DECEMBER. 



In a drear-nighted December, 



Too happy, happy Tree, 

 Thy branches ne'er remember 



Their green felicity; 

 The north cannot undo them 

 With a sleety whistle through them, 

 Nor frozen thawings glue them 



From budding at the prime. 



In a drear-nighted December, 



Too happy, happy Brook, 

 Thy bubblings ne'er remember 



Apollo's summer look; 

 But with a sweet forgetting, 

 They stay their crystal fretting, 

 Never, never petting 



About the frozen time. 



John Keats. 



LIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



once said : "Those who are really 

 awake to the sights and sounds 

 which the procession of the months 

 offers them, find endless entertain- 

 ment and instruction. Yet there 

 are great multitudes who are present at as many as 

 threescore and ten performances, without ever 

 really looking at the scenery, or listening to the 

 music, or observing the chief actors." 



This observation seems especially true with 



