PS 3531 
 .E42 T7 
 1912 
 Copy 1 
 
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 9e "Calikrnia 
 
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 i v/')i\(,y o Oil I IOCS 
 
 TO CALIFORNIA 
 
 AND OTHER SUBJECTS 
 
 BY 
 
 EMMET PENDLETON 
 
 s)(|)ffi 
 
 1. 
 
 1912 
 
 WM. M. ALLEN. PRINTER. 
 RED BLUFF. CAL. 
 

 .^'^'^ 
 
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 COPYRIGHT. 1912 
 
 BY 
 
 EMMET PENDLETON 
 
 
 *fe 
 
TO 
 
 MY MOTHER 
 
 THESE TWENTY SONNETS 
 
 ARE RESPECTFULLY 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1912 
 
 BY 
 
 EMMET PENDLETON 
 
<:x o 
 
 fi Fort) word Q 
 
 W^hen these sonnets were written, they were 
 not intended for publication, but friends encourag- 
 ed that they be put in book form, so I now set them 
 forth to face the ordeal. I, myself, do not place 
 much faith in their merit, for they were never writ- 
 ten from a literary standpoint. They were a sort of 
 a diary. What ever impressed me I commented 
 upon it in this manner, therefore their meaning 
 is clearer, and they are of greater interest to me 
 than they would be to any reader. 
 
 This book was to have been publishd several 
 years ago, but owing to a few rhythmic errors, 
 that were found when the book was near complet- 
 ion, flaws that had escaped my notice when I had 
 read the proof, the work was discontinued for the 
 time being. That book would have contained ov- 
 er thirty sonnets. I cut them down to the present 
 number because there appears such a marked 
 contrast between my earlier and later thoughts. 
 Quite a few of the sonnets included in this pamph- 
 let were written during my High School days. 
 My reason for not publishing my later sonnets, 
 although I personally feel that they are more 
 
 X 
 
o o 
 
 Foreword 
 
 worthy, is that since these presented were to have 
 formed the nucleus to that book, and as this is the 
 fulfillment of those previous plans I feel I should 
 not change the contents, 
 y One person suggested that I should have shown 
 
 more respect with my dedication. Perhaps I 
 should! However, I know, my mother saw their 
 growth, knows their crudity, understands their 
 clarity, and at least for my sake gives them an ap- 
 preciation. 
 
 I take this means of thanking Mrs. Emma 
 Cogswell of Klamath Falls, Oregon. She was 
 very kind to encourage and help me in this work. 
 I am also especially indebted to Wm. M. Allen, of 
 Red Bluff, California. He was the first to see 
 any worth to these sonnets, and it is entirely 
 due to his untiring efforts that they are placed in 
 this book form. Several other friends have given 
 timely suggestion, and I sincerely appreciate their 
 interest. 
 
 Emmet Pendleton 
 
 Red Bluff, California. 
 
 May 1, 1912 
 
Q < v r^ 
 
 8 CONTENTS fi 
 
 1. To a California Sunset 
 
 2. To Amos Edwin Clark 
 y 3. To a California Springtime W 
 f^ 4. To my Peach Tree ^ 
 
 5. To Tuscan Buttes 
 
 6. To Mrs. Blanche McCalvy 
 
 7. To a California Sunrise 
 
 8. To a Pine Tree 
 
 9. To Mount Shasta 
 
 10. To the Game 
 
 11. To William M. Allen 
 
 12. To a Rose Bud 
 
 13. To my Grandmother 
 
 14. To Home 
 
 15. To a California Goldmine W 
 
 16. To a Cactus Plant '^ 
 
 17. To Sister Mary Berchmans 
 
 18. To the Sacramento River 
 
 19. To the Pacific Ocean 
 
 20. To a Friend 
 
o >o 
 
 f. if'sjr^ A 
 
 The entire western sky is all ablaze 
 With many splendid pyrotechnics grand, ^ 
 
 That bum up brightly in King Hesper's land, 
 For great Apollo's sparkling daily rays, 
 Whose final gorgeous colors now amaze, 
 Do best since they have reached their nightly strand; 
 And Zephyrus shifts upon the scene a band 
 Of fleecy clouds with ev'ning's quiet haze. 
 The eventide is here. The closing day 
 Is marked with aspects grand of Nature's store. 
 An end befitting of the greatest thing; 
 And now from this magnificent array 
 Of color and of quietude, what more 
 i Could one expect the Last Great Day to bring! 
 
o x =>o 
 
 II 
 
 His eyes are of the grayish pearly blue, 
 
 And rather short he wears his flaxen hair, 
 
 So rightly one can call him extra fair; 
 
 'Tis he Oi all the boys I ever knew — 
 
 ( You truly know that they have not been few ) — 
 
 Whose many qualities were fine and rare. 
 
 And yet a boy so full of life and dare. 
 
 Whose lasting friendship proved to be most true. 
 
 These thoughts of him recall a joyous time. 
 
 Those rapid flying dear old High School days, 
 
 That now to me have lost their weary strife. 
 
 But thus remain as being most sublime, 
 
 And bring the wish that those dear happy ways 
 
 Will follow his as well as all my life. 
 
III 
 
 to n C.ailloiMiin Oj)(M(\;^cimo 
 
 The fragrance of the manzanita flowers 
 Is calmly whiffed in gentle air to fill V 
 
 The country wide; the rocky glade and hill, 
 W^hich chaparal converts to snowy bowers, 
 In warming sunshine bask in tranquil hours. 
 And in the fields with animated thrill, 
 The golden poppies nod in beauty still. 
 While idly in mid-air the buzzard towers. 
 The spring-time's here; while nature's worthy sap 
 Is rising in the plants with ardent swell, 
 To cause them all to bud and do their best. 
 The blood of mankind in a drowsy nap, 
 Feels not this inward energetic spell 
 y But dreaming yearns for melancholy rest. 
 
IV 
 
 To My Ponch Trae 
 
 ixx: 
 
 My lonely peach tree has just been in bloom, 
 And filled my garden with a quaint perftime, 
 That gentle blowing breezes did consume, 
 To scatter in the outdoor's spacious room; 
 But winds, though gentle, are not good to groom 
 A dainty blossom touched with fairy fume. 
 And caused to burst forth freshly from its glume 
 A spring's glad tidings over winter's gloom. 
 So now the flowers are gone. A very few. 
 Who knew its beauty, could appreciate 
 The dainty workmanship of each pink flower. 
 But yet if they did not, the insects knew, 
 And worked most ardently from mom till late 
 At night in joyous buzz about that bower. 
 
V 
 
 Those mighty Buttes of hard volcanic trass, 
 
 V That have thus stood through ages safe and sound, Y 
 Survey the country wide for miles around. 
 And stand as land marks in this plain so crass, 
 A plain of rocks, just one lavatic mass; 
 Their value is not much, it will be found, 
 But yet I love the grandeur they abound. 
 The sparing coat they w^ear of brush and grass. 
 They saw the two extremes of human race: 
 The Diggers live their lives in artless way, 
 And idly rove this valley so heartfree. 
 And then the white man come and take their place 
 With all his crafts, his struggle day by day. 
 
 V I wonder now what are they yet to see! V 
 
X 
 
 VI 
 
 rxx 
 
 Those grapes of Zeuxis won for him a name, 
 And caused the birds to sing a roundelay; 
 Parrhasius, of that same ancient day, 
 By his great curtain picture gained the same; 
 Acanthus gave Callimachus his fame; 
 Apelles' picture set beside a way 
 Did cause the horses all to loudly neigh, 
 That near this rudely treated picture came. 
 But why consider men of days gone by, 
 When we have equals at the present date. 
 Who paint with such a ceaseless pain and care 
 They do much more than to deceive the eye? 
 I've seen the rose in such a perfect state, 
 The air was filled with every fragrance rare. 
 
VII 
 
 ^ ^ To n c'nlUo(M\in SuarUo ^ ^ 
 
 IXXC 
 
 The last pale rays of Phosphor do their worst, 
 And fondly lingering gives his final flings 
 Of light to earth. A cooling breeze then brings 
 A group of fleecy clouds that slowly burst 
 To thus display Aurora, who is first 
 To wake and cross the sky on lightest wings; 
 Apollo then through morning's portals springs. 
 And for his daily course shows eager thirst. 
 It is the birth of day. A soberness, 
 That follows close upon the somber night. 
 Is lifted with the dew from off the land, 
 And now the earth, so full of sprightliness. 
 Gives many hearty cheers with all its might 
 To California's morning, fine and grand. 
 
VIII 
 
 To n Pliio Tt'oo 
 
 Consider how that pine on yonder height 
 
 Has grown to such a tree among those rocks, 
 
 To make all others seem to it as mocks; 
 
 It too was once a sapling green and bright, 
 
 That grew and loved to grow in warm sunlight. 
 
 Until each branch o'er others interlocks; 
 
 And now old age bring many worldly knocks 
 
 By mars of surly knots and sooty blight. 
 
 How like unto our lives! The others strived 
 
 To gain this same great stately prominence, 
 
 Which now this one by great Ambitions thrill 
 
 Has gained through snowy storms and fires, and lived 
 
 As if it were designed by Providence 
 
 To thus become the pride of this vast hill. 
 
IX 
 
 ,, XX ,, . 
 
 This high and mighty mountain of the North, 
 { So massive and with such a contour bold, 
 
 ^A^ould fascinate the Grecian Gods of old 
 Till famed Olympus soon would lose its worth 
 For them, and they would then come forth 
 In joy to revel, when the sun would mold 
 The snowy brow to most attractive gold. 
 Such as they never did before in mirth. 
 'Tis magic; for all that survey agree 
 This pond'rous mound of earth is but a guide 
 That casts o'er all a noble influeuce. 
 To climb, to grow, be big and thus to see 
 The hills, the valleys and the country wide 
 And be beheld in great magnificence. 
 
<r- y — — >g:> 
 
 X 
 
 To ctu) Cahxq 
 
 I laughed a sneering laugh at grewsome Fate, 
 
 The chances all in all were oh, so few. 
 
 And each of these I felt I so well knew 
 
 To win and always win at any rate, 
 
 That I ne'er stopped for once to contemplate 
 
 That even I would meet a Waterloo, 
 
 My luck might change, calamity ensue, 
 
 That I might lose my all when hours grow late. 
 
 The time did come. The torture of my mind 
 
 Made me a demon to the circumstance; 
 
 A nervous fever then my thoughts so whirled 
 
 That anguish made existence one hard grind. 
 
 It all was gone. Not even hopeful chance 
 
 Was left to help me turn to face the world. 
 
o > ^ 
 
 XI 
 
 ■ ■ — X X — . 
 
 ^ ^ -ro Vyillini(\ M, Allon ^ ^ 
 
 
 The fervent spirits to create abound 
 In Man, that, satisfied in striving thrill, 
 The pleasure of creation, there is still 
 Desire, when imperfection is so found, 
 To yet continue. Flaws are all around; 
 For the beginners, each with timid will, 
 With faults their simple works no greater fill, 
 Than masters, whose gigantic arts astound. 
 Ambition to create expands the mind, 
 The World thus gains, but imperfection's strife. 
 Caused by our short existence here below. 
 Infects all earthly things, therefore we find 
 Works badly, but gives proof of second life, 
 The great completeness of our time here now. 
 
XII 
 
 To ^ ilo^o iVt(<l 
 
 iXX 
 
 But yesterday I found a bud in down 
 
 Of youth; it was so fragrant and so fair, 
 
 I wished to pluck it then, but left it there 
 
 Until it still more beautiful had grown; 
 
 But now to-day I find its beauty flown, 
 
 A change has come, the bud is stripped quite bare 
 
 Of all its charms, so that I do not care 
 
 To pluck it since it is a rose full blown. 
 
 And so procrastination has gained nought 
 
 But mars the thought that beauty did enthrall, 
 
 And make me hold myself in true disdain. 
 
 For very avariciously I sought 
 
 To gain still more, but have thus lost it all. 
 
 For that same bud will never bloom again. 
 
Q 
 
 XIII 
 
 To {{\y Ormulmochor 
 
 Can one gain favor from those grewsome Fates, 
 { Whose hateful austere looks befit each head, 
 
 Those three, who ever spin the flimsy thread 
 Of human destiny ? While each debates, 
 W^ill they see that true kindness thus belates 
 W^hen they shall cut the shred with shears of lead. 
 To have another life add to the dead, 
 Amid a dirge of laughter from those mates ? 
 Yet they are good. They gave you favored time, 
 By granting partial acts from year to year, 
 A life of seventy and eight to bring, 
 And robust sprightliness from health sublime. 
 So may you still live many Summers sear, 
 / Before you see the long eternal Spring. 
 
 fi 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
<r- ^ —y r-> 
 
 XIV 
 ixx: 
 
 To I (oiao 
 
 IZZZXXZZZIZI 
 
 So oft to me a peaceful air will come, 
 
 Amid the irksome strife of each long day, 
 
 And cause in true kaleidoscopic way, 
 
 My mind to rush like changing billow's foam, 
 
 To pleasant thoughts of that dear place called home; 
 
 Its great ini^uence over me each day 
 
 Is such, I could forever with it stay, 
 
 Without desire about this world to roam. 
 
 I love this place beyond my pow'r to tell 
 
 In words so limited, so very few. 
 
 To me its real, its quite unbounded worth; 
 
 For it has cast o'er me a magic spell. 
 
 Until that with exceptions none, I do 
 
 Now hold it is the dearest place on earth. 
 
 \ 
 
XV 
 
 ^ ^ To n CnilforainC.ohl iMii\o ^ ^ 
 
 ixx: 
 
 The gold, the gold, the cravings of the man! 
 That calls him to the Indian Wars no more, Y 
 
 And lured him to the cold of Arctic shore$! 
 But hardship never seemed to wan but fan 
 The cravings, and undaunted still he can 
 With modern ways thus take from earth's deep core 
 The precious metal that he does adore, 
 As time has changed the cradle and the pan. 
 For Nature's secret stores great grist and grind 
 Must Man endure through long laborous days, 
 To separate the good from worthless pelf; 
 So causing question thus to come to mind; 
 W^as Nature fitted just to suit Man's way,^^ 
 Y Or for mantainance Man adapts himself? Y 
 
XVI 
 
 :xx: 
 
 Co a Cn<um l^lmu 
 
 :xx: 
 
 I have an ugly spiny cactus plant, 
 J A true disgrace unto my garden plot; I 
 
 1^ It is unsightly, for it is besot A 
 
 With spots and scars and things appurtenant; 
 
 But late it showed a bloom so elegant, 
 
 A dainty blossom of the fairies got 
 
 Astray among my flowers of common lot, 
 
 A waxen beauty so extravagant! 
 
 So judge a thing not as it may appear, 
 
 For one knows not what capability 
 
 May lie concealed behind the roughest mask. 
 
 To burst forth into beauty and good cheer. 
 
 And unto life the greatest pleasure be 
 
 If left to do aright its given task. 
 
XVII 
 
 To 3lstvM* M'Xcy iy<)cc\\mA{i^ 
 
 :xxz 
 
 W^ith lilies of the field what can compare! 
 u What other flower that grows about the land, y 
 
 A Can breathe a breath of adoration grand, A 
 
 As does those lilies that grows lofty there 
 In sweetest purity, so chaste and fair? 
 They waver not in Time's fast running sand 
 To mundane toilsome ways, but stately stand 
 In solemn reverence a beauty rare. 
 For all of purity, so fast akin 
 To godliness, the truths of Life revere. 
 And with bowed heads the noblest thoughts adore; 
 And in this busy age ensnared in sin, 
 I am so pleased to have one friend sincere, 
 Whose goodliness with lilies can compare. 
 
ex: 
 
 DO 
 
 Q 
 
 XVII 
 izxx: 
 
 
 Q 
 
 Thus onward do these waters ever run, 
 A surging stream at willy-nilly pace, 
 That dances, changes yet at every space, 
 As if they do enjoy the sparkling fun 
 To so reflect the world's deep blue and dun; 
 Then rushing on as if in fiercest race. 
 Find relaxation in a soothing place, 
 1 Where, idly flowing, bask in warming sun. 
 
 It is most humanlike. This surging stream 
 Of mindless populace, propelled by time, 
 \A/^ith outstretched hands trys hard to grasp the bank. 
 And catch one proof of their dear treasured dream, 
 But, getting none, flows on with hopes sublime. 
 For Death to add them to its unknown rank. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ex: 
 
 DO 
 
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 Q 
 
 XIX 
 
 irxxc 
 
 fo clu) l^noilio Ooomi 
 
 rxx: 
 
 Q 
 
 Were I an ancient Greek, that I might hold 
 This stretch of water reaches to that land 
 W^here Oceanus rules; and see so grand 
 Dear Amphitrite and her Neptune bold 
 Pace steeds of brazen-hoofs nianes of gold, 
 Along these foamy waves which wash this sand; 
 And hear loud Triton's blast; and see there stand 
 Among the dolphins Proteus so old. 
 Yet still I stand entranced. This changing sea, 
 Whose motion so attracts and binds the eye, 
 That ever swells, and flows, and ebbs spell, 
 Is with the mind of Man in sympathy 
 For waves unsettled, ever dashing high, 
 An inward soul that rushes on pell-mell. 
 
 X 
 
 ^xx^ 
 
 zxxz 
 
 DO 
 
ex: 
 
 DO 
 
 Q 
 
 Q 
 
 Could I but send to thee a worthy line, 
 A really animated word or two, 
 That would express my sincere thoughts of you, 
 My love, my wishes, hopes for thee and thine! 
 Could I but write in polished verses fine, 
 As Shakespeare did his love, nought would I do. 
 But turn my passions loose, my love thoughts true, 
 1 And spend these long, long days in writing rhyme. 
 
 It takes the gifted genius' hand to mold 
 A sonnet to a pleasing work of art. 
 And make each word a treasured souvenir; 
 So why should I, so giftless, try unfold 
 In rudest language, feelings of my heart, 
 The sentiments that are to me so dear? 
 
 Q 
 
 zxxzzz 
 
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 DO 
 
UN 10 1912 
 
m 
 
 LIBRftRY OF CONGRESS 
 
 018 392 093 5