Wagner Pub. Co.) 
 
 Russell, Edmund — "Readings from the California Poets." 
 
 Shuck, Oscar T. — "A California Anthology." 
 
402 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Smith, Emory E.— "Golden Poppy Verses" (Palo Alto, 1901). 
 
 Spinners' Club. 
 
 Steele — (See Granice.) 
 
 Wentworth, May— "Poetry of the Pacific." 
 
 Wilkinson, Marguerite — "Golden Songs of the Golden State." 
 
 "California the Beautiful" — A compilation of Western Artists and Au- 
 thors Elder, 1911). 
 
 Authors represented: Ina Coolbrith, Joaquin Miller, Bret Harte, Charles 
 Warren Stoddard, Madge Morris Wagner, Clarence Urmy, Ed- 
 ward Rowland Sill, Dan O'Connell, George Sterling, Frank Nor- 
 ris, Herbert Bashford, Gelett Burgess, Edward Robeson Taylor, 
 Howard V. Sutherland, Gertrude Atherton, Will Irwin, Porter 
 Garnett, John Muir, Lucius Harwood Foote, Helen Hunt Jack- 
 son, Lillian Sheehy, Charles Keeler, John Vance Cheney, and 
 others. 
 
 Writers (Stories) Appearing in "West Winds" — The Compilation by 
 Herman Whittaker, for Paul Elder 
 
 Frances Allen, Mrs. Carl Bank, Agnes Morley Cleveland, Hester A. 
 Dickman, Elizabeth Abbey Everett, Harriet Holmes Haslett, 
 Sarah Thurston Nott, Rebecca N. Porter, Elizabeth Griswold 
 Rowe. 
 
 Writers Appearing in "Short Stories by California Writers" — Pub- 
 lished by Harr Wagner of the Golden Era, 1885 — First 
 Collection of the Kind 
 
 William Atwell Cheney, Ella Sterling Cummins-Mighels, J. W. Gaily 
 W. S. Green, Mary Willis Glasscock, H. B. McDowell, Ben C. 
 Truman, Harr Wagner. 
 
 Writers Appearing in "Spinners* Book of Fiction" — Published by Paul 
 
 Elder 
 
 Gertrude Atherton, Mary Hutton, Geraldine Bonner, Mary Hollen 
 Foote, Eleanor Gates, James Hopper, Jack London, Bailey Mil- 
 lard, Miriam Michelson, W. C. Morrow, Frank Innis, Henry 
 Milner Rideout, Charles Warren Stoddard, Isabel Strong, Richard 
 Walton Tully, Herman Whittaker. 
 
 WRITERS ON NEWSPAPERS— SPECIAL AND REGULAR 
 
 STAFF 
 
 Allen, Ben S.— Now with Hoover (1918). 
 
 Amsden, Dora. 
 
 Avery, Fannie — (Golden Era.) 
 
 Bacon, Ralph. 
 
 Bacon, Thomas. 
 
 Baggerly, Hyland — (Bulletin and San Jose News.) 
 
 Bancroft, Alberta— (The Wave.) 
 
 Barendt, Arthur H. — (Chronicle.) 
 
 Bartlett, Josephine — (Bulletin.) 
 
 Bartlett, Raymond. 
 
 Bassett, J. M.— (Golden Era.) 
 
 Bausman, Adelaide J. Holmes — (Argonaut.) 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 403 
 
 Beatty, Bessie — (Bulletin); author "Political Pioneer." 
 
 Belloc, Mrs. Hilaire (Elodie Hogan). 
 
 Benjamin, Ben — (Chronicle.) 
 
 Bennett, Elsie— (Shiels.) 
 
 Bien. 
 
 Bidwell, Annie E. K. 
 
 Bigelow, Henry Derby— (The Wave.) 
 
 Black, Orlow — (Bulletin, Examiner, News Letter, Overland.) 
 
 Bonfils, Mrs. Charles (Annie Laurie, Winifred Sweet) — Hearst papers. 
 
 Bonnet, Theodore — (Daily Report, Examiner) (see Authors). 
 
 Booth, James P. — (Daily Report.) 
 
 Bolce, Harold — (Examiner.) 
 
 Bonnet, Theodore — Daily Report, Examiner; see Authors). 
 
 Bornemann, Mrs. (Oraquill). 
 
 Boston, Bessie. 
 
 Bower — (See Sinclair.) 
 
 Bowman, James. 
 
 Bowman, Mrs. James (Fanny) — (See Authors.) 
 
 Brady, Patsy— (The Wave.) 
 
 Brannan, Sophie. 
 
 Brastow, Virginia. 
 
 Brastow, Wanda (Henrici). 
 
 Brooke, Mary (Calkins). 
 
 Brown, Watt L. — (Call, Examiner.) 
 
 Burke, Hugh M.— (Call.) 
 
 Bryan, Linda Hoag (Mrs. Prentis Cobb Hale) — (Examiner.) 
 
 Brough, Mrs. N. (Helen Dare) — (Chronicle.) 
 
 Cahill, Edward F.— (Stockton Record and S. F. Call.) 
 Campbell, Kenneth. 
 
 Carpenter, L. Grant — (S. F. Post) (see Playwrights). 
 Cassell, Joseph B. 
 
 Chamberlain, Elizabeth Wright (Topsy Turvy) — (Sunday Mercury, Gol- 
 den Era.) 
 Chamberlain, S. S. — (Hearst papers.) 
 Clare, Ada — (Golden Era.) 
 
 Clarke, Mrs. C. O. (Elizabeth McCall)— (Town Talk.) 
 Clough, E. H. — (Examiner, Oakland Tribune, Town Talk.) 
 Connell, Sarah— (Town Talk.) 
 Connor, Torrey — (Oakland.) 
 Coffin, Dr. Caroline Cook — (S. F. Examiner.) 
 Corcoran, May S. 
 
 Corlett, Mrs. Theresa Viola (Silver Pen)— (News Letter.) 
 Cowles, Paul — (Associated Press.) 
 Cremony, Col. John C. — (See Authors.) 
 Critcher, Edward Payson — (Now Chicago Herald.) 
 Crondace, Lenore. 
 Croyland, J. — (Examiner.) 
 Cullinan, Eustace — (Bulletin.) 
 Cunningham, Carrie — (Examiner.) 
 
 Darragh, Mrs. Marshall (Marie Walton) — (Chronicle.) 
 
 Davenport, R. B. 
 
 Davids, Harry— (Call, Wasp.) 
 
 Davidson, Marie Hicks. 
 
404 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Davison, Mary Dement E. D. 
 
 Davis, L. Clare— (Stockton Mail.) 
 
 Dean, Constance Lawrence — (Examiner.) 
 
 De Quille, Dan de— (See Wright.) 
 
 Deering, Mabel Clare Craft — (Chronicle.) 
 
 Dement, Edward D. — (Early-day writer.) 
 
 Dexter, Jennie Buckland Coulter. 
 
 Dillon, Gerald — (Press agent.) 
 
 Dore, Benjamin. 
 
 Douglas, George — (Wave.) 
 
 Douglas, George — (Chronicle.) 
 
 Douglas, Mrs. A. F. 
 
 Dow, Jr. — (See Paide.) 
 
 Doyle, Grace. 
 
 Doyle, Margaret — (Call.) 
 
 Dunigan, John S. — (Bulletin.) 
 
 Dutton, Arthur H.— (Call, News Letter, Wasp.) 
 
 Dutton, Nevada Hess— (Call.) 
 
 Eccles, Alice— (Call, Oakland Tribune.) 
 
 Emerson, Edwin. 
 
 Enderline, Mrs. 
 
 Ervin, Mabel (Herrick) — (Chronicle.) 
 
 Evans Albert S. 
 
 Evans, Taliesen — (Chronicle, Oakland Tribune.) 
 
 Fallon, Anita. 
 
 Ferguson, Lillian — (Wasp, Town Talk, Examinei ; see Poets and 
 
 Editors.) 
 Fernbach, O. H.— (Call) 
 
 Fourgeaud, Dr. Victor — (Pioneer S. F. "Star."( 
 Francis, Phil — (Stockton, San Francisco Call.) 
 Fraser, Isabel — (Examiner, "Cholly Francisco".) 
 Fulton, Frances G. 
 
 Gibson, Mrs. Ellen (Olive Harper) — (Alta California.) 
 
 Gibson, Richard— (Town Talk.) 
 
 Gilmour, John Hamilton — (News Letter, Fresno Herald.) 
 
 Goodrich — (Alta California.) 
 
 Goodman, Minnie Buchanan Unger — (News Letter, Chronicle.) 
 
 Greathouse, Clarence — (See Editors.) 
 
 Green, Luella (Haxton) — (Examiner.) 
 
 Green, Luella (Harton) — (Examiner.) 
 
 Gregory, Elizabeth Hiatt— (Bulletin, Wasp, later N. Y. Sim.) 
 
 Hagar (Jeanette H. Phelps)— (Golden Era.) 
 
 Hale — (See Bryan.) 
 
 Hall, Blakely — (Flaneur of Argonaut.) 
 
 Hamilton, Edward H. — (Examiner.) 
 
 Harcourt, Penn. 
 
 Harper, Olive — (See Gibson, Durrill, d'Apery.) 
 
 Hart, Mary E. — (Special Alaskan writer.) 
 
 Hastings, Philip — (Press agent.) 
 
 Hatton, George F. 
 
 Haxton, H. 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 405 
 
 Heazleton, George— (S. F. Post.) 
 Hudson, Horace R. — (S. F. Chronicle.) 
 Hefron, Nevada — (S. F. Examiner.) 
 Henry, Marcus M. — (Press agent.) 
 Heron, Herbert. 
 Hess, Pauline. 
 Hess, Seline. 
 
 High, Gavin— (S. F. Report.) 
 Hillyer, Curtis— (S. F. Wave.) 
 Hull, Grace. 
 
 Inkersley, Arthur — (S. F. News Letter.) 
 Irwin, J. N. H.— (S. F. Call and Examiner.) 
 Irwin, Wallace — (See Authors.) 
 Irwin, Will — (See Authors.) 
 
 Jacobson, Pauline — (S. F. Bulletin.) 
 Johnston, George Pen. 
 Joliffe, Frances — (Bulletin.) 
 Joy, Al C— (S. F. Examiner.) 
 
 Keith, Eliza D.— ("Di Vernon" of S. F. News Letter; also Examiner.) 
 
 Kelly, Allan — (Examiner.) 
 
 Kerr, Orphus C. 
 
 King, Fay — (Examiner.) 
 
 Kip, Leonard. 
 
 Kirby, Georgiana Bruce. 
 
 Knight, "Ned"— (Old-time writer.) 
 
 Krebs, Mrs. Abbie. 
 
 Lake, Annie — (See Townsend.) 
 
 Lake, Helen — (The Argonaut.) 
 
 Laurie, Annie — (See Bonfils.) 
 
 Lasswell, William — (The Grizzly Bear.) 
 
 Lathrop, John— (S. F. Call.) 
 
 Lawrence, Andrew — (Examiner.) 
 
 Leake, W. S.— (Call.) 
 
 Levy, Louis. 
 
 Lewis, Mrs. Eugene C. (Grange). 
 
 Littleton, Lulu — (Golden Era, San Franciscan.) 
 
 Loose, M. — (Wasp, Music and Drama.) 
 
 Ludlow, Fitzhugh . 
 
 McCall, Elizabeth (Clarke)— (Town Talk, Sacramento and Dunsmuir 
 
 papers.) 
 McComas, Alice Moore. 
 McGeehan, Sophie Treadwell — (Bulletin.) 
 McGeehan, W. O.— (Chronicle.) 
 McGovern, Chauncey — (Special correspondent.) 
 McNaught, John— (Call.) 
 McQuillan, James. 
 
 Mackay, Robert Gray — (Chronicle. Wasp; now in New York.) 
 Manning, Horatio Seymour. 
 Marshall, Margaret Mooers. 
 
406 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Martin, Josephine. 
 
 Masters, Stuart G. 
 
 Meagher, Maude. 
 
 Melone, Locke. 
 
 Meloney, William Brown — (Bulletin; see Authors.) 
 
 Michelson, Albert. 
 
 Michelson, Charles — (Examiner.) 
 
 Miller, Mary Ashe — (Call.) 
 
 Milne, Robert Duncan — (Argonaut, etc.) 
 
 Moore, Asro J. — (Call.) 
 
 Moran, Edward F. — (Chronicle.) 
 
 Murphy, Ed. — (Chronicle.) 
 
 Murphy, Al — (Chronicle.) 
 
 Myrtle, Frederick C— (Call.) 
 
 Naughton, William. 
 Noble, Frank L. H. — (Hearst papers.) 
 North-Whitcomb, Emmeline — (Chronicle, Call.) 
 Nunan, Thomas — (Examiner) 
 
 O'Day, Edward F.— (Town Talk.) 
 Oraquill — (See Bornemann.) 
 
 Paide, E. G. (Dow Jr.) 
 
 Parkhurst, Emelie Tracy Y. Swett — (Founder Woman's Press Ass'n.) 
 
 Parkhurst, Genevieve Yoell (Jean Yoell) — (Call.) 
 
 Petroff, Ivan — Also Historian of Alaska and California. 
 
 Peyton, M. G. 
 
 Phelps, Mrs. Janette (Hagar)— (Golden Era.) 
 
 Poehlmann, H. E. — (Grizzly Bear.) 
 
 Pollard, Percival. 
 
 Powers, Laura Bride — (Story of the Missions.) 
 
 Pratt, Anna — (See Simpson.) 
 
 Price, Arthur C. — (S. F. Examiner.) 
 
 Quimby, Harriet — (Later aviatrice.) 
 
 Radcliffe, Zoe. 
 
 Reamer, Sara E. — (Magazines.) 
 
 Rix, Alice — (Examiner; see Editors.) 
 
 Roberts, Jessie. 
 
 Robinson, Francis R. 
 
 Russell, Hortense Steinhart — (Bulletin.) 
 
 Stover, Edmund — (Associated Press.) 
 
 Saunders, Charles Francis. 
 
 Seabough, Samuel. 
 
 Scarlet, Will (pseud, of Brother Leo.) 
 
 Scott, Harvey W. — (Oregonian.) 
 
 Severance, Mrs. Caroline M. 
 
 Shiels (Elsie Bennett). 
 
 Simpson, Anna Pratt — (Chronicle.) 
 
 Simpson, Ernest — (See Editors.) 
 
 Spencer, Belle. 
 
 Steele, James King. 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 407 
 
 Stock, Ernest— (Call.) 
 
 Stover, L. Edmund — (Associated Press.) 
 
 Strong, Elizabeth (Young). 
 
 Strong, Ralph — (Los Angeles Capital.) 
 
 Sully, Harold L. 
 
 Sutherland, S. F.— (Daily Report.) 
 
 Topsy Turvy (Chamberlain Wright) — (Golden Era.) 
 
 Torrey, Bradford, 
 
 Townsend, Annie Lake — (Argonaut.) 
 
 Treadwell, Sophie (McGeehan)— (Bulletin.) 
 
 Trevathan, Charles. 
 
 Truman, Maj. Ben C. 
 
 Tufts, Edmund— Call, Chronicle.) 
 
 Van Loan, Charles E. — (Hearst papers; see Authors.) 
 
 Van Norden, Charles. 
 
 Van Smith, George— (Call.) 
 
 Veiller, Bayard — (See Dramatists.) 
 
 Veiller, Louise — (Call.) 
 
 Verdenal, Dominic F. — (For many years Chronicle N. Y. correspondent.) 
 
 Vivian, Thomas J. — (Chronicle; see Novelists.) 
 
 Wagner, Madge Morris — (Golden Era.) 
 
 Wakeman, Edgar. 
 
 Warren, Col. J. L. S. F.— (California Farmer.) 
 
 Waters, Kate — (News Letter.) 
 
 Weick, Louise — (Examiner.) 
 
 Weigle, Gilbert — (Examiner.) 
 
 Weymouth, William J. — (Call, News Letter, Argonaut.) 
 
 Whitcomb, Emmeline North — (Chronicle. Call.) 
 
 White, Lucy (Schiller)— (Bulletin.) 
 
 White, N. E. 
 
 Wilde, Annie— (Chronicle, Call-Post.) 
 
 Wilkins, James H.— (Bulletin.) 
 
 Williams, T. T— (Examiner and Hearst papers.) 
 
 Williamson, David E. W. — (Examiner, Daily Report, now managing 
 
 editor Reno Gazette.) 
 Williamson, Sarah M.— Town Talk, Call, Wasp.) 
 Willis, William — (Sacramento.) 
 Wilson, H. L. 
 
 Winchell, Anna Cora — (Chronicle.) 
 Wood, Fremont. 
 
 Woodson, J. A. — (Veteran journalist, Sacramento Union.) 
 Wright, Ben C— (Bulletin.) 
 
 Wright, William (Dan de Quille) — (The Enterprise.) 
 Wishear, John H.— (Call-Post: see Authors.) 
 Wollenberg, E. (Mrs. Orlow Black). 
 
 Yale, Charles G. 
 
 Yelverton, T. 
 
 Yorker, Eva — (See Authors.) 
 
 Yoell, Alice— (Wasp.) 
 
 Young, Waldemar — CSee Playrights.) 
 
 Young, Waldemar — ("See Strong.) 
 
408 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Zeelandaer, A. 
 
 Zeigenfuss, G. C. — Chronicle, San Diego Bee, etc.) 
 
 WAR CORRESPONDENTS 
 
 Archibald, James F. C. — (Spanish-American War. 
 
 Barry, Richard Hayes — (Spanish-American War; see Authors.) 
 
 Clough, E. H. — (Spanish-American War; see Authors.) 
 
 Egan, Martin — (Spanish-American War; see Authors.) 
 
 Hopper, James— (World's War, 1917-1918.) 
 
 Irwin, Will— ("Ace" in World's War, 1917-1918.) 
 
 London, Jack — (Spanish-American War; see Authors.) 
 
 Timmons, Joseph — (World's War.) 
 
 Wallace, Grant — (Spanish-American War.) 
 
 PLAYWRIGHTS, OPERA-LIBRETTISTS, ETC. 
 
 Baker, Colgate; Bascombe, Lee (see Marston) ; Barnes, W. H. L., "Solid 
 Silver"; Bashford, Herbert, "A Light- in the Dark," "The 
 Woman He Married"; Belasco, David, "Mayblossom," "The 
 Girl I Left Behind Me," "Du Barry," etc.; Bien, Herman, "Samson 
 and Delilah," 1860; Blinn, Holbrook, playlets; Bonner, Geraldine 
 (with Elmer Harris), "Sham"; Bonnet, Theodore, "A Friend of the 
 People"; Brusie, Judson C; Bryant, Charles Francis; Carpenter, 
 L. Grant (see Writers) ; Clements, Clay M., "Just Woman" ; Cole- 
 man, Lotta Day; Cosgrave, Patricia; Dam, Henry J. W.; Elkins, 
 Felton; Fernald, Chester Bailey, "The Cat and the Cherub"; Field, 
 Edward Salisbury, "Child Harold"; Greene, Clay M., "Chispa, etc.; 
 Grismer, Joseph R., "The New South," etc.; Harris, Elmer (with 
 Geraldine Bonner), "Sham," etc.; Harrison, William Greer, "Run- 
 nymeade," "The O'Neill," etc.; Harte, Bret, "Sue," "M'liss,", etc.; 
 Irwin, Grace Luce, "Drawing Room Plays;" Kenyon, Charles, 
 "Kindling;" Krutchkey, Emil (William Nigh), Scenarios, New 
 York; McGroarty, John, Mission plays at Santa Clara College; 
 Marston, Mrs. Ada Swazey (Lee Bascom); Meloney, Wiliam 
 Brown; Merle, Martin V., "The Mission Play," etc.; Mighels, Ella 
 Sterling, "The Streets of Old San Francisco;" Mizner, Wilson, 
 "The Deep Purple;" Morosco, Oliver; Morse, Salmi, "The Passion 
 Play;" Morton, Howard, Playlets; Newberry, Bertha, and Newberry, 
 Perry, Carmel Outdoor Plays; Nunes, J. A., 1858; Pacheco, Mrs. R., 
 "Incog," etc.; Pettus, Maude, Scenarios, Fresno; Powers, Francis, 
 "The First Born," etc.; Samuels, Maurice V., "The Florentines," 
 "The Wanderer" (see Poets); Sinclair, Upton; Smith, Margaret 
 Cameron; Smith, Rev. Paul, "The Finger of Justice;" Steele, Rufus, 
 Scenarios; Taylor, Howard P., "Snowflake," etc. ; Thompson, Char- 
 lotte, Plays and Dramatization of Novels; Tully, Eleanor Gates, 
 "The Poor Little Rich Girl;" Tully, Richard Walton, "Rose of the 
 Rancho," "The Bird of Paradise," etc.; Ulrich, Charles; Unger, 
 Gladys, "Incompetent George," "Sheridan," etc.; Veiller, Bayard, 
 'Within the Law," etc.; Verdenal, Mrs. D. F. (Shannon), "The 
 Laughing Girls;" Welcker, Adair, of Sacramento, dramas, 1885; 
 White, Richard C, "She," for the old Tivoli, and other plays; 
 Wilbur, Crane, "Common Cause;" Winchell, Lilbourne C., Pageant 
 Play; Young, Waldemar. 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 409 
 
 LIST OF GROVE PLAYS OF BOHEMIAN CLUB, WITH THEIR 
 AUTHORS AND COMPOSERS 
 
 1902— "The Man in the Forest," by Charles K. Field; Music byjoseph 
 D. Redding. (This play was not previously printed, and all manu- 
 script copies were destroyed in the disaster of 1906.) 1903 — "Monte- 
 zuma," by Louis A. Robertson; Music by Humphrey J. Stewart. 
 1904— "The Hamadryads, by Will Irwin; Music by W. J. McCoy; 
 1905 — "The Quest of the Gorgon," by Newton Tharp; Music by 
 Theodor Vogt. 1906— "The Owl and Care," by Charles K. Field; 
 Music by Humphrey J. Stewart. 1907 — "The Triumph of Bo- 
 hemia," by George Sterling; Music by Edward F. Schneider. 1908 — 
 "The Sons of Baldur," by Herman Scheffauer; Music by Arthur 
 Weiss. 1909 — "St. Patrick at Tara," by H. Morse Stephens; Music 
 by Wallace A. Sabin. 1910— "The Cave Man," by Charles K. Field; 
 Music by W. J. McCoy. 1911— "The Green Knight," by Porter 
 Garnett; Music by Edward G. Stridden. 1912— "The Atonement of 
 Pan," by Joseph D. Redding; Music by Henry Hadley. 1913 — 
 "The Fall of Ug," by Rufus Steele; Music by Herman Perlet. 
 1914 — "Xec-Natama," by J. Wilson Shiels; Music by Uda Waldrop. 
 1915— "Apollo," by Frank Pixley; Music by Edward F. Schneider. 
 1916— "Gold," by Frederick S. Myrtle; Music by Humphrey J. 
 Stewart. 1917 — "The Land of Happiness," by Charles Templeton 
 Crocker; Music by Joseph D. Redding. 1918— "The Twilight of the 
 Kings," by Richard M. Hotaling; Music by Wallace A. Sabin. 
 
 OPERA LIBRETTISTS, BALLAD WRITERS, OPERETTA 
 LIBRETTISTS, ETC. 
 
 Baldwin, Anita (McClaughrey) ; Barton, Willard T., "Razzle Dazzle 
 Trio," "The Wild Man of Borneo," etc.; Bond, Carrie Jacobs, "A 
 Perfect Day," etc.; Booth, Sam; Brugiere, Emil; Carr, Sarah Pratt, 
 "Narcissa;" Carrington, Otis; Crawford, Dorothy; Crowley, Alma A.; 
 Darling, Major J. F. (August Mignon); De Leon, Walter; De Long, 
 George; Douglas, Mrs. Jesse (see Roma); Edwards, Ariadne 
 Holmes, Placerville, New York, Philadelphia: France, Leila (Mrs. 
 McDermott) ; Frankenstein, A. F., "I Love You California." song 
 made famous by Mary Garden; Hadley, Henry; Howard, Shafter; 
 Irwin, Wallace; Jones, Abbie Gerrish (Genung), Songs, Lyrics; 
 Massett, Stephen, Pipes; McCurrie, Charles, Songs for Children: 
 Melvin, Judge Henry; Mighels, Ella Sterling, Ballad "California," 
 both Words and Music (sung by the Charlie Reed Minstrels, 1884) : 
 Moore, Mary Carr (Mignon, August), (see Darling); Morgan, Dr. 
 Geo. F. G.; O'Connell, Dan; O'Sullivan, Elizabeth Curtis; Pasmore, 
 Henry B.; Reed, Charlie (Minstrel) ; Redding, Jos. D. (first native to 
 have a grand opera produced by a metropolitan company of artists), 
 "Natoma;" Robertson, Peter, "His Majesty;" Roma, Caro (Northey- 
 Douglas), "Violets," "My Heart Loves You Too," etc.; Rosewald, 
 J. H.; Shiels, J.Wilson; Stewart, Humphrey J., "Yosemite Legends;" 
 Talbot, Ethel (Scheffauer); Trevathan, Charles "The New Bully," 
 a popular song; Travis, Mrs. W. E. (see Zenda) ; Troyer, Carlos, 
 Indian Songs; Walling, John C. : Weil, Oscar; White, R. C; Wil- 
 son, John Cm Work, Henry Clay, "Marching Through Georgia." 
 also "Crossing the Grand Sierras," in 1870; Zenda, Lawrence (see 
 Travis). 
 
410 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 WRITERS OF SHORT STORIES IN MAGAZINES, ETC. 
 Anderson, Olive, Santa Louise, Sacramento, 1866; Addis, Yda, Argo- 
 naut (see Storke); Bailey, Grace (John Roberts); Beatty, Bessie, 
 The Century, etc.; Bigler, Mabel Rice, Overland; Black, Orlow; 
 Borden, Sheldon, Argonaut, Wasp (San Francisco); Briggs, W. 
 Kimball; Bull, Mrs. Jerome Case (Kathryn Jarboe); Cameron, 
 Margaret (Smith), The Dolliver Stories; Carpenter, L. Grant; Car- 
 rington, Carroll; Chappel, Eva; Chard, Cecil (Julie Heynemann), 
 (see Authors), Harper's, Smart Set, London Magazines; Comstock, 
 Sarah (see Authors), Colliers, etc.; Connell, Mary Irene, Town 
 Talk, etc. ; Cummins-Mighels, Ella Sterling, San Franciscan, Ar- 
 gonaut, Golden Era; Deering, Mabel Clare Craft, Chronicle, Good 
 Housekeeping, Atlantic Monthly, etc.; Delano, A. (Old Block); 
 Dillon, Henry Clay; Dobie, Charles Caldwell; Donavan, Ellen; 
 Dryden, Charles, Saturday Evening Post, etc; Embree, Charles 
 Fleming, Sunset, Saturday Evening Post, etc.; Fremont, Jessie 
 Benton; Fulloni, Mrs. G. (Marta McKim); Gardner, Sophie Skid- 
 more; Gray, Eunice T; Heron, Herbert (Carmel group of writers); 
 Heynemann, Julie (Cecil Chard); Heynemann, Otto H. (Ogden 
 Lees); Hopper, James, Hearst Magazine, Saturday Evening Post; 
 Irwin, Wallace, Saturday Evening Post; Irwin, Will; Jarboe, 
 Kathryn (see Bull), Munsey; Jones, Nina; Kyne, Peter B., Saturday 
 Evening Post, Red Book, Sunset, etc.; Lake, Helen, San Francisco 
 Argonaut; Lindley, Leila; Lockyer, J. Norman, Sunset; Ludlum, 
 Evelyn, Sunset; Loughhead, Flora Haines (Guitterez); McDowell, 
 Henry B. (see Editors); McGeehan, W. O., Chronicle, San Fran- 
 cisco Town Talk, etc.; Meloney, William Brown, Saturday Evening 
 Post, Munsey, etc.; Michelson, Charles, Hearst papers; Michelson, 
 Miriam, Magazines; Mighels (see Cummins), San Franciscan, 
 Golden Era, etc.; Mighels, Philip Verrill, Harper's, Munsey, etc.; 
 Miller, Florence Hardiman, Magazines; Moore, Dorothea Lummis; 
 Morrow, W. C, Argonaut, Magazine and in Book Collection; 
 Munson, Edward (Railway Stories) ; Murphy, Anna C; McKim 
 (see Fulloni); McNab, Leavenworth, San Francisco Town Talk, 
 etc.;Neidig, W. J., Saturday Evening Post; Norris, Kathryn Thomp- 
 son, Good Housekeeping, Saturday Evening Post, etc; Old Block 
 (see Delano); Patton, Martha Tustin; Pettus, Maude, Fresno, 
 Magazines; Porter, Rebecca A. N., Berkeley; Reed, Ethelyn 
 Reese, Lowell Otis (also Poet), Saturday Evening Post, etc.; 
 Roberts, John (see Bailey), San Francisco Town Talk, New York 
 Magazines; Savage, Lyttelton; Sexton, Ella M., Magazines (see 
 Poets); Shinn, Charles H., Oakland Times, Magazines, etc.; Shinn, 
 Millicent, Magazines; Steele, Rufus, Sunset, Saturday Evening Post, 
 etc.; Stellman, Louis J., Magazines; Stocker, Ruth, Munsey, etc.; 
 Storke, Yda Addis (see Addis); Taaffe, William, San Francisco 
 Town Talk, etc.; Tompkins, Elizabeth Knight, Magazines; Tomp- 
 kins, Juliet Wilbor, Everybody's, etc.; Tully, Richard Walton; 
 Turner, Ethel; Van Loan, Charles Emmett, Saturday Evening 
 Post, Papers, etc.; Vore, Elizabeth; Wagner, Harr, Golden Era; 
 Wagner, Madge Morris; Watson, Douglas S., Redwood City, Maga-' 
 zines; White, Laura Lyon (Mrs. Lovell White), Overland Monthly; 
 Williams, Michael, Magazines, Novel; Williamson, Sarah M. (Anne 
 Thurber), San Francisco Town Talk and Daily Papers, St. Louis 
 Mirror, Boston Courier, etc.; Willis, George Emerson (Mining 
 Camp Tales); Wilson, John Fleming, Saturday Evening Post, Sun- 
 set, etc; Wood, Fremont, Magazines. 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 411 
 
 CRITICS AND REVIEWERS 
 
 Anthony, Walter (Drama and Music), San Francisco Call; Austin, Mary 
 Therese (Betsy B.), San Francisco Argonaut; Barnes, George 
 (Drama and Music), San Francisco Call; Bauer, Emelie Frances 
 (Music), New York Musical Courier; Bunker, Mrs. William M. 
 (Drama), San Francisco Report; Chretien, Adele Brooks (Drama 
 and Music), San Francisco Examiner; Bunner, Marion (Music), 
 "Chic;" Buckbee, Edna Bryan (Books), San Francisco Bulletin; 
 Connell, Sarah (Books), San Francisco Town Talk; Conners, 
 Mollie E. (Books), Oakland Tribune; Cool, Una (Mrs. Russell), 
 (Books), San Francisco Call; Densmore, Gilbert B., (Drama and 
 Music), San Francisco Bulletin; Donovan, Ellen Dwyer (Art); 
 Fitch, George Hamlin (Books), Chronicle (see Authors); Francis, 
 Mary F. (Music), San Francisco Town Talk; Jones, Abbie Gerrish 
 (Music), San Francisco Town Talk; Martin, Lesley (Music), San 
 Francisco Wave; Mason, Redfern (Music), San Francisco Exam- 
 iner; Metzger, Albert (Music); Nunan, Thomas (also Poet), San 
 Francisco Examiner: Partington, Blanche (Music and Drama, San 
 Francisco Call; Phelps, Josephine Hart (Music and Drama), San 
 Francisco Argonaut ; Rix, Alice, San Francisco Examiner and 
 Chic; Robertson, Peter (Music and Drama), (see Authors), San 
 Francisco Chronicle; Spencer, Henry McDonald (Drama), San 
 Francisco News Letter; Stephens, Anna Cox (Books), San Fran- 
 cisco Town Talk; Stevens, Ashton (Music and Drama), Hearst Pa- 
 pers; Stewart, H. J., San Francisco Examiner; Stewart, Dr. H. J.; 
 Syle, L. Du Pont (Music and Drama), San Francisco Examiner 
 Music; Taubles, Maximilian, San Francisco Argonaut; Wilder, 
 David (Music and Drama), San Francisco Report and News Letter; 
 Winchell, Anna Cora (Art-Music), San Francisco Chronicle. 
 
 ORATORS, DIVINES AND SPEAKERS CONNECTED WITH 
 LAW, POLITICS OR SOCIAL MATTERS 
 
 Aked, Rev. Charles (Congregationalist) ; Alemany, Rev. Father Joseph 
 Sadoc (Archbishop); Barnes, General W. H. L., "Addresses;" 
 Barnes, W. H. (son of above); Barrett, J. J.; Blinn, Nellie Hol- 
 brook; Boalt, Judge John H.; Booth, Hon. Newton (Governor of 
 California) ; Bromley, George Tisdale (see Authors) ; Brown, Rev. 
 C. O. (Congregationalist); Buckbee, Rev. Charles Alva (also Ed- 
 itor) ; Burdette, Rev. Robert (also noted humorist and writer) ; 
 Burlingame, Rev. George C. (Baptist); Caminetti, Hon. A. (Polit- 
 ical); Clampett, Rev. (Episcopalian); Cummins, Adley H. (see Es- 
 sayist); Curtin, J. B. (Sonora); Davis, Judge J. F. (see Authors); 
 Delmas, Delphin Michel, Speeches" (A. M. Robertson, Pub.) : Deu- 
 prey, Eugene; Dille, Rev. Dr. (Methodist); Dooling, Judge M. T.; 
 Doyle, John T.; Dwinel, Rev. Israel (early divine of Sacramento): 
 Edgerton, Henry; Fairbrother, Mary; Field, Judge S. J.; Fitch, 
 Thomas (the "silver-tongued orator" of early days) ; Foltz, Clara 
 Shortridge; Foote, William W.; Fowler, Bishop (Methodist); 
 Frank, Ray; Fry, Rev. John A. B. (Berkeley): Gillett, James Mor- 
 ris (ex-Governor) ; Gordon, Laura de Force; Gorham, Senator 
 George C; Graham, Judge Thomas; Guard, Reverend Thomas; 
 Gwin, William M.; Hager, Senator John S.; Hemphill, Rever- 
 end John (Presbyterian; Heney, Francis; Henry, Rev. J. Q. A. 
 (Baptist); Hartranft, W. G. (Literary and Educational Topics); 
 
412 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Highton, Henry E.; Kahn, Hon. Julius (Congressman); Kalloch, 
 Rev. Dr. Isaac (Baptist); Kearney, Dennis; King, Rev. Thomas 
 Starr (Unitarian); Kip, Right Rev. Bishop W. I. (Episcopalian); 
 Knight, George A.; Knowland, Hon. Joseph; Lane, Hon. Franklin 
 K. (President Wilson's cabinet, 1918); Latham, Milton (Senator); 
 Leavitt, Rev. Bradford (Unitarian); Levy, Rev. M. S. (also Editor); 
 Low, J. F. (Governor of California); McEnerney, Garret W.; Me- 
 lone, Drury; Meyer, Rev. Martin (Temple Emanu-El; Montgom- 
 ery, Rev. Father (Paulist Church); Morrow, Judge W. W.; Mur- 
 dock, Charles A. (also Editor); McAllister, Hall (Statue in Civic 
 Center); McKenzie, Rev. Dr. Robert (Presbyterian); Nichols, Rev. 
 William Ford (Bishop, Episcopalian); Peixotto, Jassica (see Edu- 
 cators); Phelan, James Duval (U. S. Senator); Pickett, C. E.; Piatt, 
 Rev. Dr. (sermons published), (Episcopalian); Piatt, Horace G 
 (son of above), "Speeches" (A. M. Robertson, Pub.); Prendergast, 
 Rev. Father; Rader, Rev. William (Congregationalist-Presbyterian); 
 Ramm, Rev. Father; Redding, Benjamin Barnard (Secretary of 
 State of California); Reddy, Patrick; Rowell, Hon. Chester; Sar- 
 gent, A. A. (U. S. Senator); Sawtelle, Rev. H. A. (Presbyterian); 
 Scott, Irving M. (builder of warships, scholar and statesman); 
 Scott, Rev. Dr. (Presbyterian); Serra, Fra Junipero; Shortridge, 
 Samuel M.; Stanford, Leland (U. S. Senator); Stebbins, Rev. Ho- 
 ratio (Unitarian); Stevens, Emily Pitt; Stone, Rev. Dr. W. W. 
 (Congregationalist); Sumner, Charles A.; Swift, John F.; Terry, 
 Judge; Voorsanger, Rabbi Jacob (Temple Emanu-El); Wagner, 
 Harr, 'Uncle Sam, Jr."; Wendte, Rev. C. W. (Unitarian) ; Wheeler, 
 Rev. Osgood C; White, Hon. Stephen M. (orator and statesman, 
 first Native Son to represent California in the U. S. Senate and 
 first one to have statue-monument erected to his memory); Wilson, 
 J. Stitt (Berkeley) (Political); Yorke, Rev. Father P. C. 
 
 EDITORS, PUBLISHERS AND OWNERS OF NEWSPAPERS 
 AND MAGAZINES 
 
 Adams, Walter (Golden Era); Aiken, Charles S. (Sunset); Anthony, 
 James (Sacramento Union); Avery, Benjamin P. (Overland, and 
 poet); Backus, Gen.' Samuel W. (Alta) ; Bamber, Jas. J.; Barry, 
 J. H. (The Star) ; Bausman, Wm. (Sacramento Union, also poet) ; 
 Beringer, Pierre (Overland, also short stories); Black, Orlow, 
 Overland and News Letter); Bonnet, Theodore F. (Town Talk, 
 The Lantern), (see Authors) ; Brannan, Samuel (first owner of old 
 San Francisco Star) ; Bryan, William Vose (The Traveller) ; Bull, 
 Jerome Case (Munsey); Bunker, William M. (Daily Report); Cal- 
 kins, Willard (syndicate and chain of papers) ; Carleton, S. B. 
 (founder of the West End, later Town Talk, also The Sentinel, 
 fraternal organ; Carmany, John H. (Overland); Coffin, Lillian 
 Harris; Coleman, James V. (see Poets) ; Cosgrave, J. O'H. (The 
 Wave); Craig, Mary Lynde Hoffman; Daggett, John; Dargie, 
 Thomas and William (Oakland Tribune) ; Davis, Robert H. C. (S. 
 F. "Chic" and Munsey); Davis, S. P. (Carson Appeal); Davoust, 
 Martial (Wasp); Day, Mrs. F. H. (The Hesperian); De Jarnette, 
 De Young, Charles the Elder; De Young, Charles the Young- 
 er); De Young, Michael Henry; Dosch, Arno (Pacific Monthly); 
 Dutton, Arthur H.; Eastman, Francis; Emerson, Edwin; Farrell, 
 Charles H. (Dramatic Review) ; Fee, Harry T. (Stockton) ; Fen- 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 413 
 
 ton (Los Angeles Graphic); Ferguson, Lillian (Plunkett), (Sun- 
 set); Field, Charles K. (Sunset); Fitch, George K. (Bulletin); 
 Flynn, Thomas E. (Wasp and Chronicle); Foard, J. Macdonough 
 (Golden Era) ; Francoeur, Jeanne (Everywoman) ; Gates, Harry 
 (Music and Drama); Goodman, Joseph T. (Virginia Enterprise and 
 The San Franciscan); Goodwin, Judge C. C. (Goodwin's Weekly); 
 Greathouse, Clarence (Alta); Greene, Charles H. (Overland); Har- 
 ker, Chas. H. (San Jose); Harrison, William Pitt (San Franciscan); 
 Hart, Jerome A. (Argonaut) (see Authors) ; Hearst, George (Ex- 
 aminer, U. S. Senator); Hearst, William Randolph (Examiner and 
 Call - Post) ; Hiester, Amos C. (Daily Report) ; Higgins, D. W. 
 (founder Morning Call; Holder, Chas. Frederick (The Calif ornian) 
 (see Authors); Holman, Alfred (Argonaut); Hume, Hugh (S. F. 
 Wave and Post and Portland Spectator); Hunt, Clarence Rockwell 
 (Grizzly Bear, Los Angeles); Irvine, Leigh; Jackson, Colonel John 
 P. (Post); Jackson, J. Ross; Jacoby, Philo (The Hebrew, est. in 
 1863; January, William A. (early writer; in 1856 founded Santa 
 Clara Argus) ; Kemble, E. C. (early Star, which absorbed early Cal- 
 ifornian, 1848); King, James, of William (Bulletin); Lafler, Henry 
 M.; Leake, W. S. (Call); Lipscomb, A. D. (associated with S. B. 
 Carleton in the old West End); Lombard, Charles (Dramatic Re- 
 view); Marriott, Frederick I. (News Letter, also London Graphic); 
 Marriott, Frederick II (S. F. News Letter and Overland Monthly); 
 Mason, Dr. B. F. (San Leandro) ; McClatchy, Charles H.; Mc- 
 Clatchy, James (founder of Sacramento Bee) ; McClatchy, Valen- 
 tine S. (Sacramento Bee); McDonald, Calvin (The American Flag); 
 McDowell, Harry (Ingleside); McEwen, Arthur (The San Fran- 
 ciscan, also "The Open Letter"); McClashan, Charles F. (Truckee 
 Republican) ; MacPherson, Duncan (Santa Cruz Sentinel) ; Mer- 
 gotten, Alex. (Pioneer Magazine, San Jose); Metzger, Alfred (P. 
 C. Musical Review); Mighels, Harry Rust (Carson Appeal); Mof- 
 fitt, Frank J. (Oakland Times); Montgomery, Zach (Sacramento 
 paper) (see Authors) ; Moody, Herbert Gardenhire (Redding Search- 
 light); Morrill, Paul (Sacramento Union) ; Morse, Dr. John (editor 
 Sacramento Union) ; Nankivell, Frank (Chic) ; Newmark, Nathan 
 (also author of technical books); Nugent, John (early S. F. 
 Herald); O'Day, Edward F. (Town Talk, associate); Oakes, Mrs. 
 George (Hayward Journal); Off, Louise A. (New Californian) ; 
 Older, Fremont; O'Leary, Alice Rix (Chic); Otis, Harrison Gray 
 (Los Angeles Times); Phelps, Charles Henry (Overland); Pick- 
 ering, Loring (Bulletin); Powers, Aaron; Powers, Laura Bride; 
 Reed, Anna Morrison (The Northern Crown); Robert, Dent (Ex- 
 aminer); Rowell, Hon. Chester (Fresno Republican); Seabough, 
 Samuel; Shortridge, Charles (San Jose); Simpson, Ernest (Morn- 
 ing Call); Smith, Charles S. (Town Talk and California Woman's 
 Journal); Somers, Fred M. (Argonaut, later Current Literature); 
 Spreckels, Jno. D. (Call) ; Stetson, Charlotte Perkins (Gilman) ; Taber, 
 Louise; Thompson, J. L. (Santa Rosa, later U. S. Minister to Bra- 
 zil) ; Thrumm, Horace (Music and Drama); Turnbull, Walter 
 Alta, California); Tyler, Martha Trent; Wagner, Harr (Golden 
 Era and Western Journal of Education); Wasson, Joseph (early 
 newspapers, "Father of the Mineral and Mining Bureau"); Was- 
 son, William D. (Daily News, S. F.) ; Watkins (Snicktaw, Golden 
 Era); Watson, Henry Clay (Sacramento Union); Wildman, Rounse- 
 ville (Overland Monthly); Williamson, Sarah M. (California Worn- 
 
414 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 an's Journal); Willis, E. P. (Sacramento Union); Wiltermood, 
 John (Oakland Times); Winans, Joseph W. (Sacramento Union); 
 Wright, Washington (early-day editor); Woodson, J. A. (Sacra- 
 mento Union); Young, John P. (see Authors). 
 
 EXPLORERS, ARCHAEOLOGISTS, SCIENTISTS, WRITERS OF 
 ESSAYS AND BELLES LETTERS 
 
 Abrams, Dr. Albert, "The Blues," and other medical essays; Adams, 
 Harriet Chalmers (explorer) ; Anderson, Dr. Jerome (theosophy) ; 
 Armes, Prof. William Dallam; Ayer, Dr. Washington (medical es- 
 says, 1881-'85); Barnard, Professor Charles (astronomer); Behr, 
 Dr. H. H. (scientist) (see Authors); Bingham, Helen (archaeol- 
 ogy) ; Blakeslee, S. V., "Archeology, or the Science of Govern- 
 ment" (New York and San Francisco, 1876) ; Browne, J. Rose (early 
 writer and humorist); Bowers, Mrs. (Dr.) J. Milton, "The Dance 
 of Life, an Answer to the Dance of Death (San Francisco, 1877); 
 Burbank, Luther; Clatke, Sarah V., "Teachings of the Ages"; 
 Cook, Prof. A. S., "Science and Literature" 1880-'88; Cowell, Harry 
 (essays) ; Davidson, Prof. George (astronomer) ; Davis, Stanton 
 Kirkham, "Where Dwells the Soul Serene" (Elder, 1900), etc.; 
 Del Mar, Alexander (monographs) ; Garnett, Porter (essayist, poet 
 and belles letters; George Henry (sociologist) ; George, Henry, 
 Jr.; Gihon, Dr. John H. (scientist); Graham, Margaret Collier (es- 
 says); Gregory, Mrs. Jackson (Zimena McGlashan) (works on 
 Indians and Butterflies) ; Griswold, Dr. W. M., "Wealth and Pov- 
 erty of Nations," 1887; Haggin, Mrs. Louis T., "Le Livre d'Amour" 
 New York, 1887; Hallner, Rev. A., "Uncle Sam, the Teacher and 
 Administrator of the World" (Sacramento, 1918); Harrison, Wil- 
 liam Greer, "Making a Man" (see Playwrights); Harte, Mrs. Mary 
 (explorer); Haskell, Mrs. D. H. (belles letters); Hill, Charles Bar- 
 ton (scientist); Holden, Professor E. S. (astronomer); Hosmer, 
 H. L., "Bacon and Shakespeare in the Sonnets (S. F., 1887); How- 
 ison, Prof. G. H. (lectures, 1888); Jordan, David Starr (president 
 Stanford, and essayist and ledturer, also an authority on fish); 
 Josselyn, Charles, "A Life of Napoleon" and compilation of quota- 
 tions); Keep, Josiah (first native son to achieve West Coast shells) 
 (Harr Wagner Pub. Co.) ; Kinney, Abbott; Klink, Jean (sociol- 
 ogy); Klumpke, Dorothea (astronomer); Lemmon, J. G. (botanical 
 and scientific themes); Lewis, Austin (lecturer); Lloyd, S. H., 
 "Glimpses of Spirit Land"; Lubin, David (sociology); Lynch, Jere- 
 miah (travels) ; McAdie, Alexander, "Atmospheric Conditions" (A. 
 M. Robertson, S. F.); McGuire, J. G., "Ireland and the Pope" (S. 
 F., 1888); MacLafferty, James Henry (essays) (Elder, Pub.); Muir, 
 John (see Authors); Mulford, Prentice (White Cross Library); 
 Murphy, Dr. R. W., "The Key to the Secret Vault"; Nordoff, Chas. f 
 "God and the Future Life" (besides historical and geographical books 
 of California); Nuttall, Mrs. J. R. K. (archaeologist); O'Halloran, 
 Rose (astronomer) ; Partsch, Herman, M. D., "Messages to Moth- 
 ers" (Elder, Pub.); Peixotto, Ernest B., "By Italian Seas" (Scrib- 
 ner, 1908); Royce, Josiah (essays); Rulofson, W. H., "The Dance 
 of Death"; Rutherford, W. R. (essays) (A. M. Robertson); Saw- 
 yer, H. C, M.D., "Nerve Waste" (S. F., 1889); Shaw, Albert, 
 P. L. D. (ed. Review of Reviews), "The Business Career" (Elder, 
 S. F.); Shurtleff, Dr. A. (medical papers, 1872); Stanton, Mrs. 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 415 
 
 Mary O. (physiognomy); Starrett, D. W., Mental Therapeutics," 34 
 volumes (Sherman, French & Co... Boston, 1915); Steffens, Lincoln 
 (sociology) ; Stephens, Henry Morse (lecturer, authority on French 
 literature, etc., author of the earthquake compilation); Stillman, 
 Dr. J. W. B.; Stow, Mrs. J. W., "Probate Chaff" (S. F., 1878); 
 Thrasher, Dr. Marion, "Long Life in California*"; Van der Naillen, 
 A., "On the Heights of the Himalayas'' (New York, 1890); Vecki, 
 Dr. V. (medical essays) ; Wash, Rev. Charles S. (president Pacific 
 Theological Seminary), "Our Widening Thought of God" (Elder); 
 Weinstock, Henry (sociology); Wheeler, Benj. Ide (lecturer, presi- 
 dent University of California); Williams, Cora L. (Berkeley, au- 
 thor of "Creative Evolution, "' "The Passing of Evolution/"' "Fourth 
 Dimensional Reaches of the Exposition"); Williams, Prof, of AL 
 (of Olympic Club), "How to Outthink Your Opponent"; William- 
 son, Mrs. Burton (conchology) ; Winslow, C. F., "Preparation of 
 the Earth"; Yates, L. G. (naturalist, 1876-'87.) 
 
 TRANSLATORS 
 
 Archer, Ruby (see Poets); Bentz, Mrs. F. X. (Beatrice Hastings) (Town 
 Talk and Wasp); Brun, Samuel Jacques (see Authors); Bunner, 
 Elizabeth; Dawson, Emma Frances (see Poets and Authors) ; Hast- 
 ings, Beatrice (see Bentz) ; Meyers, Isidor (tr. The Talmud) ; 
 Murison, Elizabeth; Nye, W. F. (tr. F. Velasco, Sonora, 1861; 
 Pohli, Mrs. Emile (tr. Prof. Bernhardi, comedy by Arthur Schuit- 
 zler; Rehfisch, Mrs. Hettie Morse (Argonaut); Ryder, Arthur 
 (tr. Sanscrit); Sage, Mrs. (Daisy Cheney Gilmore) ; Tobin, Agnes 
 (Petrarch); Underwood, Edna Worthley; Wray, Leopold (tr Dr. 
 Dietrich). 
 
 LIST OF WELL-REMEMBERED SHORT STORIES BY CALI- 
 FORNIA WRITERS, MOSTLY OF THE OLDEN TIMES 
 
 "The Eventful Nights of the 21st and 22nd of August," in Pioneer Mag- 
 azne, by Ferdinand C. Ewer; "The Case of Summerfield" and the 
 "Telescopic Eye," by Caxton W. H. Rhodes; "Luck of Roaring 
 Camp" and "Mliss" and the "Apostle of the Tules," by Bret Harte; 
 "The Jumping Frog of Calaveras," by Mark Twain; "The Gentle- 
 man from Reno," by Xoah Brooks ; "Laughing Freda" in the Ingle- 
 side, "My Story" in Argonaut, by Flora Haines Loughhead; "Man 
 in the Frozen Block of Ice" and ether pseudo-scientific tales in Ar- 
 gonaut, by Robert Duncan Milne; "The Pocket Miner" in Argo- 
 naut, by Sam P. Davis: "Man from Georgia" and "A Case in Sur- 
 gery," by William C. Morrow, in Argonaut; "The Marquis of Agu- 
 ayo" and "The Story of a Kingdom" in the Ingleside, by Harry B. 
 McDowell: "A Memory of Adamsville" in Golden Era. by Madge 
 Morris; "Miss Golightly" and other tales in the Argonaut, by 
 Yda Addis; "The Ship on Dry Land," by Adelaide Holmes Baus- 
 man, in Argonaut; "Chumming with an Apache" and "The Brake- 
 Beam Rider" and "Lish of Alkali Flat," by Bailey Millard, in Ar- 
 gonaut; "Spanish Peak," by Charles Howard Shinn; "The Lass 
 that Loved a Sailor," by Charles Warren Stoddard; "Old Hard 
 Luck," by Edward Man son; "The Jack Pot," a story copied all 
 over the world, from the Argonaut, which tale Jerome A. Hart 
 calls a pearl among stories, consisting of one thousand words, 
 with a beginning, a middle and an end. and was written by Charles 
 
416 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 Dwight Willard;"A Dream" and other brief stories in the Sam 
 Franciscan, by Arthur McEwen; "Big Jack Small" and "Sand" in 
 Overland and "Quartz" in Short Stories by California Writers, by 
 James W. Gaily; "Why I Committed Suicide" and "Ivern" in Gol- 
 den Era, by Harr Wagner ; "The Portrait of a California Girl" in 
 Golden Era, and "Gentleman Joe" and "A Printer's Fantasy" in the 
 San Franciscan, also "The Christmas Ghost of San Francisco," pub- 
 lished in London in 1901, by Ella Sterling Mighels; "Pard's Epis- 
 tles" in Argonaut, by E. H. Clough; "Are the Dead Dead?" and 
 "The Itinerant House" in Argonaut, by Emma Frances Dawson; 
 "Moran of the Lady Letty," by Frank Norris; "Li Wan the Fair," 
 "The Sunlanders," "The God of His Fathers," and others from the 
 Children of the Frost" and "The Son of the Wolf," by Jack Lon- 
 don; "The Cat and the Cherub," by Chester Bailey Fernald; 
 "Young Strong of the Clarion" in Overland, by Millicent W. Shinn; 
 "The Watchman of the Brunswick Mill" and "The Motherhood of 
 Beechy Daw" in Harper's Magazine, by P. V. Mighels; "Narrer- 
 town" and "Miranda Higgins" in Golden Era, by William Atwell 
 Cheney; "Stories in Somers' Californian," by Warren Cheney are 
 worthy of preservation. Stories in "The Splendid Idle Forties" are 
 by Gertrude Atherton, characteristic of the Spanish era. 
 
 i 
 WELL -KNOWN AUTHORS, ETC., WHO HAVE BEEN RESI- 
 DENTS HERE ROR A TIME OR WHO OWN 
 HOMES IN CALIFORNIA 
 
 Adams, Walter E.; Basch, Bertha Runkle, "The Helmet of Navarre," 
 "The Truth About Tolna," etc.; Becke, Louis (short stories about 
 South Sea ports); Broadhurst, Florence (Mrs. John Marone) (ed- 
 itor) ; Browne, Charles (Artemus Ward) ; Burton, Richard F. 
 (famous orientalist); Bush, C. J.; Carleton, Henry Guy (play- 
 wright); Channing, Grace Ellery (novels); Chester, George Ran- 
 dolph, "Get Rich Quick Wallingford"; Cook, Grace McGowan 
 (novels), Carmel; Cox, Palmer, "The Brownies" (see Authors); 
 Crawford, Capt. J. W. (see Poets); Dana, Richard Henry, "Two 
 Years Before the Mast"; Davies, Hubert Henry (playwright); De 
 Mille, James (novelist and playwright); Drake, Samuel Adams; 
 Dromgoole, Will Allen (Los Angeles); Ellis, Edward S., "Toby 
 Tyler"; Fletcher, Horace ("Forty-bite" advocate) ; Foley, James 
 W. (poet); Gillmore, Inez Haynes (see Irwin); Gregory, Jackson 
 (Auburn); Griggs, Prof. Edward Howard; Gunter, Archie C, "Mr. 
 Barnes of New York," etc.; Habberton, John (see Authors); Har- 
 raden, Beatrice, "The Remittance Man" written here ; Harrison, 
 Mrs. Burton (Burlingame) ; Hearne, James A. (playwright); Her- 
 ford, Oliver (Cynic's Calendar); Irwin, Inez Haynes Gillmore, 
 "Phoebe and Ernest" stories, "The Californiacs" (Sunset, A. M. 
 Robertson, Pub.); Jackson, Charles Tenney, "The Day of Souls"; 
 Jackson, Helen Hunt (author of "Ramona," celebrated romance of 
 California); James, Professor William; Jephson, Mountenay A. 
 (distinguished traveler and scientist; Jepson, E.; Kirk, W. F.; 
 Lewis, Mrs. Eugene C. (Los Angeles); McGowan, Alice; 
 Mackie, Professor (see Authors); Mackie, Pauline Bradford (Hop- 
 kins (see Authors); Marone, Mrs. John (see Brooks); May, Flor- 
 ence Land; Melville, John (Player-Frowd); Merwin, Henry Childs; 
 Miller Olive Thorne (Los Angeles); Modjeska, Madame Helena 
 (Countess Bozenta) (see Autobiography); Montague, J. J.; Mor- 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 417 
 
 ris, Governeur, "The Seven Darlings," etc.; Munroe, Kirk; Mun- 
 ford, Eethel Watts, "Cynic's Calendar," Dupes," etc.; North, Ar- 
 thur Walbridge; Orchard, Harry, "Confession"; Player- Frowd, T. 
 G. (Melville); Rideout, Henry Milner, "Baldero," "The Siamese 
 Cat," "Key of the Fields," etc. (Sausalito); Rankin, McKee (play- 
 wright); Rogers, Anna C. (army novels) ; Russell, Edmund (com- 
 (piler; Ryan, Marah Ellis (Martin), "Told in the Hills," etc.; 
 Schliemann, Dr. (the Great); Shaw, Dr. Ames; Sienciewicz, Hen- 
 rik, "Quo Vadis" (written in Southern California); Sinclair, Upton, 
 "The Jungle" (also plays) ; Spearman (Whispering Smith) ; Sprague, 
 Ethel Chase; Stetson, Charlotte Perkins (Gilman); Stevenson, Rob- 
 ert Louis, "The Wrecker," "Silverado Squatters"; Tarkington, 
 Booth, "The Gentleman from Indiana" (Carmel); Taylor, Bayard, 
 "California" (poems); Taylor, Benjamin Franklin (wrote book on 
 California and Yosemite); Tyndall, Mclvor (psychologist); Um- 
 bitaater (Black Cat editor); Vachell, Horace Annesley, "Scraggs," 
 "Canyon Life," "Sport on the Pacific Slope," etc.; Ward, Arte- 
 mus (Browne); Warner, Charles Dudley (col. with Mark Twain 
 on novel); Warren, T. Robinson; Wheeler, Mrs. Post (Hallie Er- 
 mine Rives); White, Stewart Edward, "The Riverman," "The Silent 
 Places," "The Blazed Trail," etc. (Burlingame) ; Williamson, Mr. 
 and Mrs. C. N., "The Lightning Conductor," etc.; Wilson, Harry 
 Leon, "Ruggles of Red Gap," etc. (Carmel); Woodworth, Samuel, 
 "The Old Oaken Bucket"; Wright, Harold Bell, "Eyes of the 
 World," "Calling of Dan Matthews," "Barbara Worth," etc. (El 
 Centro); also Winston Churchill (Santa Barbara), "Inside of the 
 Cup," etc. 
 
 EDUCATORS, PROFESSORS, WRITERS OF TEXT-BOOKS, 
 WORKS ON DOMESTIC ECONOMY AND 
 INFORMATION GENERALLY 
 Alverson, Margaret Blake (book on Singing Methods); Armes, Profes- 
 sor William Dallam (U. of C.) ; Angier, Belle Sumner (see Burn); 
 Barron, George H. (curator of Golden Gate Park Museum to 1918); 
 Barry, Madame (Russell) (French lectures); Beatty, Bessie, "A 
 Political Primer for the New Voter" (Harr Wagner Pub. Co.); 
 Bennett, Sanford (a system for physical culture); Braunton, Er- 
 nest, "The Garden Beautiful in California" ; Brewer, Rev. Dr. St. 
 Matthews Hall (San Mateo); Brown, Frank J., "Practical Aids to 
 Literature"; Burbank, Luther (on plants and natural growths); 
 Burk, Dr. Frederic (State Normal School, S. F., educational publicist) ; 
 Burn, Mrs. Walter (see Angier), (garden topics); Carruth, Prof. 
 William (Stanford University), (see Poets); Chandler, Katherine; 
 Chapman, Prof. Charles E., "The Bird Woman of the Lewis & 
 Clark Exposition" (Silver, Buslett & Co.) ; Cooper, Sarah B. (kin- 
 dergarten topics); Deering, Frank (law books); Denman, William; 
 Denson, S. C, "Our Criminal, Criminal Law," 1914; Durant, Rev. 
 Henry (first U of Cal. educator); Duvall, J. C, "Civil Government 
 Simplified," 1915; Fairbanks, Harold Wellman (text-books); France, 
 Leila (McDermott), "The Children's Lark"; Gayley, Prof. Charles 
 Mills, "Classic Myths," etc.; Godchaux, Rebecca and Josephine 
 (French texts, 1918, S. F.) ; Graham, Judge Thomas, "Rules for 
 Married People," etc.; Green, Prof. E. S. (botanical, 1887-1892); 
 Hall, Carlotta Case and Hall, Harvey Monroe, "A Yosemite Flora" 
 (Elder); Hoag, Dr. E. B., "The Health Index of Children," etc.; 
 Holme, Garnet (U. of C), (drama, ancient and modern) ; Horn- 
 
418 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 brook, Mrs. A. R. (arithmetic and geometry); Hunt, Rockwell D., 
 "California the Golden" (Silver, Burdett & Co.); Hyatt, Edward 
 (superintendent of public instruction of California, 1918) ; Irvine, 
 Leigh (text-books), (see Authors); Izett, J. M. (I. C. S., also writer 
 of verse); Janes, Prof. Elijah (text-books); Jepson, William Linn 
 (trees and flora of California; Jordan, David Starr (Stanford Uni 
 versity), (see Authors); Keeler, Charles, "Bird Notes Afield," etc.; 
 Kellogg, A. E. (San Francisco); Kellogg, Rev. Martin (early U. of 
 C. educator) ; Kellogg, Minnie D., "Flora from Medieval History" 
 (Elder); Kellogg, Prof. Vernon (with Hoover in 1917-1918); Ken- 
 nedy, Kate; Klink, Jean (sociological); Knapp, Adeline (text- 
 books); Knowles, Antoinette, "Oral English or Public Speaking"; 
 Knowlton, Prof. Ebenezer; Landfield, Jerome (U. of Cal); Mc- 
 Fadden, Miss E. B., "Language and Grammar" (Rand, McNally & 
 Co.); McLaren, John, "Gardening in California" (A. M. Robertson); 
 McLaren, Linie Ashe, "Settlement Cook Book," "Panama Pacific 
 Cook Book") ; MacLeod, Alice (pigeon raising, San Jose) ; Man- 
 ning, Agnes M. ; Martin, Leland S., "Stern Realities" (Harr Wag- 
 ner, Pub.); Martin, William S., "Manual Training Play Problem"; 
 Marwedel, Emma (kindergarten topics) ; Mills, Dr. and Mrs. (Mills 
 College); Neuhaus, Eugen, "Art Exposition," etc. (Elder) ; North, 
 A. W., "The Mother of California" (Elder, 1908); Parker, Walter 
 H., "School Buildings"; Parsons, Mary Elizabeth, "Wild Flowers 
 of California"; Payne, Gertrude, "Everyday Errors in Pronuncia- 
 tion, Spelling and Spoken English" (San Jose); Peixotto, Jessica 
 (U. of Cal.); Power, Alice Rose (graded speller), (J. B. Lippin- 
 cott); Rattan, Prof. Volney, "A California Flora"; Reed, Geo., "The 
 Abolition of Ownership" (S. F., Carlisle & Co.); Reid, Prof. W.T.; 
 Rosewald, Madame Julie, "How Shall I Practice Music?"; Rowell, 
 J. C, "The Sonnet in America" (Ann Arbor, 1888; Schenkofsky, 
 Henry, "A Summer with the Union Men" (Wagner, 1918) ; Stanton, 
 Mrs. Mary O., "Phrenology and Facial Characteristics"; Stephens, 
 Henry Morse (U. of Cal.), "History of San Francisco Earthquake"; 
 Stone, W. W.; Swett, John, "Methods of Teaching, History of 
 California Schools"; Thayer, Emma H., "Wild Flowers of the Pa- 
 cific Coast" (New York, 1887); Tilden, Joseph, "Recipes for Epi- 
 cures"; Victor, "Recipes"; Wagner, Harr, "Pacific History Stories 
 Retold"; Wheeler, Benjamin Ide (U. of Cal.) ; Wheeler, Charles 
 Stetson (law books); Wilbur, President Ray Lyman (Stanford 
 University) ; Williams, Cora L., "Creeds for Democracy" (Berke- 
 ley) ; Williamson, Sarah M., "A California Cook Book"; Willis, 
 Prof.; Wittenmeyer, Clara; Woehlke, Walter N., "Union Labor in 
 Peace and War" (Sunset Pub. Co., 1918; Wood, W. C. (superin- 
 tendent of Public instruction of California, 1919); Yale, Gregory, 
 "Mining Claims and Water Rights" (S. F., 1867); Younger, Maude 
 sociological, also publicist). 
 
 CALIFORNIA AUTHORS ON MACMILLAN'S LIST 
 
 R. L. Ashley, Head of History Department, Pasadena High School — 
 "American History for High Schools," "The New Civics," "Early 
 European Civilization," "Modern European Civilization," "Ameri- 
 can Federal State," et al. 
 
 Cyril A. Stebbins, one time Department of Agriculture, State Normal 
 School, Chico; now Director for Western States, Organizer of 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 419 
 
 School Gardens for Federal Government, Washington, D. C. — "Prin- 
 ciples of Agriculture Through the School and Home Garden." 
 
 W. C. Hummel, formerly Professor of Agricultural Education, Univer- 
 sity of California; now doing work for the Federal Government in 
 Agriculture, Washington, D. C. — "Materials and Methods in High 
 School Agriculture." 
 
 Chas. Mills Gayley, Dean of Faculty, University of California; Profes- 
 sor of English and English Literature, University of California — 
 "Shakespeare and the Founders of Liberty in America," "Represen- 
 tative English Comedies." 
 
 C. C. Young, formerly Professor of English in Lowell High School, 
 San Francisco; now Speaker in House of Representatives, Califor- 
 nia — "Principles and Progress of English Poetry." 
 
 Ella M. Sexton, San Francisco — "Stories of California." 
 
 Gertrude Atherton — "The Conqueror," "Julia France and Her Times." 
 
 Kathleen Norris— "Mother," "Saturday's Child," "The Rich Mrs. Bur- 
 goyne," et al. 
 
 William Dallam Armes, formerly Professor of English, University of 
 California — "Old English Ballads," "Macmillan's Pocket Classics." 
 
 Percy E. Rowell, Teacher of Science, San Jose High School — "Intro- 
 duction to General Science." 
 
 James T. Allen, Assistant Professor Greek, University of California — 
 "The First Year of Greek." 
 
 Margaret S. Carhart, formerly Department of English, Pasadena High 
 School; now head English Department, Palo Alto High School — 
 "Selections from American Poetry," Macmillan's Pocket Classics. 
 
 Ellwood P. Cubberly, Professor of Education and Dean of the School 
 of Education, Stanford University — "State and County Educational 
 Reorganization." 
 
 E. C. Elliott — "State and County School Administration." 
 
 William B. Cniess, Assistant Professor Food Technology, University 
 of California — "Home and Farm Food Preservation." 
 
 John M. Brewer, Department of Education, State Normal School, Los 
 Angeles — "Vocational Guidance Movement — Its Problems and Pos- 
 sibilities." 
 
 BrotherLeo, St. Mary's College, Oakland — "A Kempis' Imitation of 
 Christ," Macmillan's Pocket Classics. 
 
 Jack London— „Call of the Wild," "White Fang," "Before Adam," 
 "Burning Daylight," "The Valley of the Moon," "Martin Eden," &c 
 
 E. W. Hilgard, Professor Emeritus and Professor of Soil Study, Col- 
 lege of Agriculture, University of California — "Soils — Their Forma- 
 tion, Properties, Composition and Relations to Climate and Plants." 
 
 W. J. B. Osterhout, formerly Assistant Professor of Agriculture, Uni- 
 versity of California — "Agriculture for Schools of the Pacific Slope." 
 
 William C. Morgan, formerly Professor of Chemistry, University of 
 California — "Qualitative Analysis." 
 
 James A. Lyman — "Chemistry — An Elementary Text-book." 
 
 Cardinal Goodwin, formerly Head of History Department, John C. Fre- 
 mont High School, Oakland; now Head of History Department, 
 Mills College — "Establishment of State Government in California." 
 
 William Herbert Carruth, Professor Comparative Literature, Stanford 
 University — "Verse Writing." 
 
 Michael Williams, formerly with San Francisco Examiner — "The High 
 Romance." 
 
420 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 W. W. Campbell, Astronomer, Lick Observatory — "Elements of Prac- 
 tical Astronomy." 
 
 J. F. Chamberlain, Department of Geography, State Normal School, 
 Los Angeles— "How We are Fed," "How We are Sheltered," "How 
 We are Clothed," "How We Travel." 
 
 Arthur Henry Chamberlain, Secretary State Teachers' Association — 
 "Continents and Their People," series comprising Africa, Asia, 
 Oceania, Europe, North America, South America. 
 
 Henry Morse Stephens, Head History Department, University of Cali- 
 fornia — "Modern European History." 
 
 H. E. Bolton, Head of Department American History, University of 
 California — "The Pacific Ocean in History." 
 
 Elizabeth A. Packard, High School, Oakland, Cal— "Scott's Lady of the 
 Lake," Macmillan's Pocket Classics. 
 
 C. E. Chapman, Assistant Professor of History, University of Califor- 
 nia — "The Founding of Spanish California," "History of Spain." 
 
 Martha Brier, formerly Oakland School Department — "Plutarch's Lives," 
 Macmillan's Pocket Classics. 
 
 Irving W. Stringham, formerly Professor of Mathematics, University 
 of California — "Elementary Algebra." 
 
 J. Eliot Coit, Professor of Citrus Culture, University of Southern Cali- 
 fornia, Los Angeles — "Citrus Fruits." 
 
 Frederick Slate, Professor of Physics, University of California — "Prin- 
 ciples of Mechanics," "Elementary Physics." 
 
 Joseph N. LeConte, University of California — "Elementary Treatise on 
 the Mechanics of Machinery." 
 
 Geo. M. Stratton — "Experimental Psychology." 
 
 Ira Woods Howerth, Department of Education, University of Califor- 
 nia — "Art of Education." 
 
 S. H. Dadisman, University Farm, Davis — "Elementary Exercises in 
 Agriculture." 
 
 H. R. Fairclough, Professor of Latin, Stanford University — "Plautus." 
 
 Wm. B. Herms, University of California — "A Laboratory Guide to the 
 Study of Parisitology," "Medical and Veterinary Entomology." 
 
 Robinson Jeffers — "Calif ornians." 
 
 E. B. Krehbiel, Professor of History, Stanford University — "National- 
 ism, War and Society." 
 
 W. S. Marton, State Normal School, San Jose — "Manual Training — Play 
 Problems for Boys and Girls." 
 
 G. Harold Powell, General Manager California Fruit Growers' Ex- 
 change — "Co-operation in Agriculture." 
 
 W. A. Setchell, University of California — "Laboratory Practice for Be- 
 ginners in Botany." 
 
 J. H. Hildebrand, Associate Professor of Chemistry, University of Cali- 
 fornia — "Principles of Chemistry." 
 
 Mrs. Rosa V. Winterburn, formerly connected with Stockton School 
 Department — "Stockton Methods in Teaching." 
 
 Gwendolen Overton — "The Captain's Daughter," "Captains of the 
 World." 
 
 Thomas F. Hunt, Dean College of Agriculture, University of Califor- 
 nia — "How to Choose a Farm." 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 421 
 
 CALIFORNIA AUTHORS WHO HAVE WRITTEN BOOKS 
 FOR THE AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
 John Swett, formerly State Superintendent of Public Instruction, Cali- 
 fornia — "Methods of Teaching," "School Elocution," "American 
 Public Schools," "Normal Word Book," "Public Education in Cal- 
 ifornia." 
 
 Joseph Le Conte, Professor of Geology, University of California — 
 "Compend of Geology." 
 
 Helen Elliott Bandini — "History of California." 
 
 A. W. Stamper, Professor of Mathematics, State Normal School, Chico, 
 Cal. — "Text-book on the Teaching of Arithmetic." 
 
 W. F. Bliss, Dean of Normal School and Head of Department of His- 
 tory, State Normal School, San Diego, Cal. — "History in the Ele- 
 mentary Schools." 
 
 James F. Chamberlain, Head Department of Geography, Los Angeles, 
 Cal. — "Field and Laboratory Exercises in Physical Geography." 
 
 Arthur Henry Chamberlain, formerly Dean and Professor of Educa- 
 tion, Throop Polytechnic Institute ; now Secretary State Teach- 
 ers' Association and Editor Sierra Educational News, Monadnock 
 Building, San Francisco — "Standards in Education, Including In- 
 dustrial Training." 
 
 Miss E. Louise Smythe— "Old Time Stories Retold," "Reynard the Fox." 
 
 Miss Margaret C. Dowling, Teacher Spanish, Mission High School, 
 San Francisco — "Reading, Writing and Speaking Spanish." 
 
 J. W. McClymonds, ex r Superintendent of Schools, Oakland, Cal. — 
 "Elementary Arithmetic," "Essentials of Arithmetic." 
 
 D. R. Jones, ex-Superintendent of Schools, San Rafael, Cal. — "Elemen- 
 tary Arithmetic," "Essentials of Arithmetic." 
 
 Dr. Aurelio Macedonio Espinosa, Associate Professor Romantic Lan- 
 guages, Stanford University — "Espinosa & Allen's Elementary Span- 
 ish Grammar." 
 
 Dr. Clifford Gilmore Allen, Associate Professor Romantic Languages, 
 Stanford University — "Espinosa & Allen's Elementary Spanish 
 Grammar." 
 
 George A. Merrill, Director California School of Mechanical Arts — 
 "Elementary Theoretical Mechanics." 
 
 Dr. Herbert C. Nutting, Assistant Professor of Latin, University of 
 California — "Latin Primer," "First Latin Reader." 
 
 Dr. Isaac Flagg, Professor of Greek, Emeritus, University of Califor- 
 nia — "Writer of Attic Prose," "Plato's Apology and Crito." 
 
 Dr. Rudolph Scheville, Professor of Spanish, University of California — 
 "Alarcon's El Nino de la Bola," "Valera's El Comendador Men- 
 doza." 
 
 Dr. Carlos Bransby, Assistant Professor of Spanish, University of Cali- 
 fornia — "Worman's Second Spanish Book." 
 
 Dr. J. Henry Senger, Professor of German, Emeritus, Universcity of 
 California — "Fouque's Undine." 
 
 John R. Sutton, Vice-Principal of Oakland High School, Oakland, Cal.— 
 "Civil Government in California." 
 
 LIST OF PUBLICATIONS OF D. C. HEATH & COMPANY, 
 BOSTON, BY CALIFORNIA AUTHORS 
 
 Silas E. Coleman, "Elements of Physics," "Textbook of Physics"; Dr. 
 Ernest B. Hoag, "Health StuOdies"; Miss Thirmuthis A. Brook- 
 man, "Family Expense Account"; Mrs. Edith A. Joy Foley, "Arith- 
 
422 LITERARY CALIFORNIA 
 
 metic Without a Pencil"; Dr. Carlos Bransby, "A Spanish Reader"; 
 A. B. Reynolds, "Latin by Reading"; Frances W. Lewis, "Induc- 
 tive Rhetoric"; Antoinette Knowles, Oral English"; Professor Wal- 
 ter M. Hart, "Hamlet" (Arden Edition); H. A. Davidson, "Irving's 
 Sketch Book"; L. Dupont Syle, "The Lady of the Lake"; Gene- 
 vra Sisson Snedden, "Docas, the Indian Boy of Santa Clara"; Rich- 
 ard L. Sandwick, "How to Study and What to Study." 
 
 FOLLOWING CALIFORNIANS HAVE WRITTEN TEXT- 
 BOOKS FOR GINN & COMPANY 
 
 Charles Mills Gayley, Professor of English Literature, University of 
 California, Berkeley — "Classic Myths," "Poetry of the People," 
 "Literary Criticism" (Gayley and Kurtz). 
 
 Martin Charles Flaherty, Associate Professor of Forensics, University 
 of California — "Poetry of the People." 
 
 Lulu Maude Chance, Primary Teacher, Riverside, Cal. — "Little Folks of 
 Many Lands." 
 
 Katherine Chandler, Pacific Grove, Cal. — "In the Reign of Coyote." 
 
 Alexis E. Frye, Redlands, Cal. — "Books and Brook Basins," "Child and 
 Nature," "Elements of Geography," First Book in Geography," 
 "First Steps in Geography," "Geografiia Elemental," "Grammar 
 School Geography," "Geography Manual," "Home and School At- 
 las," "Home Geography and Type Studies," "Leading Facts of 
 Geography," "New Geography, Book One." 
 
 Derrick N. Lehmer, Associate Professor Mathematics, University of 
 California, Berkeley — "Synthetic Projective Geometry." 
 
 Chauncey Wetmore Wells, Associate Professor English Composition, 
 University of California — "Prose Narratives." 
 
 Benjamin P. Kurtz, Associate Professor of English, University of Cali- 
 fornia — "Essays in Exposition." 
 
 Herbert E. Cory, Assistant Professor of English, University of Cali- 
 fornia — "Essays in Exposition." 
 
 G. R. MacMinn, Instructor in English, University of California — "Es- 
 says in Exposition." 
 
 Lilian Talbert, Primary Teacher, Emerson School, Berkeley, Cal. — 
 "The Expression Primer." 
 
 Lew Ball, Primary Supervisor, San Francisco, Cal. — "Ball Primer and 
 Manual." 
 
 John Brewer, Dean Department of Education, Los Angeles State Nor- 
 mal School — "Oral English." 
 
 Ernest Carroll Moore, President Los Angeles State Normal School — 
 "What Is Education?" "Fifty Years of American Education." 
 
 Leon J. Richardson, Associate Professor of Latin, University of Cali- 
 fornia — "Helps to the Reading of Classical Latin Poetry." 
 
 Roy T. Nichols, Acting Head, Science Department, High School, Oak- 
 land, Cal/ — "Manual of Household Chemistry." 
 
 Hanna Oehlmann, Teacher of German, High School, Alameda, Cal. — 
 "Schritt for Schritt." 
 
 O. J. Kern, Assistant Professor Agricultural Education, University of 
 California — "Among Country Schools." 
 
 Rudolph Schevill — Head Romance Language Department, University 
 of California — "First Reader in Spanish." 
 
 F. H. Baker, Agent Allyn & Bacon Company, Los Angeles — "Comput- 
 ing Tables and Formulas." 
 
LITERARY CALIFORNIA 423 
 
 William J. McCoy, Private Teacher, Oakland — "Cumulative Harmony." 
 Brother Leo, Professor English Language and Literature, St. Mary's 
 
 College, Oakland — Joint author "Corona Readers." 
 Forrest Eugene Spencer, Instructor in Spanish, University of Califor- 
 nia — "Trozos de Historia." 
 A. L. Cavanagh, Head of Physics Department, Los Angeles High 
 
 School — "Physics Laboratory Manual." 
 Claude M. Westcott, Head of Science Department, Hollywood High 
 
 School — "Physics Laboratory Manual." 
 H. L. Twining, Head of Physics Department, Polytechnic High School, 
 
 Los Angeles — "Physics High Manual." 
 E. B. Clapp, Professor of the Greek Language and Literature, Univer- 
 sity of California— "Homer's Iliad, Books XIX-XXIV." 
 William H. Carruth, Professor of Comparative Literature, Stanford 
 
 University — "German Reader." 
 Emelio Goggio, Professor of Languages, University of California (now 
 
 at University of Washington) — "Due Comeedie Moderne." 
 R. Selden Rose, Instructor in Spanish, University of California — "Don 
 
 Francisco de Quevedo." 
 Aida Edmonds Pinney, Oakland, Cal. — "Spanish-English Conversation." 
 Edward Gray, Berkeley — "Fortuma, and El Placer de No Hacer Nada." 
 Colbert Searles — Associat Professor of Romanic Languages, Stanford 
 
 University: "Le Cid." 
 Albert Shiels — City Superintendent of Schools, Los Angeles, California: 
 
 "City Arithmetics" (joint author with Wentworth-Smith). 
 C. T. Wright — Teacher in Pasadena High School, Pasadena, California: 
 
 "Library, Laboratory and Field Manual in Physical Geography." 
 Henry L. Cannon — Associate Professor History, Stanford University: 
 
 "Reading References for English History." 
 Thomas E. Thompson — Superintendent Schools, Monrovia, California: 
 
 "Minimum Essentials." 
 
 FINIS. 
 

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 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 
 
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