WILLIAM L. FINLEY,
in Feathered Foragers.

AUGUST 19.

THE POPPY’S CHIMES.

  With all this youth to cheer his eyes
    No man is ever old,
  With all this wealth to fill his purse
    No one need lack for gold.

  O rare Ben Jonson, you should see
    The draught that I may sup: 
  How sweet the drink, her kiss within. 
    The poppy’s golden cup.

  My lowly queen, I bow to thee
    And worship with my soul: 
  I hope to drink her love from out
    The poppy’s golden bowl.

  Look up, my sweet, and catch my words,
    A secret I would tell: 
  I think I hear her “Yes” ring from
    The poppy’s golden bell.

CHARLES McKNIGHT SAIN,
in Sunset, August, 1908.

AUGUST 20.

Flowering vines overhung, climbed and clung about the balcony pillars and balustrades.  Roses drooped in heavy-headed cascades from second-story railings; the wide purple flowers of the clematis climbed aloft.  On one wall a heliotrope broke in lavender foam and the creamy froth of the Banksia rose dabbled railings and pillars and dripped over on to the ground.  It was a big, cool, friendly looking house with a front door that in summer was always open, giving the approaching visitor a hospitable glimpse of an airy, unencumbered hall.

GERALDINE BONNER,
in The Pioneer.

AUGUST 21.

A DREAM OF POPPIES.

  Brown hills long parched, long lifting to the blue
  Of summer’s brilliant sky but russet hue
    Of sere grass shivering in the trade-wind’s sweep. 
    Soon, with light footfalls, from their tranced sleep
  The first rains bid the poppies rise anew,
  And trills the lark exultant summons, too. 
  How swift at Fancy’s beck those gay crowds leap
  To glowing life!  The eager green leaves creep
    For welcome first; then hooded buds, pale gold,
    Each tender shower and sun-kiss help unfold
  Till smiling hosts crowd all the fields, and still
  A yellow sea of poppies breasts each hill
    And breaks in joyous floods as children hold
  Glad hands the lavish cups as gladly fill!

ELLA M. SEXTON,
in The Golden Poppy.

AUGUST 22.

CALIFORNIA.

  Her poppies fling a cloth of gold
    O’er California’s hills—­
  Fit emblem of the wealth untold
  That hill and dale and plain unfold. 
    Her fame the whole world fills.

ELIZA D. KEITH.

How can one convey meaning to another in a language which that other does not understand?  I can only tell you the charm of the desert, when you, too, have learned to love it.  And then there will be no need for me to speak.