As lone as God, and white as Winter moon,
Mount Shasta's peak looks down on forest gloom.
The storm-tossed pines and warlike-looking firs
Have rallied here upon its silver spurs.
Eternal tower, majestic, great and strong,
So silent all, except for Heaven's song--
For Heaven's voice calls out through silver bars
To Shasta's height; calls out below the stars,
And speaks the way, as though but quarter rod
From Shasta's top unto its maker, God.

WILLIAM F. BURBANK.



DECEMBER 29 AND 30.


WHERE THE CREAMY YUCCA BLOOMS.

Say mate, I'm in the foothills;
Got a tent to sleep in nights,
Far away from beaten highways
And the talk of human rights;
Far away from din and tumult,
Where the greed of pelf consumes--
I've a corner, here, of heaven
Where the creamy yucca blooms.

God! the newborn sense of freedom!