D. W. E.
BIMINI SPRINGS LOS ANGELES, CAL.
PALOMAR.
mile above the ocean’s level brim
Tow’rs Palomar, the monarch of the range.
Along its western base are frostless hills
With verdure crowned, and valleys green, where bloom
And fruitage fill the air with sweet perfume.
Green pastures, rich with herbage and bright flowers,
Bedeck the eastern slopes which fall away
A lone and weary desert land to meet;
To meet a lone and weary desert land—
A rich and rocky land where mines of wealth
Have slumbered long beneath its arid wastes.
So stands in majesty this mountain grand
Between the desert and the western sea.
From ocean’s heaving breast, she upward sent
A humid vapor, in the skies to meet
And woo the softer breezes that ascend
From off the heated earth at eventide.
A gentle zephyr was at play among
The cacti beds and yuccas tall, that lift
Their spiny leaves and tufted fronds above
The burning sands; she softly breathed a sigh,
And floating upward in the milky way
She met and wed the vapor from the sea;
For each had found a true affinity.
The moon withdrew and hid her face behind
The distant isles; and from the blushing east
A ray of sunlight came and kissed the bride.
Together in the skies, these twain have wrought
A mantle, soft as down, of spotless white;
And often as the evening twilight falls,
Or dewy morning sheds her purple tints,
They come and spread it over Palomar.
Thus runs the legend which has oft been told;
And which the Indian maiden whispers low
When snow white clouds hang over Palomar.
THE HIDDEN CABIN.
The rugged sides of Palomar are deep
With canyons cleft, where raging floods have made
Their downward path and held their course unchained.
Beyond the eagle’s nest and rocky crag,
Where giant arborvitaes throw their plumes
Athwart the sky; and crystal waters cold
And pure, come sparkling from a mountain spring;
By bending boughs and tangled vines shut out
From view, the hidden cabin stood; and there
Today it stands, and there has stood unkept,
In mystery wrapped, a hundred years or more
Since its last tenant left it there alone.
It stands where it was builded long ago;
Yet not the same as in the days of old,
For long disuse and winters’ storms and rain
Have left their mark; but still enough remains
To show that in the hands of him who built
No joiner’s tools were held; divested of
All metals with sharp edge save only axe
And auger, which he plied with master hand
To hew the timbers smooth, and cut and fit
The doors and frames; and fitting, through these sent
The auger’s teeth to clear the way for pins
Of wood with which he made all fast and strong.
A strange, pathetic story centers round
This lonely spot; the story of a true
And faithful soul who counted life best spent
By those who strive to crucify the flesh,
And emulate—as best poor mortal may—
The life of Him who lived and died for love;
For love of those who loved and hated Him.