INA D. COOLBRITH,
in Songs from the Golden Gate.
You kin talk about yer eastern states,
their stiddy growth ’nd size,
’Nd brag about yer cities, with their business enterprise;
You kin blow about tall buildin’s runnin’ clean up to the clouds,
’Nd gas about yer graded streets ’nd chirp about yer crowds;
But how about yer “twisters” ’nd the cyclones you have there,
That’s runnin’ ’round uncorralled ‘nd a-gittin’ on a tear,
‘Nd a-mixin’ towns ’nd counties up at sich a tarnal rate
A man can’t be dead sartin that he’s in his native state.
You needn’t talk to me about yer
“enterprise” ’nd “go,”
Fer how about them river floods us folks hear tell of so,
Where a feller goes to bed at night with nary thought o’ fear,
‘Nd discovers in the mornin’ that he’s changed his hemisphere;
’Nd where grasshoppers eat the crops ’nd all about the place,
But leave that gilt-edged mortgage there ter stare you in the face.
If that is where you want ter live it’s where you’d orter be,
But I reckon ol’ Cal’forny’s good ’nough fer me.
I sort o’ low the climate thar is
somewhat diff’runt too,
Accordin’ to the weather prophet’s watchful p’int o’ view.
In course, if ten foot snowbanks don’t bother you at all,
Er slosh ’nd mud ‘nd drizzlin’ rain, combined with a snowfall,
It’s just the most delightful spot this side o’ heaven’s dome—
But I kind o’ sorter reckon that I couldn’t call it home.
When you talk about that climate, it’s all tomfoolery,
Fer sunny ol’ Cal’forny’s good enough fer me.
Oh, you live away back east, you don’t
know what you miss
By stayin’ in that measly clime, without the joy an’ bliss
Of knowin’ what the weather is from one day to the next;
It’s “mebby this,” “I hope it’s that,” er some such like pretext.
Come out to Californy’ whar the sky is allers bright,
’Nd where the sun shines all the while, with skeerce a cloud in sight;
You’d never pine fer eastern climes—ther’s no denyin’ that—
Fer when you want a heaven on earth, Los Angeles stands pat.
In all methinks I see the counterpart
Of Italy, without her dower of art.
We have the lordly Alps, the fir-fringed hills,
The green and golden valleys veined with rills,
A dead Vesuvius with its smouldering fire,
A tawny Tiber sweeping to the sea.
Our seasons have the same superb attire,
The same redundant wealth of flower and tree,
Upon our peaks the same imperial dyes,
And day by day, serenely over all,
The same successive months of smiling skies.
Conceive a cross,