There are breaks in the voice of the shouting street Where the smoke drift comes sifting down, And I list to the wind calls, far and sweet-- They are not from the winds of the town. O I lean to the rush of the desert air And the bite of the desert sand, I feel the hunger, the thirst and despair-- And the joy of the still border land! For the ways of the city are blocked to the end With the grim procession of death-- The treacherous love and the shifting friend And the reek of a multitude's breath. But the arms of the Desert are lean and slim And his gaunt breast is cactus-haired, His ways are as rude as the mountain rim-- But the heart of the Desert is bared. HARLEY R. WILEY, in _Out West Magazine._ APRIL 6. In the universal pean of gladness which the earth at Eastertide raises to the Lord of Life, the wilderness and the solitary place have part, and the desert then does in truth blossom as the rose. And how comforting are the blossoms of the desert when at last they have come! When the sun has sunk behind the rim of the verdure-less range of granite hills that westward bound my view, and the palpitating light of the night's first stars shines out in the tender afterglow, I love to linger on the cooling sands and touch my cheek to the flowers. Now has the desert shaken off the livery of death, and ... is become an abiding place of hope. CHARLES FRANCIS SAUNDERS, in _Blossoms of the Desert._ APRIL 7. There had been no hand to lay a wreath upon his tomb. But soon, as if the weeping skies had scattered seeds of pity, tiny flowerets, yellow, blue, red, and white, were sprouting on the sides of the grave. * * * A delicious perfume filled the air. The desert cemetery was now a place of beauty as well as a place of peace. But the silence and solitude remained unbroken, except when a long-tailed lizard scurried through the undergrowth, or a big horned toad, white and black, like patterned enamel, took a blinking peep of melancholy surprise into the yawning ditch that blocked his accustomed way. EDMUND MITCHELL, in _In Desert Keeping._ APRIL 8. To those who know the desert's heart, and through years of closest intimacy--have learned to love it in all its moods; it has for them something that is greater than charm, more lasting than beauty a something to which no man can give a name. Speech is not needed, for they who are elect to love these things understand one another without words; and the desert speaks to them through its silence. IDAH MEACHAM STROBRIDGE, in _Miner's Mirage Land._ At length I struck upon a spot where a little stream of water was oozing out from the bank of sand. As I scraped away the surface I saw something which would have made me dance for joy had I not been weighed down by the long boots. For there, in very truth, was a live Olive, with its graceful shell and a beautiful pearl-colored body. JOSIAH KEEP, in _West Coast Shells._ APRIL 9. DESERT DUST.