THE
LANGUEDOC FOLK-TALE OF THE THREE STRONG MEN.

Oh! that was a desperate struggle--terrific and horrible to see! The
devil shrieked and howled; he scratched and bit; while Crowbar, dumb
and purple in the face, gave telling blows with his fists. He could
not strike the devil's head, because of the horns, and he could not
grab his body, because it was so sleek and slimy. At length the
devil's strength gave out. Crowbar siezed him by the throat, threw him
on his back, put a knee upon his breast, and, with the cane in his
right hand, gave him a blow between the horns that split his head in
two. But he died hard. His head was split open, yet he was struggling,
whipping the ground with his tail, and foaming at the mouth. At last
he was still.

SAMUEL JACQUES BRUN,
in _Tales of Languedoc._

DECEMBER 12.

FROM "AFTER HEARING PARSIFAL."

The century new announces, "Victory!"--
Through Music's witchery o'er Sin and Hell
Man is redeemed. The Christ is here! The Soul
Now claims its own! Nor hope nor fear
Nor prayer nor hunger now, for lo! 'tis here,
The expected Kingdom--God's and Man's! 'Tis here!
Day-dawn has come! The world-wide quest is o'er!
The Grail was never lost! 'Twas folded safe
Within the petals of my heart, and thou
Enchanter wise, reveal'st to me, my Self!

HENRY HARRISON BROWN,
in _Now, May_, 1904.

DECEMBER 13.

THE VOICE OF THE SNOW.

Silently flying through the darkened air, swirling, glinting, to their
appointed places, they seem to have taken counsel together, saying,
"Come, we are feeble; let us help one another. We are many, and
together we will be strong. Marching in close, deep ranks, let us roll
away the stones from these mountain sepulchers, and set the landscape
free. Let us uncover these clustering domes. Here let us carve a lake
basin; there a Yosemite Valley; here, a channel for a river with
fluted steps and brows for the plunge of songful cataracts. Yonder let
us spread broad sheets of soil, that man and beast may be fed; and
here pile trains of boulders for pines and giant sequoias. Here make
ground for a meadow; there for a garden and grove."

JOHN MUIR,
in _The Mountains of California._

DECEMBER 14.

It was winter in San Francisco--not the picturesque winter of the
North or South, but a mild and intermediate season, as if the great
zones had touched hands, and earth were glad of the friendly feeling.
There is no breath from a cold Atl