... In a word, Mars and Minerva both in him concurred For arts, for arms, whose pen and sword alike, As Cato's did, may admiration strike Into his foes; while they confess withal It was their guilt styled him a criminal.... _From Epitaph by "His Man"_ In this epitaph we have what is in all probability the single poem in any true sense--the single product of sustained poetic art--that was written in America for a hundred and fifty years after the settlement of Jamestown. WILLIAM P. TRENT _Nathaniel Bacon, "The First American Rebel," born, 1647_ January Third The only calendar That marks my seasons, Is that sweet face of hers, Her moods and reasons, Wherein no record is Of winter seasons. MADISON CAWEIN _Alfred Mordecai born, 1804_ January Fourth The strange and curious race madness of the American Republic will be a study for centuries to come. That madness took a child-race out of a warm cradle, threw it into the ocean of politics--the stormiest and most treacherous we have known--and bade it swim for its own and the life of the nation! MYRTA LOCKETT AVARY _The Social Equality Bill passed in Louisiana, 1869_ January Fifth What the cloud doeth The Lord knoweth, The cloud knoweth not What the artist doeth, The Lord knoweth; Knoweth the artist not? SIDNEY LANIER January Sixth Few have equaled the old time negro at repartee, and a true Southerner heartily relished a clever rejoinder to his good natured raillery. The rejoinder was frequently overwhelming, always respectful, and generally worth an immediate acknowledgment in cash or old clothes. "Is that you, Peter?" called an old Confederate to his former body-servant on the road. Peter grinned broadly as he doffed his hat. "Yas, suh, dis yer me." "Well, well!" laughed the other. "I see that all the old fools are not dead yet." "Dat's so, Mars' Tom." Peter pulled his grizzly forelock appreciatively. "I's monsus glad to see dat you's in such good health, suh." January Seventh A WELL-KNOWN TYPE OF SOUTHERN MATRON BEFORE THE WAR Full well she knew the seriousness of life. Over and over the cares and responsibilities of her station as the mother of so many children, the mistress of so many servants and the hostess of so many guests, had utterly overwhelmed her. * * * * * Into how many negro cabins had she not gone, when the night was far spent and the lamp of life flickered low in the breast of the dying slave! How often she ministered to him with her own hands! * * * * Nay, had she not knelt by his lowly bed and poured out her heart to God as his soul winged its flight, and closed his glazed and staring eyes as the day was dawning? Yet the morning meal found her at her accustomed seat, tranquil and helpful, and no one but her husband the wiser for her night's ministrations. GEORGE W. BAGBY