Or, white and green, in gloss and sheen,
Queen Magnolia's splendor?
One wan, hot noon. His path was strewn,
Whose love did all love quicken,
With leaves of palm while song and psalm
Held all the world to listen.
For His dear sake, the palm we'll take--
Each frond shall be a prayer
That He will guide, whate'er betide,
Until we meet Him there.

CHARLES J. WOODBURY.

JULY 22.

The landscape, glazed with heat, seemed to faint under the unwinking
glare of the sun. From the parched grass-land and the thickets of
chaparral, pungent scents arose--the ardent odors that the woods of
foot-hill California exhale in the hot, breathless quiescence of
summer afternoons. * * *

The air came over it in glassy waves, carrying its dry, aromatic
perfume to one's nostrils. On its burnt expanse a few huge live-oaks
rose dark and dome-like, their shadows, black and irregular, staining
the ground beneath them.

GERALDINE BONNER,
in _The Pioneer._

JULY 23.

With great discomfort and considerable difficulty they threaded this
miniature forest, starting all sorts of wild things as they went on.
Cotton-tail rabbits fled before them. Gophers stuck their heads out of
the ground, and viewed them with jewel-like eyes, then noiselessly
retreated to their underground preserves. Large gray ground squirrels
sat up on their haunches, with bushy tails curled gracefully around
them and wee forepaws dropped downward as if in mimic courtesy, but
scampered off at their approach. Flocks of birds arose from their
feeding grounds, and lizards rustled through the dead leaves.

FLORA HAINES LOUGHEAD,
in _The Abandoned Claim._

JULY 24.

THE SENTINEL TREE.
(CYPRESS POINT, CALIFORNIA.)

A giant sentinel, alone it stands
On rocky headland where the breakers roar,
Parted from piny woods and pebbled shore.
Holding out branches as imploring hands.
Poor lonely tree, where never bird doth make
Its nest, or sing at morn and eve to thee,
Nor in whose shadow wild rose calleth bee
To come on gauzy wing for love's sweet sake.
Nature cares for thee, gives thee sunshine gold,
Handfuls of pearls cast from the crested waves,
For thee pink-throated shells soft murmurs hold,
And seaweed vested chorists chant in caves.
Whence came thee, lone one of an alien band.
To guard an outpost of this sunset land?

GRACE HIBBARD,
in _Forget-me-nots from California._

JULY 25.