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arms of Progress battle beauty bird blood is fishes boys breath Bright fires brushwood burning cheeks cheer cormorant cottage crew crystal water day of heaven days of length dear death deck dread dreams drew e'er ELM SPRING ev'ry eyes fear fires of brushwood flash glass—the fight gleam glory glow golden sun hear heart Here's high the glass—the hour Jennie Brown JOAQUIN MILLER Juanita LAKE TAHOE land live Makers Syracuse MARSH MILL WATERFALL mast Midst MILLER IS DEAD mountain neath never night o'er the sea ocean ocean's pride passed Peace pirates rhyme round sailed Sailors three SANTA MONICA second line shark ship shore shriek silence sing song soul spirit Splash—splash—splash stanza star strength and days strife on earth tell thee thing Thou turn twenty-one today voice in wind waters waves West wheat is grinding YE SONS yell Of th young Miss Brown
Page 5 - THE VOLCANO I heard a mighty mountain clear its throat, I saw it burst with lava and fierce flame, I felt a trembling, and the crackling note And roar of streaming lava to me came. I saw the heavens darken, and the glare Of wild flame come bursting through the gloom ; I turned, and saw a city rising fair, A moment more, I saw the city's doom. BURNS' COTT4GE The spirit of his Mary lingers here — That raindrop isn't rain, it is a tear.
Page 36 - Arouml about it cresses grow, Above, the wooded violets blow, The cowslips in the grasses stray, And ever the crystal waters play. The rocks of old around it stand, So rudely carved by the storm god's hand, And on their dripping side so cold The moss and the lichen have taken hold.
Page 27 - Its form, says an ingenious modern, is disagreeable ; its voice is hoarse and croaking, and all its qualities obscene. No wonder, then, that Milton should make Satan personate this bird, when he sent him upon the basest purposes, to survey with pain the beauties of Paradise, and to sit devising death on the tree of life...
Page 9 - My emotion passed away. I said: "I have come to see the man who carried a laurel wreath from California to England to lay on the grave of Byron." His mind reverted to those early days. He gave a quick nod, and said: "Byron made Italy; Byron said, 'The mountains look on Marathon, and Marathon looks on the sea.
Page 36 - ELM SPRING Below our farm a mile or so The Elm Spring's waters rise and flow; By spreading elm and towering spruce It turns its crystal waters loose. Around about it cresses grow, Above, the wooded violets blow, The cowslips in the grasses stray, And ever the cooling waters play. The rocks of old around it stand, So rudely carved by the stormgod's hand, And on their dripping side so cold The moss and the lichen have taken hold. 'Tis there the cows from pastures near Come to drink of the waters clear,...
Page 7 - In a quaint little cottage high up on the hills overlooking the Golden Gate, there has passed to eternity the spirit of a very great man — a man who could interpret Nature, who loved God, and his fellowmen, the man whom Tennyson called the greatest poet America has produced.
Page 6 - I am God's warning When He is angry! O'er village and city I'm sent on His errand, Dealing destruction, Death and wild carnage Midst a weak people O'er whom I am master! Oaks on the mountain, Lords of their kingdom, Sway and snap sharply, And crash to the valley!
Page 8 - Indian relics, shells, articles sf clothing, etc., without meaning or order; the great wooden bedstead, a mountain of blankets, and that wonderful face and head rising majestically over all. Then a gleam from the poet's wonderfully clear and arilliant eyes — the eyes of genius — caught mine.
Page 8 - In half an hour I came to the gate of the poet's home. I was weak and dizzy, having been suffering with grip, and paused a moment to recover before knocking at the door. My approach had been heard by the daughter, who met me at the front door, and motioned me to the side door, which opened to the poet's bed room.
Page 7 - In that little cottage, bending over the massive, silvered brow, are the sorrowing widow, and the heart-broken daughter, Juanita. Miller is dead. The world bewails his loss, but his poems will live forever. Just one year ago I was privileged to meet Mr. 8 Miller, to grasp his hand and to talk with him. Getting off the car in Fruitvale, I started up the long ascent that leads to "The Mights.