WILL IRWIN,
in The City That Was.

MARCH 3.

WILD HONEY.

The swarms that escape from their careless owners have a weary, perplexing time of it in seeking suitable homes.  Most of them make their way to the foot-hills of the mountains, or to the trees that line the banks of the rivers, where some hollow log or trunk may be found.  A friend of mine, while out hunting on the San Joaquin, came upon an old coon trap, hidden among some tall grass, near the edge of the river, upon which he sat down to rest.  Shortly afterward his attention was attracted to a crowd of angry bees that were flying excitedly about his head, when he discovered that he was sitting upon their hive, which was found to contain more than 200 pounds of honey.

JOHN MUIR,
in The Mountains of California.

MARCH 4.

PHOSPHORESCENT SEA WAVES, BALBOA BEACH, CAL.

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

MARY RUSSELL MILLS,
in Fellowship Magazine.

MARCH 5.

THE JOY OF THE HILLS.

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

MARCH 6.

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