"Bay's for remembrance, full and sweet; It speaks with its fragrant breath Of manger and cross and a lowly tomb, And a love that conquered death.

"And laurel leaves for the wreath I bring, The laurel for victory, And palms for the crowning of a King-- The morrow is Christmas Day."

ENVY.

When Satan sends--to vex the mind of man And urge him on to meanness and to wrong-- His satellites, there is not one that can Acquit itself like envy. Not so strong As l.u.s.t, so quick as fear, so big as hate-- A pigmy thing, the twin of sordid greed-- Its work all n.o.ble things to underrate, Decry fair face, fair form, fair thought, fair deed, A sneer it has for what is highest, best, For love's soft voice, and virtue's robe of white; Truth is not true, and pity is not kind, A great task done is but a pastime light.

Tormented and tormenting is the mind That grants to envy room to make its nest.

THE SONG OF THE BELLS.

He frowned and shook his snowy head.

"Those clanging bells! they deafen quite With their unmeaning song," he said.

"I'm weary of it all to-night-- The gladness, sadness. I'm so old I have no sympathy to spare, My heart has grown so hard and cold, So full of self, I do not care How many laugh, or long, or grieve In all the world this Christmas eve.

"There was a time long, long ago-- They take our best, the pa.s.sing years-- For the old life, and faith, and glow.

I'd give--what's on my cheek? Not tears!

I have a whim. To-night I'll spend Till eyes turn on me gratefully-- An old man's whim, just to pretend That he is what he used to be; For this one night, not want nor pain Shall look to me for help in vain."

"A foolish whim!" he muttered oft, The while he gave to those in need; But strangely warm and strangely soft His old face grew, for self and greed Slipped from him. Ah, it made him glow To hear the blessing, thanks, the prayer.

He looked into his heart, and lo!

The old-time faith and love were there.

"Ring out, old bells, right gladly ring!"

He said, "Full sweet the song you sing."

QUEBEC.

Quebec, the gray old city on the hill, Lies, with a golden glory on her head, Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still, Of other days and her beloved dead.

The doves are nesting in the cannons grim, The flowers bloom where once did run a tide Of crimson when the moon rose pale and dim Above a field of battle stretching wide.

Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow Of pride in ancient times, her stirring past, The strife, the valor of the long ago Feels at her heart-strings. Strong and tall, and vast She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace, A wondrous softness on her gray old face.

MEN O' THE FOREST MARK.

What we most need is men of worth, Men o' the forest mark, Of lofty height and mighty girth And green, unbroken bark.

Not men whom circ.u.mstances Have stunted, wasted, sapped, Men fearful of fighting chances, Clinging to by-paths mapped.

Holding honor and truth below Promotion, place and pelf; Weaklings that change as winds do blow, Lost in their love of self.

Tricksters playing a game unfair (Count them, sirs, at this hour), Ready to dance to maddest air Piped by the man in power.

The need, sore need, of this young land Is honest men, good sirs, Men as her oak trees tall and grand, Staunch as her stalwart firs.

Steadfast, unswerving, first and last, Fearless of front and strong, Meeting the challenge of the blast With high, clear battle song.

Not sapless things of the byways, Lacking in life and strength, Not shrivelled shrubs of the highways, Pigmy of breadth and length,

But n.o.blest growth of G.o.d's green earth-- Men o' the forest mark, Of lofty height and giant girth And green, unbroken bark.

A SONG OF CHEER.

Here's a song of cheer For the whole long year:

We've only to do our best, Take up our part With a strong, true heart-- The Lord will do all the rest.

THE FIRSTBORN.

The harvest sun lay hot and strong On waving grain and grain in sheaf, On dusty highway stretched along, On hill and vale, on stalk and leaf.

The wind which stirred the ta.s.seled corn Came creeping through the cas.e.m.e.nt wide, And softly kissed the babe new born That nestled at its mother's side.

That mother spoke in tones that thrilled: "My firstborn's cradled in my arm, Upon my breast his cry is stilled, And here he lies so dear, so warm."

To her had come a generous share Of worldly honors and of fame, Of hours replete with gladness rare, But no one hour seemed just the same

As that which came when, white and spent With pain of travail great, she lay, Thrilled through with rapture and content, And love and pride, that August day.

The fairest picture of the past-- Life's tenderest page till all is done-- A glad young mother holding fast G.o.d's wondrous gift--her little son.

ST. PATRICK'S DAY.