The Days of a Man 



L 206 H 



THE RHYME OF THE PALOS VERDES 



When the U. S. Fish Commission 

 Feels too lazy to go fishing, 

 And the star-eyed Senoritas in 



siesta slumber soft, 

 Let us leave Saint Peter's valley, 

 With its "benzine" and alkali, 

 And its dirty "customhouses," for the 



mountain side aloft. 



Let us to the Palos Verdes 

 Where the vaquero doth herd his 

 By the cactus-sorely-prickled 



on the sagebrush-feeding flocks, 

 To the greenest of green mountains, 

 Which without nor brooks nor fountains 

 Keeps its slopes as sleek, as glossy 



as a mermaid's curling locks. 



Past the burrows which the rabbit 



Digs as if by force of habit 



'Neath the tangled roots of cactus, where 



a plow can never reach; 

 And the little owls (the "Greasers" 

 Call these solemn birds "Professors") 

 On the rabbit burrows dreaming, 



vanish with a sudden screech. 



Though the air appears so quiet 



The mirage doth wildly riot 



On the highlands and the islands, 



building pinnacles like mad. 

 Far beyond, across the islands, 

 Lie the snowy heights where Silence, 

 All unmoved by human uproars, 



holds his court on Soledad. 



Down the slope we climb, where cactus 

 With its vicious thorns hath scratched us, 

 And the rolling gourd doth flourish 

 till against a stone it knocks. 



