SIESTA.

A shady nook where nought is overheard But wind among the eucalyptus leaves, The cheery chirp of interflitting bird, Or wooden squeak of tree-frog as it grieves.

The resting eye broods o'er the running gra.s.s, Or nodding gestures of the bowed wild oats; Watches the oleander lancers pa.s.s, And the bright flashing of the oriole notes.

Hushed are the senses with the drone of bees And the far glimmer of the mid-day heat; Dreams stealing o'er one like the incoming seas, Soft as the rustling zephyrs in the wheat; While on the breeze is borne the call of Love To Love, dear Love, of Majel, the wild dove.

CHARLES ELMER JENNEY, in _Western Field, Dec._, 1905.

SEPTEMBER 18.

One summer there came a road-runner up from the lower valley, peeking and prying, and he never had any patience with the water baths of the sparrows. His own ablutions were performed in the clean, hopeful dust of the chaparral; and whenever he happened on their morning splatterings, he would depress his glossy crest, slant his shining tail to the level of his body, until he looked most like some bright venomous snake, daunting them with shrill abuse and feint of battle.

Then suddenly he would go tilting and balancing down the gully in fine disdain, only to return in a day or two to make sure the foolish bodies were still at it.

MARY AUSTIN, in _The Land of Little Rain._

SEPTEMBER 19.

MEADOW LARKS.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy that I am!

(Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!) Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm.

O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the Spring!

Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain?

Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet!

Ah! he who lives the n.o.blest life finds life the n.o.blest gain.

The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is!

Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and call.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss-- For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!

INA D. COOLBRITH, in _Songs from the Golden Gate._

SEPTEMBER 20.

How could we spare the lark, that most companionable bird of the plains? Wherever one may wander ... his lovely, plaintive, almost human song may be heard nearly everywhere, at frequent intervals the livelong day. He is one of the blessings of this land, one which every lover of beautiful song welcomes as heartily as the ordinary mortal the warm, bright days of this climate.

CHARLES FRANKLIN CARTER, in _Some By-Ways of California._

SEPTEMBER 21.

THE MEADOW LARK AND I.

The song of life is living The love-heart of the year; And the pagan meadow-lark and I Can nothing find to fear.

We build our simple homes For opulence of rest Among the hills and the meadow gra.s.s, And sing our grateful best.

RUBY ARCHER.

SEPTEMBER 22.

THE RUBY-CROWNED KNIGHT.

The dominant characteristic of the Ruby-Crown is subtlety. He conceals his nest, and even his nest-building region, so successfully that few there are who know where he breeds, or who ever find his nest, hidden in the s.h.a.ggy end of a high, swinging branch of spruce or pine, deep in the California mountain recesses. His prettiest trick of concealement is the way he alternately hides and reveals the bright red feathers in his crown. You may watch him a long time, seeing only a wee bit of an olive-green bird, toned with dull yellow underneath, marked on wings and about the eyes with white; but suddenly, a more festive mood comes upon him. The bird is transformed. A jaunty dash of brilliant red upcrests itself upon his head, lighting up his quiet dress.... For several moments this flame of color quivers, then it burns into a mere thread of red and is gone.

VIRGINIA GARLAND, in _Feathered Californians._

SEPTEMBER 23.

SONG OF THE LINNETS.

"Cheer!" "Cheer!" sing the linnets Through rapturous minutes, When daylight first breaks And the golden Dawn streaks Through the rose of the morning--so bright!

"Gone! gone is the Night! It is light!"

"We have buried our heads Under eaves of the sheds, Where our tender broods sleep; And the long watch we keep Through the darkness and silence--till dawn.

It is morn! It is morn! It is morn!"

JOHN WARD STIMSON, in _Wandering Chords._

SEPTEMBER 24.

THE HUMMING BIRD.

Buz-z! whir-r!--a flash and away!

A midget bejeweled mid flowers at play!

A snip of a birdling, the blossom-bells' king, A waif of the sun-beams on quivering wing!

O prince of the fairies, O pygmy of fire, Will nothing those brave little wings of yours tire?

You follow the flowers from southern lands sunny, You pry amid petals all summer for honey!