It's a long road and sunny, and the fairest in the world-- There are peaks that rise above it in their sunny mantles curled, And it leads from the mountains through a hedge of chaparral, Down to the waters where the sea gulls call. It's a long road and sunny, it's a long road and old. And the brown padres made it for the flocks of the fold; They made it for the sandals of the sinner-folk that trod From the fields in the open to the shelter-house of God. * * * * * We will take the road together through the morning's golden glow, And will dream of those who trod it in the mellowed long ago. JOHN S. MCGROARTY, in _Just California._ JUNE 16. Mrs. Bryton surveyed the coarse furnishings of the adobe with disgust as she was led to the one room where she could secure sleeping accommodation. It contained three beds with as many different colored spreads, queer little pillows, and drawn-work on one towel hanging on a nail. The floor had once been tiled with square mission bricks; but many were broken, some were gone, and the empty spaces were so many traps for unwary feet. MARAH ELLIS RYAN, in _For the Soul of Rafael._ JUNE 17. Of all the old grandees who, not forty years before, had called the Californias their own; living a life of Arcadian magnificence, troubled by few cares, a life of riding over vast estates clad in silk and lace, _botas_ and _sombreros_, mounted upon steeds as gorgeously caparisoned as themselves, eating, drinking, serenading at the gratings of beautiful women, gambling, horse-racing, taking part in splendid religious festivals, with only the languid excitement of an occasional war between rival governors to disturb the placid surface of their lives--of them all Don Roberto was a man of wealth and consequence today. GERTRUDE ATHERTON, in _The Californians._ JUNE 18. The house was a ruinous adobe in the old Mexican quarter of Los Angeles. The great, bare, whitewashed room contained only the altar and a long mirror in a tarnished gilt frame; one, the symbol of earthly vanity; the other, the very portal of heaven. All the carved mahogany furniture had long since gone to buy food and charcoal or a rare black gown. AMANDA MATHEWS, in _The Old Pueblo._ All sorts of men came here in early days--poor men of good family who had failed at home, or were too proud to work there; desperadoes, adventurers, men of middle life and broken fortunes--all of them expecting everything from the new land, and ready to tear the heart out of any one who got in their way. * * * Of course, there are Californians and Californians. GERTRUDE ATHERTON, in _A Whirl Asunder._ JUNE 19.