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.

MARTIN V. MERLE,
in _The Vagabond Prince, Act IV._