From collected 1/2 million of persons on hills of S.F. one mad yell of star-spangly joy. Fire-crack salute, siren whistle, honk-horn, megaphone, extra edition, tenor solo--all connected together to give impressions of loyal panderonium.

WALLACE IRWIN, in _Letters of a j.a.panese Schoolboy._

FEBRUARY 21.

CALIFORNIA TO THE FLEET.

Behold, upon thy yellow sands, I wait with laurels in my hands.

The Golden Gate swings wide and there I stand with poppies in my hair.

Come in, O ships! These happy seas Caressed the golden argosies Of forty-nine. They felt the keel Of dark Ayala's pinnace steal Across the mellow gulf and pa.s.s Unchallenged, under Alcatraz.

Not War we love, but Peace, and these Are but the White Dove's argosies-- The symbols of a mighty will No tyrant hand may use for ill.

DANIEL S. RICHARDSON, in _Trail Dust._

FEBRUARY 22.

The splendors of a Sierra sunset cannot be accurately delineated by pencil or brush. The combined pigments of a Hill and a Moran and a Bierstadt cannot adequately reproduce so gorgeous a canvas. The lingering sun floods all the west with flame; it touches with scarlet tint the serrated outlines of the distant summits and hangs with golden fringe each silvery cloud. Then the colors soften and turn into amber and lilac and maroon. These soon a.s.similate and dissolve and leave an ashes of rose haze on all far-away objects, when receding twilight spreads its veil and shuts from view all but the mountain outlines, the giant taxodiums and the fantastic fissures of the canyons beneath.

BEN C. TRUMAN, in _Occidental Sketches._

FEBRUARY 23.

GOLDEN GATE PARK IN MIDWINTER.

The dewdrops hang on the bending gra.s.s, A dragon-fly cuts a sunbeam through.

The moaning cypress trees lift somber arms Up to skies of cloudless blue.

A humming-bird sips from a golden cup, In the hedge a hidden bird sings, And a b.u.t.terfly among the flowers Tells me that the soul has wings.

GRACE HIBBARD, in _Wild Roses of California._

FEBRUARY 24.

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.

JOHN MUIR.

It was indeed a glorious morning. The bay, a molten blaze of many blended hues, bore upon its serene surface the flags of all nations, above which brooded the white doves of peace. Crafts of every conceivable description swung in the flame-lit fathoms that laved the feet of the stately hills, then stepping out, one by one, from their gossamer night robes to receive the first kiss of dawn.

Grim Alcatraz, girdled with bristling armaments, scintillating in the sun, suggested the presence of some monster leviathan, emerging from the deep, still undivested of gems, from his submarine home.

EUGENIA KELLOGG, in _The Awakening of Poccalito._

FEBRUARY 25.

THE SIERRA NEVADAS

They watch and guard the sleeping dells Where ice born torrents flow-- A myriad granite sentinels, Helmed and cuira.s.sed with snow.

Yon glacial torrent's deep, hoa.r.s.e lute Its upward music flings-- The great, eternal crags stand mute, And listen while it sings O mighty range! Thy wounds and scars, Thy weird, bewildering forms, Attest thine everlasting wars-- Thy heritage of storms And still what peace! Serenity On crag and deep abyss, O, may such calmness fall on me When Azrael stoops to kiss.

GEORGE N. LOWE.

FEBRUARY 26.

Tamalpais is a wooded mountain with ample slopes, and from it on the north stretch away ridges of forest land, the out posts of the great Northern woods of _Sequoia sempervirens_, This mountain and the mountainous country to the south bring the forest closer to San Francisco than to any other American city. Within the last few years men have killed deer on the slopes of Tamalpais and looked down to see the cable cars crawling up the hills of San Francisco to the south. In the suburbs coyotes still stole in and robbed hen roosts by night.

WILL IRWIN, in _The City That Was._

FEBRUARY 27.

DAWN ON MOUNT TAMALPAIS.

A cloudless heaven is bending o'er us, The dawn is lighting the linn and lea; Island and headland and bay before us, And, dim in the distance, the heaving sea.

The Farallon light is faintly flashing, The birds are wheeling in fitful flocks, The coast-line brightens, the waves are dashing And tossing their spray on the Lobos rocks.

The Heralds of Morn in the east are glowing And boldly lifting the veil of night; Whitney and Shasta are bravely showing Their crowns of snow in the morning light.

The town is stirring with faint commotion, In all its highways it throbs and thrills; We greet you! Queen of the Western Ocean, As you wake to life on your hundred hills.

The forts salute, and the flags are streaming From ships at anchor in cove and strait; O'er the mountain tops, in splendor beaming, The sun looks down on the Golden Gate.

LUCIUS HARWOOD FOOTE.

FEBRUARY 28.