Although we dread earthquakes with all their resultant destruction, yet it is well to recognize the fact that if it were not for them we would find here in California little of that wonderful scenery of which we are so proud. Our earthquakes are due to movements similar to those which, through hundreds of thousands of years, have been raising the lofty mountains of the Cordilleran region. The Sierra Nevada range, with its abrupt eastern scarp nearly two miles high, faces an important line of fracture along which movements have continued to take place up to the present time. HAROLD W. FAIRBANKS, in _The Great Earthquake Rift of California._ APRIL 18. APRIL EIGHTEENTH. Three years have passed, oh, City! since you lay-- A smoking shambles--stricken by the lust Of Nature's evil passions. In a day I saw your splendor crumble into dust. So vast your desolation, so complete Your tragedy of ruin that there seemed Small hope of rallying from such defeat-- Of seeing you arisen and redeemed. Yet, three short years have marked a sure rebirth To splendid urban might; a higher place Among the ruling cities of the earth And left of your disaster but a trace. Refined in flame and tempered, as a blade Of iron into steel of flawless ring-- City of the Spirit Unafraid! What wondrous destiny the years will bring! LOUIS J. STELLMAN, in _San Francisco Globe, April_ 18, 1909. APRIL 19. O, EVANESCENCE! (SAN FRANCISCO.) I loved a work of dreams that bloomed from Art; A town and her turrets rose As from the red heart Of the couchant suns where the west wind blows And worlds lie apart. Calm slept the sea-flats; beneath the blue dome Copper and gold and alabaster gleamed, And sea-birds came home. But I woke in a sorrowful day; The vision was scattered away. Ashes and dust lie deep on the dream that I dreamed. HERMAN SCHEFFAUER, in _Looms of Life._ APRIL 20. SAN FRANCISCO. What matters that her multitudinous store-- The garnered fruit of measureless desire-- Sank in the maelstrom of abysmal fire, To be of man beheld on earth no more? Her loyal children, cheery to the core. Quailed not, nor blenched, while she, above the ire Of elemental ragings, dared aspire On victory's wings resplendently to soar. What matters all the losses of the years, Since she can count the subjects as her own That share her fortunes under every fate; Who weave their brightest tissues from her tears, And who, although her best be overthrown, Resolve to make her and to keep her great. EDWARD ROKESON TAYLOR, in _Sunset Magazine._ APRIL 21.