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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 159 pages of information about The California Birthday Book.

ANDREW FURUSETH.

JULY 3.

Above an elevation of four thousand feet timber is quite abundant.  Along the river-bottoms and low grounds the sycamore is found as clean-limbed, tall and stately as elsewhere.  The cottonwood, too, is common, though generally dwarfed, scraggy and full of dead limbs.  A willow still more scraggy, and having many limbs destroyed with mistletoe, is often found in the same places.  The elder rises above the dignity of a shrub, or under-shrub, but can hardly be found a respectable tree.  Two varieties of oak are common, and the alder forms here a fine tree along the higher water-courses.

T.S.  VAN DYKE,
in Southern California.

JULY 4.

A WESTERN FOURTH.

  Here, where Peralta’s cattle used to stray;
  Here, where the Spaniards in their early day
  Rode, jingling, booted, spurred, nor ever guessed
  Our race would own the land by them possessed;
  Here, where Castilian bull-fights left their stain
  Of blood upon the soil of this New Spain;
  Here, where old live-oaks, spared till we condemn. 
  Still wait within this city named for them—­
  We celebrate, with bombshell and with rhyme
  Our noisiest Day of Days of yearly time! 
  O bare Antonio’s hills that rim our sky—­
  Antonio’s hills, that used to know July
  As but a time of sleep beneath the sun—­
  Such days of languorous dreaming are all done!

MARY BAMFORD,
in Fourth of July Celebration, Oakland, 1902.

JULY 5.

THE LIVE-OAKS.

  In massy green, upon the crest
  Of many a slanting hill,
  By gentle wind and sun caressed,
  The live-oaks carry still
  A ponderous head, a sinewy breast,
  A look of tameless will. 
  They plant their roots full firmly deep,
  As for the avalanche;
  And warily and strongly creep
  Their slow trunks to the branch;
  A subtle, devious way they keep,
  Thrice cautious to be stanch. 
  A mighty hospitality
  At last the builders yield,
  For man and horse and bird and bee
  A hospice and a shield,
  Whose monolithic mystery
  A curious power concealed.

RUBY ARCHER,
in Los Angeles Times.

JULY 6.

FATE AND I.

  “Thine the fault, not mine,” I cried. 
  Brooding bitterly,
  And Fate looked grim and once again
  Closed in and grappled me. 
  “Mine, not thine, the fault,” I said,
  Discerning verity,
  And Fate arose and clasped my hand
  And made a man of me.

HAROLD S. SYMMES,
in The American Magazine, April, 1909.

JULY 7.

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