t motionless wing whose power puzzles all
philosophy.

T.S. VANDYKE.

OCTOBER 2.

Wild fowl, quacking hordes of them, nest in the tulares. Any day's
venture will raise from open shallows the great blue heron on his
hollow wings. Chill evenings the mallard drakes cry continually from
the glassy pools, the bittern's hollow boom rolls along the water
paths. Strange and far-flown fowl drop down against the saffron, autumn
sky. All day wings beat above it with lazy speed; long flights of
cranes glimmer in the twilight. By night one wakes to hear the clanging
geese go over. One wishes for, but gets no nearer speech from those the
ready fens have swallowed up. What they do there, how fare, what find,
is the secret of the tulares.

MARY AUSTIN,
in _The Land of Little Rain._

OCTOBER 3.

MOCKING BIRD.

Warble, whistle and ripple! wake! whip up! ha! ha!
Burgle, bubble and frolic--a roundelay far!
Pearls on pearls break and roll like bright drops from a bowl!
And they thrill, as they spill in a rill, o'er my soul:
Then thou laughest so light
From thy rapturous height!
Earth and Heaven are combined, in thy full dulcet tone;
North and south pour the nectar thy throat blends in one!
Flute and flageolet, bugle, light zither, guitar!
Diamond, topaz and ruby! Sun, moon, silver star!
Ripe cherries in wine!
Orange blossoms divine!
Genius of Songsters! so matchless in witchery!
Nature hath fashioned thee out of her mystery!

JOHN WARD STIMSON,
in _Wandering Chords._

OCTOBER 4.

THE MOCKING BIRD.

Can anything be more ecstatic than the mockingbird's manner as he pours
out his soul in song, flirting that expressive tail--that seems hung on
wires, jerking those emphatic wings, which say so much, turning his
dainty head this way and that, and now and then flinging himself upon
the air--light as a feather--in pure delight, and floating down to
place again without dropping a note. It is a poem in action to see him,
so lithe, so graceful in every movement.

OLIVE THORNE MILLER.

OCTOBER 5.

THE MOCKING BIRD.

Each flower a single fragrance gives,
But not the perfume of the rest;
Within each fruit one flavor lives,
Not all the flavors of our quest;
In every bird one song we note
That seems the sweeter without words;
Yet from the mock-bird's mellow throat
Come all the songs of other birds.

FRED EMERSON BROOKS,
in _Pickett'