Spring in California—soft, warm, full and bounteous. Birds twittering and building nests everywhere.

In February the poppies bloom in splendor, and no season of the year is so beautiful, so radiant with glory as the poppy time. Coming after a spell of rainy weather, when the mists have lifted from the face of nature, they usher in the long summer.

In California the interest centering in the poppy is universal, and it is the most beautiful of California’s flora. It is the favorite flower, being the State flower, suggestive in color, divine in inspiration and poetry, besides the precious gold and orange to be found in this land.

The naturalist Adalbert von Chamisso arrived at San Francisco in 1816 on the ship Rurick. Seeing the poppy for the first time, he christened it Eschscholtzia (esh-sholts-i-a), after Herr Eschscholtz, his friend and companion of the ocean journey. The Spanish people call it El oro de copo (the cup of gold).

This poppy grows in portions of Oregon, Arizona and Mexico, but in California it has a beauty such as you can find nowhere else.

They grow about one foot high. The cups of gold rest on slender, graceful stems; the foliage delicate and olive green in color. This royal poppy is rich in coloring, cool and refreshing in the midst of tropical heat. It is one of the most characteristic and beautiful features of California’s scenery. Associated with it are sunny skies, beauty, sea breezes and waving palms.

Under the sun of a bright day the scene is like an Italian landscape—a blue sky without a cloud. The eye wanders here and there to the gold spread far and wide, and the question rises, Was there ever such flowers as these? Myriads of rich, gorgeous, brilliant poppies nod, lean, dance and swing their dainty cups of gold in the breeze. A mass of tossing gold, sheets of gold fire running up the valley, hill slopes and mountains. The pasture, mesa and uplands are all aglow. Poppies everywhere, found along the sea-shore in great patches, by the roadside, hid in the fence corners, in the green grass, at the edge of the woods, in the deserts and waste places. They appear like unfurled banners of a victor army, like waving billows in the breeze, like a golden sea, rippling against a blue horizon.

They are the flowers, around which the tourists linger, and they go into raptures over them. Gathered by armfuls, they are carried to hotels and pressed in books, then taken East, as souvenirs of this sunny land.

On “Poppy Day” the desks in the schools, the tables and mantels in the hotels are decorated with bouquets of the golden blossoms.

Children worship them in their delight and greet one another with “The poppies are in bloom!” then scamper off by dozens to the mesas, where they deck their hair with poppy garlands and race to and fro like butterflies, wading knee-deep in poppy dust of gold.

Above their happy voices the songs of the meadow larks can be heard, clear, mellow and thrillingly sweet.

A golden spell lingers around the scene, an influence that penetrates the soul.

Clara Hill.