Part 11
Sing is not included in the category of "goody-goody" boys. He is full of fun, and play, and willful pranks, and he sees the ridiculous side of everything quickly, but he seems naturally to accept only the good and to shun evil in any form. He is pure and innocent by nature and seems attracted to every person of similar characteristics. He has discernment and watches the faces of people closely, seeming to care more for their motives than for their deeds.
NELLIE BLESSING EYSTER, in _A Chinese Quaker._
NOVEMBER 18.
INDIAN ARROW HEADS FOUND IN CALIFORNIA.
Obsidian is a beautiful, translucent volcanic rock, usually black, with cloudy flecks, as are seen in jade; like jade it is so hard as to be capable of taking an edge like a razor. Flaked on its flat surface and often beautifully serrated on the edge, an arrowhead or a spearhead is in itself a thing of beauty and a work of art, whether the Indian manufacturer knew it or not.
L. CLARE DAVIS in "Long Ago in San Joaquin," in _Sunset Magazine._
In a year, in a year, when the grapes are ripe, I shall stay no more away-- Then if you still are true, my love, It will be our wedding day.
In a year, in a year, when my time is past-- Then I'll live in your love for aye. Then if you still are true, my love, It will be our wedding day.
JACK LONDON.
NOVEMBER 19.
Had California owed her settlement and civic life wholly to the vanguard of that pioneer host, which ... pressed steadily westward to Kansas and the Rockies, the Golden State would not have today that literary flavor that renders her in a measure a unique figure among the western states of the country.
JAMES MAIN DIXON, in _California and Californians in Literature._
NOVEMBER 20.
All things are but material reflections of mental images. This is realized in picture and statue in temple and machine. The picture is but a faint representation of the picture in the soul of painter. He did his best to catch it with brush and canvas. Had it not existed for him before the brush was in his hand, it would never have been painted. * * * Concentration is the only mental attitude under which mental images (ideals) shape themselves into the material life. As long as you hold an ideal before you that long is it shaping itself into your body, your business and into your social life. When you change your ideal then the new begins to shape itself. Have you, like the sculptor, held to one till it carves itself "into the marble real?" Or have you taken the life-block and placed it into the hands of an Ideal today, another tomorrow, and another next day, till you have as many ideals as you have days? * * * Is not your life a composite of all these, not one complete? Concentration means holding to one ideal until your objective life becomes that mental picture. Thus it is true: I am that which I think myself to be.
HENRY HARRISON BROWN, in _Concentration: The Road to Success._
NOVEMBER 21.
The process which we call evolution is the return of the atom to God, or the extension of consciousness in the growing creation, and this process which unifies all that exists or can exist in our world is the working out of the One Purpose and Plan by the One Power. This is what we mean by the Spiritual Constitution of the Universe, and in the light of this thought every person, animal, plant and mineral, every atom and all force, all events and circumstances and conditions and objects are more or less intelligent and conscious expressions of the One Purpose and the One Life. Man is thus led to count nothing human foreign to him, and his inner eyes open to perceive Truth, Goodness and Beauty everywhere.
BENJAMIN FAY MILLS, in _The New Revelation._
NOVEMBER 22.
Laughter is the music of the soul. It is the sun falling on the rain drops. Laughter is the nightingale's voice in the night. It chases away care, destroys worry. It is the intoxicating cup of good nature, which cheers, but does not cheat. Laughter paints pictures, dreams dreams, and floods life with love. Blessed are the people who can laugh! Laughter is religion and hope; and the apostles of good nature, who see the bright side of life, the queer and funny things among men, the clowns in Vanity Fair, as well as the deep and terrible pathos of life, are missionaries of comfort and evangels of good health.
REV. WILLIAM RADER, in _Lecture on Uncle Sam; or The Reign of the Common People._
NOVEMBER 23.
Given so unique a climate as ours of Southern California, one would expect it to be hailed gladly as a helper in the solution of this problem of how and where to build and how to adorn one's home. For it really meets the most trying items of the problem, making it a pure pleasure.
Instead, then, of the styles which suit the winter-climate of other states, and which, transplanted here, have grown too often into mongrel specimens of foreign style and other times--we should adapt our Southern California homes, first of all, to the climatic conditions which prevail here.
MADAME CAROLINE SEVERANCE, in _The Mother of Clubs._
NOVEMBER 24.
Houses furnished in all the styles of modern decorative art rise in all directions, embowered in roses, geraniums, heliotropes, and lilies that bloom the long year round and reach a size that makes them hard to recognize as old friends. Among them rise the banana, the palm, the aloe, the rubber tree, and the pampas-grass with its tall feathery plumes. Here and there one sees the guava, the Japanese persimmon, Japanese plum, or some similar exotic--but grapes and oranges are the principal product. Yet there are groves of English walnuts almost rivaling in size the great orange orchards, and orchards of prunes, nectarines, apricots, plums, pears, peaches, and apples that are little behind in size or productiveness.
T.S. VAN DYKE, in _Southern California._
NOVEMBER 25.
He saw a great hall furnished in the most extravagantly complete style of Indian art. The walls were entirely covered with Navaho and Hopi blankets. There was a frieze of Apache hide-shields, each painted with a brave's totem, and beneath, a solid cornice of buffalo skulls. Puma-skins carpeted the floor; at least a hundred baskets trimmed with wood-pecker and quail feathers were scattered about; trophies of Indian bows, arrows, lances, war-clubs, tomahawks, pipes and knives decorated the wall spaces. Two couches were made up of Zuni bead-work ornaments and buck-skin embroideries. In spite of all this, it was a tastefully designed room, rather than a museum, flaming with color and vibrant with vitality.
GELETT BURGESS, in _A Little Sister of Destiny._
NOVEMBER 26.
She sent a hundred messages out into the hills by thought's wonderful telegraphy. She saw the yellow-green of the new shoots; the gray-green of the gnarled live oak; she felt that the mariposa was waking in the brown hillside. She almost heard the creamy bells of the tall yucca pealing out a hymn to the God who expresses himself in continual creation. Then, O, wonder of wonders! Over the same invisible wires came back the response: It all means love, the earth's rendings, the rains, winds, scorchings--it all means love in the grand consummation, nothing but love. She thrilled to the wonder of it.
ELIZABETH BAKER BOHAN, in _The Strength of the Weak._
NOVEMBER 27.
THE IDEAL CALIFORNIA EDITOR.
The ideal editor must be a colossal, composite figure, one to whom no man of whatever age, race or color, is a stranger; one whose mobility of character and elasticity of temperament expands or contracts as occasion demands, without deflecting in the least from the law of perfect harmony. He must know how to smile encouragement, frown disapproval, or, at an instant's notice bow deferentially and attend with utmost courtesy to wearisome stories of stupid patrons, or listen to the fantastic schemes of radical reformers and, with apparent seriousness and ostensible amiability, nod acquiescence to the wild-eyed revolutionist upon whom he inwardly vows to keep a careful watch lest the fire-brand agitator commit serious public mischief. The ideal editor of the popular press must be the quintescence of tact; an adroit strategist, a sagacious chief executive, keenly critical, ably judicial, broad, generous, sympathetic, hospitable, aye, charitable, magnanimous, ready to forgive and forget, patient and long-suffering when subjected to the competitive lash of adverse criticism, bearing calumny rather with quiet dignity than stooping to low and vulgar forms of retaliation.
BERTHA HIRSCH BARUCH, in _Sunday Times Magazine._
NOVEMBER 28.
CALIFORNIA TO IRELAND.
Great! Erect! Majestic! Free! Thrilled with life from sea to sea. See the Motherland uphold To the sky her Green and Gold.
LAURENCE BRANNICK.
NOVEMBER 29.
And the books! Without final data at hand, I incline to believe that by the time the war came along to give us a new text, California had already, in a dozen years, doubled the volume of American literature. In the same way, of course, that it was doubled again--for our war literature was not mostly written upon the battle-field. In half a century this current has not ceased. It is a lean month even now which does not see, somewhere, some sort of book about California. It is certain that as much literature (using the word as it is used) has been written of California as of all the other states together. This means, of course, only matter in which the State is an essential, not an incident.
CHARLES F. LUMMIS, in _The Right Hand of the Continent, Out West, June_, 1902.
NOVEMBER 30.
By a queer sequence of circumstances, the essays, begun in the _Lark_, were continued in the _Queen_, and, if you have read these two papers, you will know that one magazine is as remote in character from the other as San Francisco is from London. But each has happened to fare far afield in search of readers, and between them I may have converted a few to my optimistic view of every-day incident. To educate the British Matron and Young Person was, perhaps, no more difficult than to open the eyes of the California Native Son. The fogs that fall over the Thames are not very different to the mists that drive in through the Golden Gate, after all!
GELETT BURGESS, in _The Romance of the Commonplace._
DECEMBER 1.
The Bohemian Club, whose real founder is said to have been the late Henry George, was formed in the '70's by newspaper writers and men working in the arts or interested in them. It had grown to a membership of 750. It still kept for its nucleus painters, writers, musicians and actors, amateur and professional. They were a gay group of men, and hospitality was their evocation. Yet the thing which set this club off from all others in the world was the midsummer High Jinks. The club owned a fine tract of redwood forest fifty miles north of San Francisco. In August the whole Bohemian Club, or such as could get away from business, went up to this grove and camped out for two weeks. On the last night they put on the Jinks proper, a great spectacle in praise of the forest with poetic words, music and effects done by the club. In late years this has been practically a masque or an opera. It cost about $10,000. * * * The thing which made it possible was the art spirit which is in the Californian.
WILL IRWIN, in _The City That Was._
DECEMBER 2.
Nearly all is now covered with a luxuriant growth of vegetation the most diverse, yet all of it foreign to the soil. Side by side are the products of two zones, reaching the highest stages of perfection, yet none of them natives of this coast.
Gay cottages now line the roads where so recently the hare cantered along the dusty cattle-trail; and villages lie brightly green with a wealth of foliage where the roaring wings of myriads of quail shook the air above impenetrable jungles of cactus.
T.S. VAN DYKE, in _Southern California._
DECEMBER 3.
* * * The chief and highest function of the University is to assert and perpetually prove that general principles--laws--govern Man, Society, Nature, Life; and to make unceasing war on the reign of temporary expedients. * * * There never was a period or a country in which the reign of fundamental law needed constant assertion and more perpetual proof than our own period and our own country. * * * The living danger is that society may come to permanently distrust the reign of law. * * * A national or a personal life built on expedients of the day, like a house built on the sand, will inevitably come to ruin.
PRESIDENT HOLDEN, in _Inaugural Address of University of California_, 1886.
DECEMBER 4.
And now my story is told, the story of my work, and the story of my life. Looking back over all the long stretch of years that I have carried this heavy burden, though I should not care to assume it again, yet I am not sorry to have borne it. Of the various motives which urge men to the writing of books, perhaps the most worthy, worthier by far than the love of fame, is the belief that the author has something to say which will commend itsself to his fellow-man, which perchance his fellow-man may be the better for hearing. If I have fulfilled in some measure even the first of these conditions, then has my labor not been in vain.
HUBERT HOWE BANCROFT, in _Literary Industries._
DECEMBER 5.
LAW IN THE EARLY MINING-CAMPS.
Here, in a new land, under new conditions, subjected to tremendous pressure and strain, but successfully resisting them, were associated bodies of freemen bound together for a time by common interests, ruled by equal laws, and owning allegiance to no higher authority than their own sense of right and wrong. They held meetings, chose officers, decided disputes, meted out a stern and swift punishment to offenders, and managed their local affairs with entire success; and the growth of their committees was proceeding at such a rapid rate, that days and weeks were often sufficient for vital changes, which, in more staid communities, would have required months or even years.
CHARLES HOWARD SHINN, in _Mining Camps._
DECEMBER 6.
New towns were laid out in the valleys to supply the camps, and those already established grew with astonishing rapidity. Stockton, for instance, increased in three months from a solitary ranch-house to a canvas city of one thousand inhabitants. Sacramento also became a canvas city, whose dust-clouds whirled, and men, mules, and oxen toiled; where boxes, barrels, bales innumerable, were piled in the open air, no shelter being needed for months. For the City Hotel, Sacramento, thirty thousand dollars per year was paid as rent, although it was only a small frame building. The Parker House, San Francisco, cost thirty thousand dollars to build, and rented for fifteen thousand dollars per month.
CHARLES HOWARD SHINN, in _Mining Camps._
DECEMBER 7.
The prospector is the advance agent of progress, civilization and prosperity. * * * It is for the sight of a yellow streak in his pan that he has been tempted to endure the fatigue, cold, and hunger of the mountains, and the heat, thirst and horror of the desert.
The prospector is a man of small pretensions, of peaceful disposition, indomitable will, boundless perseverance, remarkable endurance, undoubted courage, irrepressible hopefulness, and unlimited hospitality He is the friend of every man till he has evidence that the man is his enemy, and he is the most respected man in the mining regions of the West.
ARTHUR J. BURDICK, in _The Mystic Mid-Region._
DECEMBER 8.
To a little camp of 1848 a lad of sixteen came one day, footsore, weary, hungry, and penniless. There were thirty robust and cheerful miners at work in the ravine; and the lad sat on the bank, watching them awhile in silence, his face telling the sad story of his fortunes. At last one stalwart miner spoke to his fellows, saying:
"Boys, I'll work an hour for that chap if you will."
At the end of the hour a hundred dollars' worth of gold dust was laid in the youth's handkerchief. The miners made out a list of tools and necessaries.
"You go," they said, "and buy these, and come back. We'll have a good claim staked out for you. Then you've got to paddle for yourself." Thus genuine and unconventional was the hospitality of the mining-camp.
CHARLES HOWARD SHINN, in __Mining Camps._
DECEMBER 9.
Down in the gulch bottoms were the old placer diggings. Elaborate little ditches for the deflection of water, long cradles for the separation of gold, decayed rockers, and shining in the sun the tons and tons of pay dirt which had been turned over pound by pound in the concentrating of its treasure. Some of the old cabins still stood. It was all deserted now, save for the few who kept trail for the freighters, or who tilled the restricted bottom lands of the flats. Road-runners racked away down the paths; squirrels scurried over worn-out placers, jays screamed and chattered in and out of the abandoned cabins. And the warm California sun embalmed it all in a peaceful forgetfulness.
STEWART EDWARD WHITE, in _The Mountains._
DECEMBER 10.
GOD IS EVERYWHERE.
Under the grass, the flowers, and the sod Go deep enough and you will find God. The royal red-gold of the sunset glow A veil for His unseen face doth show. And all the star-cool vastnesses of night Still hide Him not from the Spirit's sight.
I will see Him in all, I will trust Him in all, I will love but the God, to the God will I call. Till God, full and perfect, every soul shall reveal, And God's glorious purpose each life shall fulfill; Till the earth showeth whole, without break, without seam, Till God's truth and God's beauty stand clear and supreme.
MARY RUSSELL MILLS, in _Fellowship Magazine._
DECEMBER 11.
THE KILLING OF THE DEVIL, AS TOLD IN THE LANGUEDOC FOLK-TALE OF THE THREE STRONG MEN.
Oh! that was a desperate struggle--terrific and horrible to see! The devil shrieked and howled; he scratched and bit; while Crowbar, dumb and purple in the face, gave telling blows with his fists. He could not strike the devil's head, because of the horns, and he could not grab his body, because it was so sleek and slimy. At length the devil's strength gave out. Crowbar siezed him by the throat, threw him on his back, put a knee upon his breast, and, with the cane in his right hand, gave him a blow between the horns that split his head in two. But he died hard. His head was split open, yet he was struggling, whipping the ground with his tail, and foaming at the mouth. At last he was still.
SAMUEL JACQUES BRUN, in _Tales of Languedoc._
DECEMBER 12.
FROM "AFTER HEARING PARSIFAL."
The century new announces, "Victory!"-- Through Music's witchery o'er Sin and Hell Man is redeemed. The Christ is here! The Soul Now claims its own! Nor hope nor fear Nor prayer nor hunger now, for lo! 'tis here, The expected Kingdom--God's and Man's! 'Tis here! Day-dawn has come! The world-wide quest is o'er! The Grail was never lost! 'Twas folded safe Within the petals of my heart, and thou Enchanter wise, reveal'st to me, my Self!
HENRY HARRISON BROWN, in _Now, May_, 1904.
DECEMBER 13.
THE VOICE OF THE SNOW.
Silently flying through the darkened air, swirling, glinting, to their appointed places, they seem to have taken counsel together, saying, "Come, we are feeble; let us help one another. We are many, and together we will be strong. Marching in close, deep ranks, let us roll away the stones from these mountain sepulchers, and set the landscape free. Let us uncover these clustering domes. Here let us carve a lake basin; there a Yosemite Valley; here, a channel for a river with fluted steps and brows for the plunge of songful cataracts. Yonder let us spread broad sheets of soil, that man and beast may be fed; and here pile trains of boulders for pines and giant sequoias. Here make ground for a meadow; there for a garden and grove."
JOHN MUIR, in _The Mountains of California._
DECEMBER 14.
It was winter in San Francisco--not the picturesque winter of the North or South, but a mild and intermediate season, as if the great zones had touched hands, and earth were glad of the friendly feeling. There is no breath from a cold Atlantic to chill the ardor of these thoughts. Our great, tranquil ocean lies in majesty to the west. It can fume and fret, but it does so in reason. It does not lash and storm in vain.
FRANCES CHARLES, in _The Siege of Youth._
May the tangling of sunshine and roses never cease upon your path until after the snows of Winter have covered your way with whiteness.
MARTIN V. MERLE, in _The Vagabond Prince, Act IV._
DECEMBER 15.
It was one of those wonderful warm winter days given to San Francisco instead of the spring she has never experienced. After a week's rain the sun shone out of a sky as warmly blue as late spring brings in other climates. The world seemed in a very rapture of creation. The bay below the garden, new washed and sparkling like a pale emerald, spread gaily out, and the city's streets terraced down to meet it. The peculiar delicacy and richness of California roses coaxed by the softness of the climate to live out-doors sent up a perfume that hot-house flowers cannot yield. The turf was of a thick, healthy, wet green, teeming with life. The hills beyond were green as summer in California cannot make them, and off to the west against the tender sky the cross on Lone Mountain was etched.
MIRIAM MICHELSON, in _Anthony Overman._
DECEMBER 16.
The story is never fully told, and the power of paint or pen can never express entirely the glory or the strength of the conception which impelled it. The best is still withheld, inexpressible in human terms.
Our best songs are still unsung; our best thoughts are still unuttered and must so remain until eyes and ears and hands are quickened by a diviner life to a keener sensibility.
W.L. JUDSON, in _The Building of a Picture._
Another value in dialect is the fact that sounds are often retained that are lost in the standard speech, or softer, sweeter tones are fostered and developed.
JAMES MAIN DIXON, in _Dialect in Literature._
DECEMBER 17.
It is a compensation for many ills to awaken some December morning and feel in the air the warmth of summer and see in the foliage the glad green of spring. Children play in the parks, and the sun shines, and even the older folks grew merry. * * * It had been such a day as comes during Indian summer in other countries. The air had been very kindly and had breathed nothing but gentleness toward man and vegetation. Toward February people would be out searching for wild flowers on the suburban hills.
FRANCES CHARLES, in _The Siege of Youth._
DECEMBER 18.
FROM THE FRENCH.
How vain is life! Love's little spell, Hate's little strife, And then--farewell! How brief is life! Hope's lessening light With dreams is rife, And then--good night!
BLANCHE M. BURBANK.