But when the dawn-wind stirred the tree tops I saw, oh wondrous sight!

My dreams, pale spheres amid the leaf.a.ge, 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 mult.i.tude.

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 compa.s.s 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 G.o.d'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."

Reason may seek to ruin, science scorn, But that great love of Thine hath made us wise In wisdom not of understanding born, That bids us turn to Thee with longing eyes And outstretched hands. We know that Thou art He.

Nor do we seek a sign as did the Pharisee.

Sweet festival that bringeth back once more The golden dreams of childhood, let us turn Like little children to the Christmas lore That once did hold us spellbound, till we learn Again the lesson of Thy love; for we Must be like children, Lord, ere we can come to Thee.

LOUIS ALEXANDER ROBERTSON, in _Cloistral Strains._

DECEMBER 27.

MEMORIES.

I watched the dying embers, my vision blurred apace-- I trod once more that hallowed ground, of kith, of kin, of race.

I saw again the turf-fire send its living flame on high, Saw youthful figures grouped around the Yule board, laden, nigh.

The latch went up, the neighbors came and instantly good cheer Went 'round the festive gathering 'till the Christ-child hour drew near, The piper played, the dance began, and child and parent fond Tripped back and forth, tripped high and low, with smile of loving bond.

ELLEN DWYER DONOVAN, in _The Christinas Card._

DECEMBER 28.

MOUNT SHASTA.

As lone as G.o.d, and white as Winter moon, Mount Shasta's peak looks down on forest gloom.

The storm-tossed pines and warlike-looking firs Have rallied here upon its silver spurs.

Eternal tower, majestic, great and strong, So silent all, except for Heaven's song-- For Heaven's voice calls out through silver bars To Shasta's height; calls out below the stars, And speaks the way, as though but quarter rod From Shasta's top unto its maker, G.o.d.

WILLIAM F. BURBANK.

DECEMBER 29 AND 30.

WHERE THE CREAMY YUCCA BLOOMS.

Say mate, I'm in the foothills; Got a tent to sleep in nights, Far away from beaten highways And the talk of human rights; Far away from din and tumult, Where the greed of pelf consumes-- I've a corner, here, of heaven Where the creamy yucca blooms.

G.o.d! the newborn sense of freedom!

Down in chain and bolt and bar, Rent the vain that kept in hiding Lore of sky and silver star.

Wisdom dwelleth not in cities; 'Tis the foothill night illumes-- Where the insects chant their hymnals, And the creamy yucca blooms.

Get a move on, mate, come out here, Leave the deadly fever-dreams Of the street and of the market Where the "rocky yellow" gleams.

Here you live in every moment, And the soul its own a.s.sumes In this blessed bit of heaven, Where the creamy yucca blooms.

ELIZABETH BAKER BOHAN, in _West Coast Magazine._