Toiling, rejoicing, - sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

December 17.

H. W. Longfellow.

Close to the Silent Gate
Friends gone before thee wait,
While they still here behold
Thy white locks lit with gold.

Hark! in unbuilded spires

Bells chime! and unborn choirs,

Tuned to a later fame,

Still breathe and bless thy name!

Mrs. Z. B. Gustafson.

December 18.

Strive not to say the whole! the Poet in his Art Must intimate the whole, and say the smallest part.

Of every noble work the silent part is best,
Of all expression, that which cannot be expressed.

Each act contains the Life, each work of Art the world,

And all the planet laws are in each dew-drop pearled. W. W. Story.

December 17.

December 18.

I know not: but, whate'er thou art,
Whoe'er thou art, were mine the spell,
To call Fate's joys or blunt his dart,
There should not be one hand or heart
But served or wished thee well.

Fitz-Greene Halleck.

December 20.

To seek is better than to gain,
The fond hope dies as we attain;

Life's fairest things are those which seem;
The best is that of which we dream.

So failure wins; the consequence
Of loss becomes its recompense;
And evermore the end shall tell
The unreached ideal guided well.

And me

December 21.

7. G. Whittier.

do you remember? I remain Unchanged, I think; though one I saw like me Some years ago, with hair that was not white; And she was with you then as brave a soul As souls can be whom Fate has not approached. But seek and find me now unchanged or changed, Mirthful in tears, and in my laughter sad.

Mrs. Elizabeth Stoddard.

December 20.

December 21.

Her pride was suited to her high estate,
Her gentleness was equal with her youth,
Her wisdom in her goodness found its mate.

No woman's head so keen to work its will,
But that the woman's heart is mistress still.
E. C. Stedman.

December 23.

So, when God's shadow, which is light,
Unheralded, by day or night,

My wakening instincts falls across,
Silent as sunbeams over moss,

In my heart's nest half-conscious things
Stir with a helpless sense of wings,
Lift themselves up, and tremble long
With premonitions sweet of song.

December 24.

J. R. Lowell.

But as the bell that high in some cathedral swings, Stirred by whatever thrill with its own music rings, So finer souls give forth, to each vibrating tone Impinging on their life, a music of their own.

Lift thou thyself above the accidents of life,
With pain and joy alike be friends, abjuring strife.
W. W. Story.