MARGARET ADELAIDE WILSON,
in Out West Magazine.

DECEMBER 23.

TO MODJESKA.

Crowned with the glory of artistic achievement, with the love and devotion of friends and family, with the homage of the world, her royal yet sweet and gentle spirit has risen from the earth to shine above like a brilliant star, perpetually transmitting its pure white light to a reverently admiring multitude.

BERTHA HIRSCH BARUCH, Inscribed on banner accompanying floral tribute of the Fine Arts League.

NIGHT ON THE DESERT.

  All daylight he followed through endless hot marches
    The trail of a plodding desire: 
  Now with night he has lost the fierce fever of getting,
    Adrowse by his dull-embered fire. 
  Immeasurable silences compass him over,
    His body grows one with the streams
  Of sands that slide and whisper around him;
    The stars draw his soul:  and he dreams.

MARGARET ADELAIDE WILSON,
in Pall Mall Magazine.

DECEMBER 24.

CHRISTMAS.

  The sun’s glory lies on the mountain
    Like the glow of a golden dream,
  Or the flush on a slumbering fountain
    That wakes to dawn’s roseate beam. 
  So the year’s day dies in a glory,
    And dying, like sunrays unfurled,
  Casts the peace and love of Christ’s story
    Over the heart of the world.

HAROLD T. SYMMES.

DECEMBER 25 AND 26.

THE NAZARINE.

  A manger-cradled child, his mother near,
    And one they call his father standing by,
  Shepherd and Magi, with the gifts they bear,
    An angel chorus rolling through the sky—­
  Once more the sacred mystery we scan,
  And wonder if the Christ be God’s best gift to man.

  Pale, patient Pleader, for the poor and those
    Whose hearts are homes of sorrow and of pain,
  Thy voice is as a balm for all their woes;
    Through twenty centuries it calleth plain
  As when it breathed the invitation blest—­
  “Ye weary, come to Me, and I will give you rest.”

  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.