Oh! that was a desperate struggle—­terrific and horrible to see!  The devil shrieked and howled; he scratched and bit; while Crowbar, dumb and purple in the face, gave telling blows with his fists.  He could not strike the devil’s head, because of the horns, and he could not grab his body, because it was so sleek and slimy.  At length the devil’s strength gave out.  Crowbar siezed him by the throat, threw him on his back, put a knee upon his breast, and, with the cane in his right hand, gave him a blow between the horns that split his head in two.  But he died hard.  His head was split open, yet he was struggling, whipping the ground with his tail, and foaming at the mouth.  At last he was still.

SAMUEL JACQUES BRUN,
in Tales of Languedoc.

DECEMBER 12.

FROM “AFTER HEARING PARSIFAL.”

  The century new announces, “Victory!”—­
  Through Music’s witchery o’er Sin and Hell
  Man is redeemed.  The Christ is here!  The Soul
  Now claims its own!  Nor hope nor fear
  Nor prayer nor hunger now, for lo! ’tis here,
  The expected Kingdom—­God’s and Man’s!  ’Tis here! 
  Day-dawn has come!  The world-wide quest is o’er! 
  The Grail was never lost!  ’Twas folded safe
  Within the petals of my heart, and thou
  Enchanter wise, reveal’st to me, my Self!

HENRY HARRISON BROWN,
in Now, May, 1904.

DECEMBER 13.

THE VOICE OF THE SNOW.

Silently flying through the darkened air, swirling, glinting, to their appointed places, they seem to have taken counsel together, saying, “Come, we are feeble; let us help one another.  We are many, and together we will be strong.  Marching in close, deep ranks, let us roll away the stones from these mountain sepulchers, and set the landscape free.  Let us uncover these clustering domes.  Here let us carve a lake basin; there a Yosemite Valley; here, a channel for a river with fluted steps and brows for the plunge of songful cataracts.  Yonder let us spread broad sheets of soil, that man and beast may be fed; and here pile trains of boulders for pines and giant sequoias.  Here make ground for a meadow; there for a garden and grove.”

JOHN MUIR,
in The Mountains of California.

DECEMBER 14.

It was winter in San Francisco—­not the picturesque winter of the North or South, but a mild and intermediate season, as if the great zones had touched hands, and earth were glad of the friendly feeling.  There is no breath from a cold Atlantic to chill the ardor of these thoughts.  Our great, tranquil ocean lies in majesty to the west.  It can fume and fret, but it does so in reason.  It does not lash and storm in vain.

FRANCES CHARLES,
in The Siege of Youth.

May the tangling of sunshine and roses never cease upon your path until after the snows of Winter have covered your way with whiteness.