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
  Of the street and of the market
    Where the “rocky yellow” gleams. 
  Here you live in every moment,
    And the soul its own assumes
  In this blessed bit of heaven,
    Where the creamy yucca blooms.

ELIZABETH BAKER BOHAN,
in West Coast Magazine.

DECEMBER 31.

ELECTRICITY ON THE COMSTOCK.

Born from nothing, it leaps into existence with the full-fledged strength of a giant, dies, is born again; lives a thousand lives and dies a thousand deaths in a single pulsating second of time.

It soars to every height, plunges to every depth, and stretches its vast arms throughout illimitable space.