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 God, 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, God.

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.

God! 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