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 diviner life to a keener sensibility. W.L. JUDSON, in _The Building of a Picture._ Another value in dialect is the fact that sounds are often retained that are lost in the standard speech, or softer, sweeter tones are fostered and developed. JAMES MAIN DIXON, in _Dialect in Literature._ DECEMBER 17. It is a compensation for many ills to awaken some December morning and feel in the air the warmth of summer and see in the foliage the glad green of spring. Children play in the parks, and the sun shines, and even the older folks grew merry. * * * It had been such a day as comes during Indian summer in other countries. The air had been very kindly and had breathed nothing but gentleness toward man and vegetation. Toward February people would be out searching for wild flowers on the suburban hills. FRANCES CHARLES, in _The Siege of Youth._ DECEMBER 18. FROM THE FRENCH. How vain is life! Love's little spell, Hate's little strife, And then--farewell! How brief is life! Hope's lessening light With dreams is rife, And then--good night! BLANCHE M. BURBANK. "Everyone for himself," is the law of the jungle. But slowly a new form of expression is shaping and we are beginning to take pride in the things that are "ours," rather than in that which alone is "mine." DANA W. BARTLETT, in _Our Governtnert in Social Service, or a Nation at Work in Human Uplift._ DECEMBER 19. "BACK THERE." "Back there," the gambler-wind the snow is shuffling, Flake after flake down--dealing in despair; The bladeless field, the birdless thicket muffling, But now no more the river's stillness ruffling. Oh, bitter is the sky, and blank its stare-- Back there! "Back there," the wires are down. The blizzard, meaning No good to man or beast, shakes loose his hair. The storm-bound train and locomotive preening His sable plume, the ferry-boat, careening Between the ice-cakes, icy fringes wear-- Back there! TRACY and LUCY ROBINSON, in _Out West._ DECEMBER 20. "OUT HERE." "Out Here," a mocker trills his carol olden, High-perched upon some eucalyptus near. The meadow lark replies; oranges golden Peer from the green wherewith they are enfolden, And perfume fills the winey atmosphere-- Out Here! "Out Here," through virgin soil, in sunlight mellow-- Ay, and in moonlight!--man his plow may steer, Nor lose life's edge in friction with his fellow; Nor, parchment-bound, with yellowing creeds turn yellow, But feel his heart grow younger every year-- Out Here!