Godspeed our namesake cruiser, Godspeed till the echoes cease 'Fore all may the nation choose her To speak her will for peace. That she in the hour of battle Her western fangs may show. That from her broadsides' rattle A listening world may know-- She's more than a fighting vessel, More than mere moving steel, More than a hull to wrestle With the currents at her keel; That she bodies a living-spirit. The spirit of a state, A people's strength and merit, Their hope, their love, their fate. HAROLD S. SYMMES. JANUARY 15. CALIFORNIA AND ITALY. More and more it becomes apparent to me that the Climate of California spoils one for any other in the world. If Californians ever doubt that their winter weather is the finest in the world, let them try that of sunny Italy. If they have ever grumbled at their gentle rains, brought on the wings of mild winds from the south, let them try the raw rain, hail, snow, and sleet storms of sunny Italy. And then forever after let them hold their peace. JEROME A. HART, in _Argonaut Letters._ JANUARY 16. I see thee in this Hellas of the West, Thy youngest, fairest child, upon whose crest Thy white snows gleam, and at whose dimpled feet The blue sea breaks, while on her heaving breast The flowers droop and languish for her smile, Thy grace is mirrored in her youthful form, She lifts her forehead to the battling storm, As proud, as fair as thou. * * * * * Like thee, she opens wide her snowy arms, And folds the Nations on her mother-breast. The brawny Sons of Earth have made their home Where her wide Ocean casts its ceaseless foam, Where lifts her white Sierras' orient peak The wild exultant love of all that makes The nobler life; the energy that shakes the Earth And gives new eons birth. S.A.S.H. of College of Notre Dame, San Jose, in _Hellas._ JANUARY 17. THE RETURN TO CALIFORNIA. Across the desert waste we sped; The cactus gloomed on either hand, Wild, weird, grotesque each frowning head Uprearing from the sand. Through dull, gray dawn and blazing noon, Like furnace fire the quivering air, Till darkness fell, and the young moon Smiled forth serene and fair. A single star adown the sky Shone like a jewel, clear and bright; We heard the far coyote's cry Pierce through the silent night. Then morning--bathed in purple sheen; Beyond--the grand, eternal hills; With sunny, emerald vales between, Crossed by a thousand rills. Sweet groves, green pastures; buzz of bee And scent of flower; a dash of foam On rugged cliffs; the blessed sea, And then--the lights of home! MARY E. MANNIX. JANUARY 18.