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.
A WESTERN FOURTH.
Here, where Peralta’s cattle used
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!
in Fourth of July Celebration, Oakland, 1902.
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.
in Los Angeles Times.
FATE AND I.
“Thine the fault, not mine,”
And Fate looked grim and once again
Closed in and grappled me.
“Mine, not thine, the fault,” I said,
And Fate arose and clasped my hand
And made a man of me.
HAROLD S. SYMMES,
in The American Magazine, April, 1909.