LOUIS J. STELLMANN, in _San Francisco Town Talk, December_ 6, 1902. MARCH 2. From his windows on Russian Hill one saw always something strange and suggestive creeping through the mists of the bay. It would be a South Sea Island brig, bringing in copra, to take out cottons and idols; a Chinese junk after sharks' livers; an old whaler, which seemed to drip oil, home from a year of cruising in the Arctic. Even the tramp windjammers were deep-chested craft, capable of rounding the Horn or of circumnavigating the globe; and they came in streaked and picturesque from their long voyaging. WILL IRWIN, in _The City That Was._ MARCH 3. WILD HONEY. The swarms that escape from their careless owners have a weary, perplexing time of it in seeking suitable homes. Most of them make their way to the foot-hills of the mountains, or to the trees that line the banks of the rivers, where some hollow log or trunk may be found. A friend of mine, while out hunting on the San Joaquin, came upon an old coon trap, hidden among some tall grass, near the edge of the river, upon which he sat down to rest. Shortly afterward his attention was attracted to a crowd of angry bees that were flying excitedly about his head, when he discovered that he was sitting upon their hive, which was found to contain more than 200 pounds of honey. JOHN MUIR, in _The Mountains of California._ MARCH 4. PHOSPHORESCENT SEA WAVES, BALBOA BEACH, CAL. Responsive to my oar and hand, Touching to glory sea and sand. A glint, a sparkle, a flash, a flame, An ecstasy above all name. What art thou, strange, mysterious flame? Art thou some flash of central fire, So pure and strong thou wilt not expire Tho' plunged in ocean's seething main? Mayest thou not be that sacred flame, Creative, moulding, purging fire. Aspiring, abandoning all desire Shaping perfection from Life's pain? MARY RUSSELL MILLS, in _Fellowship Magazine._ MARCH 5. THE JOY OF THE HILLS. I ride on the mountain tops, I ride; I have found my life and am satisfied. * * * * * I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget Life's hoard of regret-- All the terror and pain Of the chafing chain. Grind on, O cities, grind; I leave you a blur behind. I am lifted elate--the skies expand; Here the world's heaped gold is a pile of sand. Let them weary and work in their narrow walls; I ride with the voices of waterfalls! I swing on as one in a dream; I swing Down the airy hollows, I shout, I sing! The world is gone like an empty word; My body's a bough in the wind, my heart a bird. EDWIN MARKHAM, in _The Man with a Hoe, and Other Poems._ MARCH 6.