I saw a rainbow, for an instant, gleam, On the west edge of a receeding swell; The next soft surge, Which whispering sought the shore, Swept to my feet an abalone shell; It was the rainbow I had seen before. JOHN E. RICHARDS, in _Idylls of Monterey._ SEPTEMBER 29. THE SEAGULL. A ceaseless rover, waif of many climes, He scorns the tempest, greets the lifting sun With wings that fling the light and sinks at times To ride in triumph where the tall waves run. The rocks tide-worn, the high cliff brown and bare And crags of bleak, strange shores he rests upon; He floats above, a moment hangs in air Clean-etched against the broad, gold breast of dawn. Bold hunter of the deep! Of thy swift flights What of them all brings keenest joy to thee-- To drive sharp pinions through storm-beaten nights, Or shriek amid black hollows of the sea? HERBERT BASHFORD, in _At the Shrine of Song._ SEPTEMBER 30. TO A SEA GULL AT SEA. Thou winged Wonder! Tell me I pray thy matchless craft, Poised in air, then slipping wave-ward, Mounting again like an arrow-shaft, Circling, swaying, wheeling, dipping, All with never a flap of wing, Keeping pace with my flying ship here, Give me a key to my wondering! Gales but serve thee for swifter flying, Foam crested waves with thy wings thou dost sweep, Wonderful dun-colored, down-covered body, Living thy life on the face of the deep! ANNIE W. BRIGMAN. OCTOBER 1. THE PASSING OF SUMMER. She smiled to the hearts that enshrined her, Then the gold of her banner unfurled And trailing her glories behind her Passed over the rim of the world. HARLEY R. WILEY, in _New England Magazine, October_, 1906. The California condor, the largest of all flying birds, is found only on this coast and only in the southern half of that, although an occasional specimen has been seen in the high Sierra Neveda. Of all the sailing or soaring birds he is the most graceful and wonderful, drifting to and fro, up and down, right or left, in straight lines or curves, for hours at a time, darting like an arrow or hanging still in air with equal ease on that motionless wing whose power puzzles all philosophy. T.S. VANDYKE. OCTOBER 2. Wild fowl, quacking hordes of them, nest in the tulares. Any day's venture will raise from open shallows the great blue heron on his hollow wings. Chill evenings the mallard drakes cry continually from the glassy pools, the bittern's hollow boom rolls along the water paths. Strange and far-flown fowl drop down against the saffron, autumn sky. All day wings beat above it with lazy speed; long flights of cranes glimmer in the twilight. By night one wakes to hear the clanging geese go over. One wishes for, but gets no nearer speech from those the ready fens have swallowed up. What they do there, how fare, what find, is the secret of the tulares. MARY AUSTIN, in _The Land of Little Rain._ OCTOBER 3. MOCKING BIRD.