JOHN WARD STIMSON,
in _Wandering Chords._



JULY 28.


High above on the western cliff a giant head of cactus reared infernal
arms and luminous bloom. One immense clump threw a shadow across the
cliff road where it leaves the river plain and winds along the canyon
to the mesa above the sea--the road over which in the old days the
Mission Indians bore hides to the ships and flung them from the cliffs
to the waiting boats below.

MARAH ELLIS RYAN,
in _For the Soul of Rafael._



JULY 29.


Distinct from all others, the sequoias are a race apart. The big-tree,
and the redwood of the Coast Range, are the only surviving members of
that ancient family, the giants of the fore-world. Their immense
trunks might be the fluted columns of some noble order of
architecture, surviving its builders like the marble temples of
Greece--columns three hundred feet high and thirty feet through at the
base. Such a vast nave, such majestic aisles, such sublime spires,