Insect or blossom? Fragile, fairy thing, Poised upon slender tip, and quivering To flight! a flower of the fields of air; A jeweled moth; a butterfly, with rare And tender tints upon his downy wings, A moment resting in our happy sight; A flower held captive by a thread so slight Its petal-wings of broidered gossamer Are light as the wind, with every wind astir, Wafting sweet odor, faint and exquisite. O dainty nursling of the field and sky. What fairer thing looks up to heaven's blue And drinks the noontide sun, the dawning's dew? Thou winged bloom! thou blossom-butterfly! INA D. COOLBRITH, in _Songs from the Golden Gate._ AUGUST 31. CALIFORNIA PHILOSOPHY. You kin talk about yer eastern states, their stiddy growth 'nd size, 'Nd brag about yer cities, with their business enterprise; You kin blow about tall buildin's runnin' clean up to the clouds, 'Nd gas about yer graded streets 'nd chirp about yer crowds; But how about yer "twisters" 'nd the cyclones you have there, That's runnin' 'round uncorralled 'nd a-gittin' on a tear, 'Nd a-mixin' towns 'nd counties up at sich a tarnal rate A man can't be dead sartin that he's in his native state. You needn't talk to me about yer "enterprise" 'nd "go," Fer how about them river floods us folks hear tell of so, Where a feller goes to bed at night with nary thought o' fear, 'Nd discovers in the mornin' that he's changed his hemisphere; 'Nd where grasshoppers eat the crops 'nd all about the place, But leave that gilt-edged mortgage there ter stare you in the face. If that is where you want ter live it's where you'd orter be, But I reckon ol' Cal'forny's good 'nough fer me. I sort o' low the climate thar is somewhat diff'runt too, Accordin' to the weather prophet's watchful p'int o' view. In course, if ten foot snowbanks don't bother you at all, Er slosh 'nd mud 'nd drizzlin' rain, combined with a snowfall, It's just the most delightful spot this side o' heaven's dome-- But I kind o' sorter reckon that I couldn't call it home. When you talk about that climate, it's all tomfoolery, Fer sunny ol' Cal'forny's good enough fer me. Oh, you live away back east, you don't know what you miss By stayin' in that measly clime, without the joy an' bliss Of knowin' what the weather is from one day to the next; It's "mebby this," "I hope it's that," er some such like pretext. Come out to Californy' whar the sky is allers bright, 'Nd where the sun shines all the while, with skeerce a cloud in sight; You'd never pine fer eastern climes--ther's no denyin' that-- Fer when you want a heaven on earth, Los Angeles stands pat. E.A. BRININSTOOL. CALIFORNIA.