Who longest wait of all surely wins.

O bees, sweet bees!" I said; "that nearest field Is shining white with fragrant immortelles Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells.

By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.

I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.

O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.

I shall be found with 'Indians' engraved on my brain when I am dead. A fire has been kindled within me, which will never go out.

The wild mustard in Southern California is like that spoken of in the New Testament. . . . Its gold is as distinct a value to the eye as the nugget gold is in the pocket.