The cataclysmal force to which we owe Our glorious Gate of Gold, through which the sea Rushed in to clasp these shores long, long ago, Came once again to crown our destiny With such a grandeur that in sequent years This period of pain which now appears Pregnant with doubt, shall vanish as when day Drives the foreboding dreams of night away. Born of the womb of Woe, where Sorrow sighs, Fostered by Faith, undaunted by Dismay, Earth's fairest City shall from ashes rise. LOUIS ALEXANDER ROBERTSON, in _Through Painted Panes._ APRIL 30. Old San Francisco, which is the San Francisco of only the other day--the day before the earthquake--was divided midway by the Slot. The Slot was an iron crack that ran along the center of Market street, and from the Slot arose the burr of the ceaseless, endless cable that was hitched at will to the cars it dragged up and down. In truth, there were two Slots, but, in the quick grammar of the West, time was saved by calling them, and much more that they stood for, "The Slot." North of the Slot were the theaters, hotels and shipping district, the banks and the staid, respectable business houses. South of the Slot were the factories, slums, laundries, machine shops, boiler works, and the abodes of the working class. JACK LONDON, in _Saturday Evening Post._ MAY 1. HAWAII, WEDNESDAY, MAY 1. 1907. A year ago, Jack and I set out on a horseback trip through the northern counties of California. It just now came to me--not the date itself, but the feel of the sweet country, the sweetness of mountain lilacs, the warm summer-dusty air. * * * And here in Hawaii, I am not sure but I am at home, for our ground is red, too, in the Valley of the Moon, where home is--dear home on the side of Sonoma Mountain, where the colts are, and where the Brown Wolf died. CHARMIAN K. LONDON, in _Log of the Snark._ MAY 2. A dull eyed rattlesnake that lay All loathsome, yellow-skinned, and slept, Coil'd tight as pine-knot, in the sun With flat head through the center run, Struck blindly back. JOAQUIN MILLER. The air was steeped in the warm fragrance of a California spring. Every crease and wrinkle of the encircling hills was reflected in the blue stillness of the laguna. Patches of poppies blazed like bonfires on the mesa, and higher up the faint smoke of the blossoming buckthorn tangled its drifts in the chaparral. Bees droned in the wild buckwheat, and powdered themselves with the yellow of the mustard, and now and then the clear, staccato voice of the meadow-lark broke into the drowsy quiet--a swift little dagger of sound. MARGARET COLLIER GRAHAM, in _Stories of the Foothills._ MAY 3. THE SEA GARDENS AT CATALINA.