The strong westerly winds drawing in through the Golden Gate sweep with un.o.bstructed force over the channel, and, meeting the outflowing and swiftly moving water, kick up a sea that none but good boats can overcome. To go from San Francisco to the usual cruising grounds the channel must be crossed. There is no way out of it. And it is to this circ.u.mstance, most probably, we are indebted for as expert a body of yachtsmen as there is anywhere in the United States. Timid, nervous, unskilled men cannot handle yachts under such conditions of wind and waves. The yachtsmen must have confidence in themselves, and must have boats under them which are seaworthy and staunch enough to keep on their course, regardless of adverse circ.u.mstances.

CHARLES G. YALE, in _Yachting in San Francis...o...b..y_, in _The Californian._

APRIL 15.

THE LIZARD.

I sit among the h.o.a.ry trees With Aristotle on my knees And turn with serious hand the pages, Lost in the cobweb-hush of ages; When suddenly with no more sound Than any sunbeam on the ground, The little hermit of the place Is peering up into my face-- The slim gray hermit of the rocks, With bright, inquisitive, quick eyes, His life a round of harks and shocks, A little ripple of surprise.

Now lifted up, intense and still, Sprung from the silence of the hill He hangs upon the ledge a-glisten.

And his whole body seems to listen!

My pages give a little start, And he is gone! to be a part Of the old cedar's crumpled bark.

A mottled scar, a weather mark!

EDWIN MARKHAM, in _Lincoln and Other Poems._

APRIL 16.

I lived in a region of remote sounds. On Russian Hill I looked down as from a balloon; all there is of the stir of the city comes in distant bells and whistles, changing their sound, just as scenery moves, according to the state of the atmosphere. The islands shift as if enchanted, now near and plain, then removed and dim. The bay widening, sapphire blue, or narrowing, green and gray, or, before a storm, like quicksilver.

EMMA FRANCES DAWSON, in _An Itinerant House._

APRIL 17.

Although we dread earthquakes with all their resultant destruction, yet it is well to recognize the fact that if it were not for them we would find here in California little of that wonderful scenery of which we are so proud. Our earthquakes are due to movements similar to those which, through hundreds of thousands of years, have been raising the lofty mountains of the Cordilleran region. The Sierra Nevada range, with its abrupt eastern scarp nearly two miles high, faces an important line of fracture along which movements have continued to take place up to the present time.

HAROLD W. FAIRBANKS, in _The Great Earthquake Rift of California._

APRIL 18.

APRIL EIGHTEENTH.

Three years have pa.s.sed, oh, City! since you lay-- A smoking shambles--stricken by the l.u.s.t Of Nature's evil pa.s.sions. In a day I saw your splendor crumble into dust.

So vast your desolation, so complete Your tragedy of ruin that there seemed Small hope of rallying from such defeat-- Of seeing you arisen and redeemed.

Yet, three short years have marked a sure rebirth To splendid urban might; a higher place Among the ruling cities of the earth And left of your disaster but a trace.

Refined in flame and tempered, as a blade Of iron into steel of flawless ring-- City of the Spirit Unafraid!

What wondrous destiny the years will bring!

LOUIS J. STELLMAN, in _San Francisco Globe, April_ 18, 1909.

APRIL 19.

O, EVANESCENCE!

(SAN FRANCISCO.)

I loved a work of dreams that bloomed from Art; A town and her turrets rose As from the red heart Of the couchant suns where the west wind blows And worlds lie apart.

Calm slept the sea-flats; beneath the blue dome Copper and gold and alabaster gleamed, And sea-birds came home.

But I woke in a sorrowful day; The vision was scattered away.

Ashes and dust lie deep on the dream that I dreamed.

HERMAN SCHEFFAUER, in _Looms of Life._

APRIL 20.

SAN FRANCISCO.

What matters that her mult.i.tudinous store-- The garnered fruit of measureless desire-- Sank in the maelstrom of abysmal fire, To be of man beheld on earth no more?

Her loyal children, cheery to the core.

Quailed not, nor blenched, while she, above the ire Of elemental ragings, dared aspire On victory's wings resplendently to soar.

What matters all the losses of the years, Since she can count the subjects as her own That share her fortunes under every fate; Who weave their brightest tissues from her tears, And who, although her best be overthrown, Resolve to make her and to keep her great.

EDWARD ROKESON TAYLOR, in _Sunset Magazine._

APRIL 21.

They could hear the roar and crackle of the fire and the crashing of walls; but even more formidable was that tramping of thousands of feet, the sc.r.a.ping of trunks and furniture on the tracks and stones. *

* * It was a well and a carefully dressed crowd, for by this time nearly everyone had recovered from the shock of the earthquake; many forgotten it, no doubt, in the new horror. * * * They pushed trunks to which skates had been attached, or pulled them by ropes; they trundled sewing machines and pieces of small furniture, laden with bundles.

Many carried pillow-cases, into which they had stuffed a favorite dress and hat, an extra pair of boots and a change of underclothing, some valuable bibelot or bundle of doc.u.ments; to say nothing of their jewels and what food they could lay hands on. Several women wore their furs, as an easier way of saving them, and children carried their dolls. Their state of mind was elemental. * * * The refinements of sentiment and all complexity were forgotten; they indulged in nothing so futile as complaint, nor even conversation. And the sense of the common calamity sustained them, no doubt, de-individualized them for the hour.

GERTRUDE ATHERTON, in _Ancestors._

APRIL 22.

The sun is dying; s.p.a.ce and room.

Serenity, vast sense of rest, Lie bosomed in the orange west Of Orient waters. Hear the boom Of long, strong billows; wave on wave, Like funeral guns above a grave.