flashing in the sunshine, sail lazily over- 

 head and pause an instant as if interested 

 in the sport of a merry party of bathers 

 which dot the water below with the gay 

 colors of their costumes ; then uttering 

 a low wailing cry, they fly far away un- 

 til they appear but tiny specks in the 

 distance. 



The scene is changing every minute. 

 The sun wavers ; sends one last, hot, 

 burning glance, and just as it sinks 

 slowly into the bosom of the water, the 

 United States Flag, which all day has 

 been waving in the breeze, is lowered 

 from the staff of the San Diego Bar- 

 racks; a sharp report from a cannon 

 rings on the air and is borne to our ears 

 across the bay, announcing that another 

 perfect Southern California day is about 



ended. The shadows deepen on the hill 

 and mountain ; night closes down over 

 the land locked harbor. In a vast circle 

 around, lights begin to twinkle and, re- 

 flected in tthe water glitter brightly. 

 Red and green lights appear on the 

 steamers and vessels lying at anchor in 

 the bay. To the north, a bright glare 

 in the sky from the electric light masts 

 tell where San Diego lies ; to the west, 

 the light house on Point Loma's solitary 

 ridge sends its watchful red beams over 

 the sea ; to the east, the moon peeps over 

 the top of old San Miguel. Innumer- 

 able stars are beaming gaily in the sky, 

 and the wondrous beauty of the red sun- 

 set is changed to the majesty of a star- 



light night. 



Clara Hill. 



MISS HAREBELL. 



Dancing in the breezes, 



Springing by the wood ; 

 Ev'ry eye she pleases, 



As each lassie should. 

 Now her bells in blessing 



Swing where fairies meet, 

 Now bright ferns caressing, 



Nodding at her feet ! 



How her smile is cheering 



Toilers on the road ; 

 The old and dull of hearing 



Bearing heavy load. 

 With sweet grace and beauty. 



And in charming mood, 

 Doing humble duty 



Like you and I, when good. 



Linger, blue-eyed darling ! 



Bless with gentle power; 

 Happy as the starling 



In some lady's bower ! 

 Still thy incense flinging 



Fairy forms to greet, 

 While the birds are singing 



And mosses kiss thy feet ; 

 — George 



Bancroft Griffith. 



91 



