November 26.

November 27.

To him all things were possible, and seemed
Not what he had accomplished, but had dreamed,
And what were tasks to others were his play,
The pastime of an idle holiday.

And all men loved him for his modest grace,

And comeliness of figure and of face.

November 29.

H. W. Longfellow.

So to my heart your memory clings,
So sweet, so rich, so delicate;
Eternal summer-time it brings,
Defying all the storms of fate;
A power to turn the darkness bright,
Till life with matchless beauty glows;
Each moment touched with tender light,
And every thought of you a rose !

November 30.

Mrs. Celia Thaxter.

He was so human! whether strong or weak,
Far from his kind he neither sank nor soared,
But sat an equal guest at every board:
No beggar ever felt him condescend,
No prince presume; for still himself he bare
At manhood's simple level, and where'er
He met a stranger, there he left a friend.

J. R. Lowell.

November 29.

November 30.

DECEMBER.

ANNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

R. W. Emerson.