The maple sweet; the manzanete;
The gentle willow weeping;
The larch; the yew; the oak so true,
Kind mother strong and tender;
Or, white and green, in gloss and sheen,
Queen Magnolia's splendor?
One wan, hot noon. His path was strewn,
Whose love did all love quicken,
With leaves of palm while song and psalm
Held all the world to listen.
For His dear sake, the palm we'll take--
Each frond shall be a prayer
That He will guide, whate'er betide,
Until we meet Him there.

CHARLES J. WOODBURY.



JULY 22.


The landscape, glazed with heat, seemed to faint under the unwinking
glare of the sun. From the parched grass-land and the thickets of
chaparral, pungent scents arose--the ardent odors that the woods of
foot-hill California exhale in the hot, breathless quiescence of
summer afternoons. * * *

The air came over it in glassy waves, carrying its dry, aromatic
perfume to one's nostrils. On its burnt expanse a few huge live-oaks