Advantage for who vaults from low to high And makes the stumbling-block a steppingstone?

December Twenty-first.

Art, wherein man no-wise speaks to men, Only to mankind—Art may tell a truth Obliquely, do the thing shall breed the thought.

December Twenty-second.

So may you paint your picture, twice show truth,

Beyond mere imagery on the wall;

So, note by note, bring music from your soul,

Deeper than ever the Andante dived,

So write a book shall mean beyond the

facts,

Suffice the eye and save the soul beside.

THOUGHTS FIT TO TREASURE UP. 175

December Twenty-third.

Have I knowledge? confounded it shrinks

at Wisdom laid bare!

Have I forethought? how purblind, how

blank to the Infinite Care!

December Twenty-fourth.

The treat and feast when holidays came

round.

Sympathy made flesh.

December Twenty-fifth.

Festive bells-everywhere the Feast o' the

Babe,

Joy upon earth, peace and good-will to

man!

December Twenty-sixth.

I never realized God's truth before.

How He grew likest God in being born.

December Twenty-seventh.

The great deed ne'er grows small.

December Twenty-eighth.

"Would a man 'scape the rod?"

Rabbi Ben Karshook saith,

"See that he turns to God,

The day before his death."

"Ay, could a man inquire,
When it shall come?" I say.
The Rabbi's eye shoots fire-
"Then let him turn to-day!"

December Twenty-ninth.

Fear death?-to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face,

When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place,

The power of the night, the press of the

storm,

The post of the foe;

Where he stands, the Arch-Fear in a visible form,

Yet the strong man must go:

For the journey is done and the summit attained,

And the barriers fall,

Though a battle 's to fight ere the guerdon

be gained,

The reward of it all.

December Thirtieth.

I was ever a fighter, so-one fight more,
The best and the last!

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore,

And bade me creep past.

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like

my peers

The heroes of old,

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's

arrears

Of pain, darkness and cold.

December Thirty-first.

For sudden the worst turns the best to the

brave,

The black minute's at end,

And the element's rage, the fiend voices that

rave,

Shall dwindle, shall blend,