ARTHUR INKERSLEY,
in Overland Monthly.

SEPTEMBER 7.

  My roses bud and bloom and fail me never,
    From Lent and Whitsun to the Christmas time;
  Climbing in eagerness and great endeavor—­
    Our Southland bushes ever love to climb.

JAMES MAIN DIXON,
in My Garden.

How bright the world looked, to be sure; flowers covered the earth, not scattered in niggardly manner as in the older, colder Eastern states, but covering the earth for miles, showing nothing but a sea of blue, an ocean of crimson, or a wilderness of yellow.  Then came patches where all shades and colors were mixed; delicate tints of pink and mauve, of pure white and deep red, and over all floated a fragrance that was never equaled by garden-flowers or their distilled perfume.

JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD McCRACKIN,
in Overland Tales.

SEPTEMBER 8.

The love that gives all, craves all, asks nothing, is so bitter that no one lifts the cup voluntarily, and yet if the sweetness of it could be distilled, prosperous love would regard it enviously and kings seek it on foot.

AMANDA MATHEWS,
in Hieroglyphics of Love.

The world will never be saved from its sin and shame until a larger number of men are ready to lash themselves like Ulysses of old to those enduring principles of righteousness which stand erect like masts and sail on, no matter what sirens of personal indulgence sing along the course.

CHARLES REYNOLDS BROWN.

SEPTEMBER 9.

TO CALIFORNIA: 

    Queen of the Sunset! 
  Within the crown upon thy forehead glow
  The crystal jewels of eternal snow. 
  Down at thy feet the broad Pacific towers,
  And Summer ever binds thy breast with flowers.

MADGE MORRIS WAGNER,
in Debris.

The religious life of California is characterized by the spirit of freedom and tolerance.  The aim has been to “Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s,” by legislating only in regard to those secular interests in which all stand alike before the law and to leave to the free and untrammeled decision of the individual conscience those deeper, personal attitudes and relationships “which are God’s.”

CHARLES REYNOLDS BROWN.

SEPTEMBER 10.

  Gay little oriole, fond little lover,
  Watching thy mate o’er her tiny ones hover,
  Tell me, I pray, from your cottonwood tree,
  When will my true love come riding to me?

  Will he come with his lariat hung at his side? 
  On a wild prancing bronco, my love, will he ride? 
  So high on your tree top you surely can see,
  O, how will my true love come riding to me?