HAROLD S. SYMMES.

JANUARY 15.

CALIFORNIA AND ITALY.

More and more it becomes apparent to me that the Climate of California spoils one for any other in the world.  If Californians ever doubt that their winter weather is the finest in the world, let them try that of sunny Italy.  If they have ever grumbled at their gentle rains, brought on the wings of mild winds from the south, let them try the raw rain, hail, snow, and sleet storms of sunny Italy.  And then forever after let them hold their peace.

JEROME A. HART,
in Argonaut Letters.

JANUARY 16.

  I see thee in this Hellas of the West,
  Thy youngest, fairest child, upon whose crest
  Thy white snows gleam, and at whose dimpled feet
  The blue sea breaks, while on her heaving breast
    The flowers droop and languish for her smile,
  Thy grace is mirrored in her youthful form,
  She lifts her forehead to the battling storm,
    As proud, as fair as thou.

* * * * *

  Like thee, she opens wide her snowy arms,
    And folds the Nations on her mother-breast. 
  The brawny Sons of Earth have made their home
  Where her wide Ocean casts its ceaseless foam,
  Where lifts her white Sierras’ orient peak
  The wild exultant love of all that makes
  The nobler life; the energy that shakes the Earth
    And gives new eons birth.

S.A.S.H. of College of Notre Dame, San Jose, in Hellas.

JANUARY 17.

THE RETURN TO CALIFORNIA.

  Across the desert waste we sped;
    The cactus gloomed on either hand,
  Wild, weird, grotesque each frowning head
    Uprearing from the sand.

  Through dull, gray dawn and blazing noon,
    Like furnace fire the quivering air,
  Till darkness fell, and the young moon
    Smiled forth serene and fair.

  A single star adown the sky
    Shone like a jewel, clear and bright;
  We heard the far coyote’s cry
    Pierce through the silent night.

  Then morning—­bathed in purple sheen;
    Beyond—­the grand, eternal hills;
  With sunny, emerald vales between,
    Crossed by a thousand rills.

  Sweet groves, green pastures; buzz of bee
    And scent of flower; a dash of foam
  On rugged cliffs; the blessed sea,
    And then—­the lights of home!

MARY E. MANNIX.

JANUARY 18.

Around the Southern Californian home of the loving twain the roses are in perpetual bloom.  The vines are laden with clustered grapes, the peach and the apricot trees bend under their loads of luscious fruit, the milch cows yield their creamy milk, the honey-bees laying in their stores of sweet spoil, the balmy air breathes fragrance, the drowsy hum of life is the music of peace.