FLORA HAINES LOUGHEAD,
in The Abandoned Claim.

SEPTEMBER 27.

THE RUSSET-BACKED THRUSH.

  He dwells where pine and hemlock grow,
    A merry minstrel seldom seen;
  The voice of Joy is his I know—­
    Shy poet of the Evergreen!

  In dawn’s first holy hush I hear
    His one ecstatic, thrilling strain,
  So sweet and strong, so crystal clear
    ’Twould tingle e’en the soul of Pain.

  At close of day when Twilight dreams
    He shakes the air beneath his tree
  With such exquisite song it seems
    That Passion breathes through Melody.

HERBERT BASHFORD,
in At the Shrine of Song.

SEPTEMBER 28.

In Marin County birds hold a unique place, for, as the county is sparsely populated, possessing many wild, secluded valleys, and unnumbered rolling hills covered with virgin forests, it is but natural that the birds should congregate in great numbers, reveling in the solitude which man invariably destroys.

HELEN BINGHAM,
in In Tamal Land.

THE ABALONE.

  I saw a rainbow, for an instant, gleam,
  On the west edge of a receeding swell;
  The next soft surge,
  Which whispering sought the shore,
  Swept to my feet an abalone shell;
  It was the rainbow I had seen before.

JOHN E. RICHARDS,
in Idylls of Monterey.

SEPTEMBER 29.

THE SEAGULL.

  A ceaseless rover, waif of many climes,
    He scorns the tempest, greets the lifting sun
  With wings that fling the light and sinks at times
    To ride in triumph where the tall waves run.

  The rocks tide-worn, the high cliff brown and bare
    And crags of bleak, strange shores he rests upon;
  He floats above, a moment hangs in air
    Clean-etched against the broad, gold breast of dawn.

  Bold hunter of the deep!  Of thy swift flights
    What of them all brings keenest joy to thee—­
  To drive sharp pinions through storm-beaten nights,
    Or shriek amid black hollows of the sea?

HERBERT BASHFORD,
in At the Shrine of Song.

SEPTEMBER 30.

TO A SEA GULL AT SEA.

  Thou winged Wonder! 
  Tell me I pray thy matchless craft,
  Poised in air, then slipping wave-ward,
  Mounting again like an arrow-shaft,
  Circling, swaying, wheeling, dipping,
  All with never a flap of wing,
  Keeping pace with my flying ship here,
  Give me a key to my wondering! 
  Gales but serve thee for swifter flying,
  Foam crested waves with thy wings thou dost sweep,
  Wonderful dun-colored, down-covered body,
  Living thy life on the face of the deep!