greatest of patience were needed. But the man who had the plan of a useful and beautiful cactus in his mind could not be discouraged. In and out among his plants he went, choosing, out of thousands, one that showed a change for the better. From these he selected the seeds to be used for the next planting. Years passed by and at last came a new gift to men, by means of which deserts can be changed into gardens. Even now Mr. Burbank is not satisfied. There is still work to be done before the cactus will be quite what he wishes it to be. Do you like the field daisy which is so common in many parts of America? The farmers call it a weed, for it sometimes chokes out the grass they wish to raise for hay.

On the hillsides near Mr. Burbank's New England home many wild flowers grew. As a boy he loved them all. He watched for their coming in the springtime. He knew how late in the autumn he could find them. They were his friends. Among them was the little field daisy, so common that many pass it by without noticing its beauty.

After Luther Burbank grew up, he remembered this little friend of his childhood. He thought: "I will make a daisy which every one will admire." He learned that in England there are daisies which are larger and have coarser stems than those he had always known. In far-away Japan the daisy is small, but of the purest white. The New England daisy, though neither large nor perfectly white, is strong. It can not be easily killed. He would join together the best daisies of the three continents, and make a fourth one which should possess the best qualities of each. He trusted in Nature to help him, and she did not disappoint him.

Before Mr. Burbank could make what he wished, he had to plant thousands of daisies. He had to give them the most watchful care. Again and again one out of thousands was chosen on account of its improved qualities. Season after season the bees gave their aid in carrying the pollen from the blossoms of one plant to the blossoms of another. Only the

best and strongest plants were allowed to live; for, first of all, the new daisy must be strong.

At last the wonderful Shasta daisy was created. There was never such a daisy before. It will grow in the cold lands of the north as well as close to the equator. The flower will remain fresh in water for weeks after it has been cut from the plant. It is very large and beautiful, with snow-white petals and a center of velvety yellow. It is now grown all over the world.

Not far from Mr. Burbank's California home there is a high mountain peak whose summit is always covered with snow. It is called Mt. Shasta, the word meaning snow. "I will call my new daisy after the mountain peak that I love so well," Mr. Burbank said, and so it came to be known as the Shasta daisy.

"Up with the birds," we often say of people who rise early to begin the work of the day. It might be more fitting to speak of Mr. Burbank as up with the bees; for, during the season when the pollen is carried from flower to flower, these little insects are the friends on whom he depends so much for help.

The men who aid him in tending his plants are chosen with the greatest care. They must love their work or they would fail to do it as they should. Every part of it needs delicate and thoughtful attention. If you watch the faces of these men as they bend over the ground, pulling out the weeds, making new beds, digging up the delicate plants and setting them out in new places, you will see that they show pride in their work and a desire to help their employer in every way possible.

He moves in and out among them, noticing a thousand things which we would pass by without a glance. In a few minutes he may have chosen one plant among hundreds as the best one of its kind for the special purpose he has in mind.

In a town not far from Mr. Burbank's home, a new park was given recently by a certain man in memory of his child. Mr.

Burbank was asked to speak on the day the park was opened. These are some of the things he said:

"I love sunshine, the blue sky, trees, flowers, mountains, green meadows, and sunny brooks; I love the ocean when its waves softly ripple along the sandy beach, or when, with thunder and roar, it pounds the rocky cliffs; I love the birds of the field, the waterfalls, the rainbow, the dawn, the noonday, and the evening sunset;-but above them all, I love children. Trees, plants, flowers are always educators in the right direction; they always make us happier and better, and, if well grown, they speak of loving care and respond to it as far as is in their power; but in all this world there is nothing so appreciative as children, these sensitive, quivering creatures of sunshine, smiles, showers, and tears.'

-Mary H. Wade

CALIFORNIA

(Poets, dramatists, and historians are quite as useful and helpful to society as are wonder-workers in plants. John Steven McGroarty has served the people of California well by writing the Mission Play-a highly interesting portrayal of the days when California was owned by Spain. Mr. McGroarty has also written a pleasing book entitled California: Its History and Romance. The introduction to this book is a poem that is a worthy tribute to California. The author's love for our beautiful State is felt in every line.)

WIXT the seas and the deserts,

TWI

"Twixt the wastes and the waves, Between the sands of buried lands

And ocean's coral caves,

It lies not East nor West,

But like a scroll unfurled,

Where the hand of God hath hung it,

Down the middle of the world.

It lies where God hath spread it,
In the gladness of His eyes,
Like a flame of jeweled tapestry
Beneath His shining skies;

With the green of woven meadows,
And the hills in golden chains,
The light of leaping rivers,

And the flash of poppied plains.

Days rise that gleam in glory,
Days die with sunset's breeze,
While from Cathay that was of old
Sail countless argosies;

Morns break again in splendor

O'er the giant, new-born West, But of all the lands God fashioned, 'Tis this land is the best.

Sun and dews that kiss it,
Balmy winds that blow,
The stars in clustered diadems
Upon its peaks of snow;
The mighty mountains o'er it,
Below, the white seas swirled-
Just California stretching down
The middle of the world.

-John Steven McGroarty