LOUIS J. STELLMAN,
in San Francisco Globe, April 18, 1909.

APRIL 19.

O, EVANESCENCE!  (SAN FRANCISCO.)

  I loved a work of dreams that bloomed from Art;
      A town and her turrets rose
      As from the red heart
  Of the couchant suns where the west wind blows
      And worlds lie apart. 
  Calm slept the sea-flats; beneath the blue dome
      Copper and gold and alabaster gleamed,
      And sea-birds came home. 
      But I woke in a sorrowful day;
      The vision was scattered away. 
  Ashes and dust lie deep on the dream that I dreamed.

HERMAN SCHEFFAUER,
in Looms of Life.

APRIL 20.

SAN FRANCISCO.

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

EDWARD ROKESON TAYLOR,
in Sunset Magazine.

APRIL 21.

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

GERTRUDE ATHERTON,
in Ancestors.

APRIL 22.