Not one among them must be miss'd-
For each, 'twas her "Good Night!"

To her, the long'd-for Christmas day,
Bequeath'd its tenderest beam,
Unconscious of the light she lay,
But smiling, in her dream.

There stood the tree, lit with the joys
That Christmas always lends,
Bending beneath its weight of toys,
For all her little friends.

But came to her far happier things—
We saw her softly go,

To wear, amid unending springs,
The Yuletide mistletoe!

Emblem of her, the ivy-green

Will 'round her memory twine, While doubly more to us will mean The myrtle and the pine.

Her prayer was heard; she lingered on;
The boon she crav'd was given;

Then soft wings, in the New Year's dawn,
Bore her white soul to Heaven.

Beyond this bleak world's stress and strife, Unvex'd by mortal pain,

For her, beneath God's Tree of Life,

Christmas has come again!

NOW THIRTY YEARS AGO.

[Lines read at a reception given by Dr. and Mrs. Sheppard W. Foster, at their residence, No. 711 Peachtree Street, Atlanta, Ga., on the thirtieth anniversary of their marriage, November 11, 1920.]

The years have swiftly flown, but say

Dost thou not well remember,

How once a garland of the May

Bedeck'd an old November?

When, sweeter far than autumn's musk,
Or sunset's tender glory,

Was whisper'd on the air at dusk,
Love's old familiar story.

Wak'd by this soft, ambrosial light,

In fancy's phantom train,

What golden dreams come back, to-night,
To make you young again.

What balm from courtship's bending bower,
The roses round you throw,

To whisper of a twilight hour,

In love-land's long ago.

When all the bells of heaven chim'd
And round the hill-tops rang,
When all the rills in music rhym'd
And all the sirens sang.

In love's fond suit propos'd, "wilt thou?"
Came love's reply, "I will,"

But only half redeem'd that vow,
For she's unwilted still !

To-night, beneath a sky that bends,

In star-light all divine,

We drink the health of these, our friends,
In friendship's mellow wine,

Here's to you both! For many a mile
In autumn's golden weather,
May all the gods upon you smile
And keep you long together.

Together, for the sake of friends,
Whose grief when friend departs,
Is heavy, for no goldsmith mends
The gold of broken hearts.

Together, till the last repose,
Shall lap thee, late or soon,
And make of life, clean to its close,
One long, sweet honey-moon.

Together, may kind fortune's best,
Be yours without alloy,

Till heaven's reward, at length, from rest,
Shall wake you into joy.

Till "Home, Sweet Home," in soft refrain,
Breaks on the air above you,

Where set to life's immortal strain,

Is memory's old "I love you!"

TO DR. H. C. WHITE.

[On the fiftieth anniversary of his professorship at the University of Georgia.]

Dear Doctor: Father Time's a cheat,

A wily Sinbad of deceit,

If, from his ledger, it appears

That you have taught for fifty years.

'Tis so absurd, I'm forced to laugh.
Just split the crazy sum in half.
For, all the years which you can boast
Will not spell fifty at the most.

That forehead, wreath'd about with smiles,
Contains no reckoning of miles.
Golden with age! Your heart for one
Was golden with its earliest sun.
In rhythmic time, from day to day,
Its music golden all the way.
'Twas only yesterday that I
Sat under you in Chemistry;
Aye, heard you glowingly dilate
On such things as "atomic weight"
"Specific gravity" and "H2O”
Till really I could hold no more,
And next day, this was how I far'd-
"Professor, I am not prepared."
As vagrant fancy backward floats
It seems that I'm still taking notes,
Binding the gold of wisdom's wheat,
Back at our old Gamaliel's feet;
Gathering with wonder and with awe
Such pearls as Bagdad never saw.
Golden of heart! Golden of tongue!
Minerva's fount has kept you young.
The devotee's keen search for truth
Has made you an immortal youth.

Thanks to the cheer whose wine ne'er cloys,
You're with us still, one of the boys!

Atlanta, Ga.,

February 22, 1922.

THEODORE ROOSEVELT'S GRAVE ON
LONG ISLAND.

Softly, o'er waste and woodland, fades the light,
The red autumnal sunset's golden ray,
Bidding the landscape for a while good-night,
Retires behind the hills of Oyster Bay.

What means yon simply mark'd memorial stone
Upon whose silent sides no echo jars,
Which, on the hill-top, in the dusk alone,
Seems to await the coming of the stars?

Beneath that slab, which there mute vigil keeps,
Nor aught of fulsome eulogy partakes,
Upon the out-skirts of a village sleeps

One at whose name a continent awakes.

Proud marble need not here his worth proclaim—
The morning dew his memory hath empearl'd,
Whose rich renown the volleying trumps of fame,
On every wind have bugl'd to the world.

Each wandering wave which here in music lays
Its crystal burden on the silver sands

Fresh from a thousand shores here pays
The minstrel tribute of a myriad lands.

Could fitter spot for his repose be found

Or dream-land's couch of violets sweeter be, Than here, where murmurings from the woods around, Answer the mournful sobbings of the sea?

Where unbought anthems from the birds he lov'd
Might tell the night of many a songster's nest,