DECEMBER 15.


It was one of those wonderful warm winter days given to San Francisco
instead of the spring she has never experienced. After a week's rain
the sun shone out of a sky as warmly blue as late spring brings in
other climates. The world seemed in a very rapture of creation. The
bay below the garden, new washed and sparkling like a pale emerald,
spread gaily out, and the city's streets terraced down to meet it. The
peculiar delicacy and richness of California roses coaxed by the
softness of the climate to live out-doors sent up a perfume that
hot-house flowers cannot yield. The turf was of a thick, healthy, wet
green, teeming with life. The hills beyond were green as summer in
California cannot make them, and off to the west against the tender
sky the cross on Lone Mountain was etched.

MIRIAM MICHELSON,
in _Anthony Overman._



DECEMBER 16.


The story is never fully told, and the power of paint or pen can never
express entirely the glory or the strength of the conception which
impelled it. The best is still withheld, inexpressible in human terms.

Our best songs are still unsung; our best thoughts are still unuttered
and must so remain until eyes and ears and hands are quickened by a