XIII 

 DECEMBER 



4 The steadfast mind that to the end 

 Is fortune's victor still, 

 Hath yet a fear, though Fate befriend, 



A hope though all seem ill. 



Jove can at will the winter send, 



Or call the spring at will.' 



William Watson (Odes of Horace). 



DECEMBER 24*. There are roses, real 

 pink roses, full blown in the garden still. 

 Tea roses also are there, showing large 

 firm buds which look resolved to open. 

 There are little white strawberry blossoms 

 shining among the wild strawberry leaves 

 in the south border under the windows of 

 the house. 'All is seeming, nothing is, 7 

 at the season of this nigh two thousand 

 year old anniversary. And thus in the 

 days long gone by, a dream like this I 

 dreamed : 



