Laughter soft repeat
Their cadence as I watch its play;
And whispers low the wind, and sweet,
As I go lightly on my way.

CHARLES E. JENNEY,
in _Country Life in America, September_, 1902.

DECEMBER 22.

EUCALYPTUS BLOSSOMS.

I fell asleep beneath a fragrant
Arrow-leafed tree;
And all night long its drooping branches
Showered sweet dreams on me.
But when the dawn-wind stirred the tree tops
I saw, oh wondrous sight!
My dreams, pale spheres amid the leafage,
Ethereal, poised for flight.

MARGARET ADELAIDE WILSON,
in _Out West Magazine._

DECEMBER 23.

TO MODJESKA.

Crowned with the glory of artistic achievement, with the love and
devotion of friends and family, with the homage of the world, her
royal yet sweet and gentle spirit has risen from the earth to shine
above like a brilliant star, perpetually transmitting its pure white
light to a reverently admiring multitude.

BERTHA HIRSCH BARUCH,
_Inscribed on banner accompanying floral tribute of
the Fine Arts League._

NIGHT ON THE DESERT.

All daylight he followed through endless hot marches
The trail of a plodding desire:
Now with night he has lost the fierce fever of getting,
Adrowse by his dull-embered fire.
Immeasurable silences compass him over,
His body grows one with the streams
Of sands that slide and whisper around him;
The stars draw his soul: and he dreams.

MARGARET ADELAIDE WILSON,
in _Pall Mall Magazine._

DECEMBER 24.

CHRISTMAS.

The sun's glory lies on the mountain
Like the glow of a golden dream,
Or the flush on a slumbering fountain
That wakes to dawn's roseate beam.
So the year's day dies in a glory,
And dying, like sunrays unfurled,
Casts the peace and love of Christ's story
Over the heart of the world.

HAROLD T. SYMMES.

DECEMBER 25 AND 26.

THE NAZARINE.

A manger-cradled child, his mother near,
And one they call his father standing by,
Shepherd and Magi, with the gifts they bear,
An angel chorus rolling through the sky--
Once more the sacred mystery we scan,
And wonder if the Christ be God's best gift to man.

Pale, patient Pleader, for the poor and those
Whose hearts are homes of sorrow and of pain,
Thy voice is as a balm for all their woes;
Through twenty centuries it calleth plain
As when it breathed the invitation blest--
"Ye weary, come to Me, and I will give you rest."