6th—O poppy, beloved harbinger of California spring!
I “hung on the honourable eyes” of a poppy by my door. Its quaking cup burnt in love (for a meadow-lark perhaps).
“Let me feed you, my new friend!” I said, and brought out a cupful of water.
I moistened it.
A golden flake of the sun-ray came down to it. It smiled, daintily thanking me for my humble treat.
I stared at it, slowly fabricating a fable of its love affair, when the breeze sent me a dreamy song.
The song was old-fashioned, like the afternoon snore of a water-wheel.
I plunged into the song, not knowing who was the singer.
“Ara, ara, Grandmamma’s song!” I exclaimed.
She is the aged mother of our poet. She is within the rim of ninety. I suspected her of having discovered the “Elixir for Preserving Eternal Girlhood.” You cannot help esteeming her a philosopher when you are told that she has visited San Francisco only twice in ten years. I have no bit of doubt that she would die if you were to rob her of the sight of her flower garden and one stout scrap-book about her son’s poems. They work a miracle. What a mystery is human life!