DECEMBER. 



• 

 These naked shoots, 

 Barren aslances, among which the wind 

 Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes, 

 Shall put their graceful foliage on again, 

 And more aspiring, and with ampler spread, 

 Shall boast new charms, and more than they have 

 lost. — Cowper. 



IT is one of the happy things in this fitful 

 human life, that we are all so ready to 

 bridge over the times and places that seem 

 empty and without interest. Once let the 

 present lose relish, and straightway we 

 stretch out our hands to grasp the future, 

 and taste its sweets by anticipation. So 

 extremes meet, and the echo of departing 

 wheels gives place to the faint roll of the 

 approaching, and the days of loss pass 

 gently on into days of hope. 



Winter days are not often called by that 



