FRANCES M. MILNE,
in For Today.

NOVEMBER 3.

During this first autumn rain, those of us who are so fortunate as to live in the country are conscious of a strange odor pervading all the air.  It is as though Dame Nature were brewing a vast cup of herb tea, mixing in the fragrant infusion all the plants dried and stored so carefully during the summer.  When the clouds vanish after this baptismal shower, everything is charmingly fresh and pure, and we have some of the rarest of days.  Then the little seeds, harbored through the long summer in earth’s bosom, burst their coats and push up their tender leaves, till on hillside and valley-floor appears a delicate mist of green, which gradually confirms itself into a soft, rich carpet—­and all the world is verdure clad.  Then we begin to look eagerly for our first flowers.

MARY ELIZABETH PARSONS,
in The Wild Flowers of California.

NOVEMBER 4.

In basketry the Pomo Indians of California found an outlet for the highest conceptions of art that their race was capable of.  Protected by their isolation from other tribes, they worked out their ideas undisturbed—­with every incentive for excellence they had reached a height in basketry when the American first disturbed them which has never been equaled—­not only by no other Indian tribe, but by no other people in the world in any age.  These stolid Indian women have a knowledge of materials and their preparation, a delicacy of touch, an artistic conception of symmetry, of form and design, a versatility in varying and inventing beautiful designs, and an eye for color, which place their work on a high plane of art.

CARL PURDY,
in Out West.

NOVEMBER 5.

WHEN IT RAINS IN CALIFORNY.

  When it rains in Californy
    It makes the tourist mad,
  But folks that’s got the crops to raise
    Is feelin’ mighty glad;
  I stand out in the showers,
    Wet as a drownded rat,
  And watch the grain a-growin’,
    And the cattle gettin’ fat.

  Sorry for them Easterners,
    Kickin’ like Sam Hill,
  But the sun-kissed land is thirsty
    And wants to drink its fill. 
  Oh, hear the poppies laughin’,
    And the happy mockers sing,
  When it rains in Californy,
    Through the glory of the spring.

JOHN S. McGROARTY,
in Just California.

NOVEMBER 6.

The broad valley had darkened.  The mountains opposite had lost their sharp details and dulled to an opaque silver blue in the mists of twilight.  They had become great shadow mountains, broad spirit masses, and seemed to melt imperceptibly from form to form toward the horizon....

There had come a harmony more perfect than life could ever give.  It included all their love that had gone before and something greater, vaster—­all life, all nature, and all God.