December

“ The graces of outside strokes, and spread eagles, are the work of time and ambition.
But December has one circumstance in it, which turns it into the merriest month of the year,—Christmas. This is the holiday, which, for obvious reasons, may be said to have survived all the others; but still it is not kept with any thing like the vigour, perseverance, and elegance of our ancestors. They not only ran Christmas-day, new-year’s-day, and twelfth-night, all into one, but kept the wassail-bowl floating the whole time, and earned their right to enjoy it by all sorts of active pastimes. ”

“ When amid the rains and storms of December an old gardener, instead of saying that spring was on the move, remarked to me that ‘’Twill be starling days soon,’ he gave voice to a truth of observation as impressive as it is beautiful. For often December has not lapsed before the mysterious breeding-change of the Vita Nuova, the New Life that spreads like a flowing wave so early in the coming year will begin to be obvious on the dun-hued lapwing, on the inland-wandering gull, and even on one or other of the small ‘clan of the bushes’ more dear and familiar to us. ”

“ Occasionally, the black clouds are driven back, and gleams of sunshine creep over the land. A southerly wind, too, occasionally breathes upon us, and it seems as if the genial warmth of autumn would triumph in the great contest of nature. But, as the days advance, the strength of winter increases, and we slide into December, when its dominion becomes complete. Like an unrelenting despot, it then binds the river and the lake in icy chains; it sweeps away the last vestige of summer, and marks the boundaries of its realm with a dazzling mantle of snow.
Such is November in New England. ”

“ The 10th of December has come, and the hour of Paul's departure—a black and bitter day—and I am bidding him farewell; not in the old school-room, or by a warm fireside, but out here in the cold, raw winter's day, with the wind blowing wildly, dismally in our faces, with the dead leaves whirling about our feet like a host of restless spirits, with a dull, hard, cold sky above, and a desolate sweep of barren landscape stretching out before us. ”

“ CHAPTER IX. MR. VERDANT GREEN MAKES HIS FIRST APPEARANCE ON ANY BOARDS.
It is the last night of December. The old year, worn out and spent with age, lies a dying, wrapped in sheets of snow.
A stern stillness reigns around. The steps of men are muffled; no echoing footfalls disturb the solemn nature of the time. The little runnels weep icy tears. The dark pines hang out their funereal plumes, and nod with their weight of snow. The elms have thrown off their green robes of joy, and, standing up in gaunt nakedness, wildly toss to heaven their imploring arms. The old year lies a dying. ”

“ For the remaining three months of the year, December, January, and February, they delude themselves into the notion that they are having a winter, when they gather around a winter-time hearth and listen to imaginary wind-roarings in the chimney, and see through the panes fictitious and spectral snow-storms, and dream that they are housed so snug and warm. ”

“ Firmian looked with an unsatisfied gaze athwart unclothed fields (over which the cradle-quilt of the snow, and the white crape of the frost, had not yet been laid) , and down at the streams, not yet struck palsied and speechless. Bright, warm days at the end of December soften us with a sadness in which there are four or five bitter drops more than in that belonging to the after-summer. Up to twelve o’clock at night, and until the thirty-first day of the twelfth month, the wintry, nocturnal, idea of dissolution and decay oppresses us ”

“ We hate, and old wrongs lift their faces, To fill up the ranks of the new; We love, and the early love’s graces Are signs of the false and the true; We clasp the white hands that are given To greet us in devious ways, But meet the old sins, all unshriven, To sadden the burden of days. Though we lose the green leaves of the first days, Though the vineyards be trampled and red, We know, in the gloom of our worst days, That the dead are not evermore dead: December is only December, A space, not the infinite whole; Though the hearthstone bear but the one ember, There still is the fire of the soul. ”

“ The poor, bare December world—it misses its snow garment, so graciously hiding all imperfections revealed by the absence of green grass and fluttering leaves; it misses, too, its winter jewels of icicles and hoar frost. Poor old world! What a great many Decembers you have jogged through; no wonder you begin to feel that you need a little dressing up and adorning, like a beauty no longer as young as she has been. Yet ever-young world, too! Who, that gazes at March's daffodils and sweet April's primroses, can believe that the world is growing old? ”

“ And, gazing through the lens of time, exaggerates its worth,
When gloomy gray December is roused to Christmas mirth.
When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis
Each heart recalls some folly that lit the world with bliss. ”

“ In the eyes of the Englishman December in Northern India is a month of halcyon days, of days dedicated to sport under perfect climatic conditions, of bright sparkling days spent at the duck tank, at the snipe jhil, in the sal forest, or among the Siwaliks, days on which office files rest in peace, and the gun, the rifle and the rod are made to justify their existence. Most Indians, unfortunately, hold a different opinion of December. These love not the cool wind that sweeps across the plains. To them the rapid fall of temperature at sunset is apt to spell pneumonia. ”

“ The preludings of Winter are as beautiful as those of Spring. In a gray December day, when, as the farmers say, it is too cold to snow, his numbed fingers will let fall doubtfully a few star-shaped flakes, the snow-drops and anemones that harbinger his more assured reign. ”

“ I am surrounded on all sides by the scenes and images consecrated by the fresh recollections of my unsullied years. They are not changed. The seasons which come and depart renew in them the havoc which they make. If the December destroys, the April revives; but man has but one spring, and the desolation of the heart but one winter! ”

“ DECEMBER'S SNOW The bloom is on the May once more, The chestnut buds have burst anew; But, darling, all our springs are o'er, 'Tis winter still for me and you. We plucked Life's blossoms long ago What's left is but December's snow. But winter has its joys as fair, The gentler joys, aloof, apart; The snow may lie upon our hair But never, darling, in our heart. Sweet were the springs of long ago But sweeter still December's snow. ”

“ Well, there are times when it is winter weather in our heart. When sorrow and loss have made life desolate as a December day, and blessed, thrice blessed, are they who come to comfort us, and to whisper of brighter days in store. ”

“ And all those lances vail'd, and solemn Knights
Watching their Queens as with eyes grave and sweet
They left for the gray fields those airy heights.
Nothing had lovelier seemed—
Not April's noise nor the early dew of June,
Nor the calm languid cow-eyed Autumn Moon,
Nor ruffling woods the greenest I remember—
Than this pale light and dark of cold December.
THE RED HOUSE
On the wide fields the water gleams like snow,
And snow like water pale beneath pale sky,
When old and burdened the white clouds are stooped low. ”

“ And on the tiger-skin flung free,
Draws forth the purple blood of grapes.
And in December, shrivelled, old,
Bepowdered white from foot to head,
In dream she wakens Winter cold,
That sleeps beside her in her bed. ”

“ December has the children’s great festal day,—the blessed Christmas, when the lessons of Christ’s life blossom into deeds, and a loving spirit seems to spread over all the land. The carols, the Christmas trees, the merry bells, make the heart gay, and all the air resounds with Christmas glee. ”

“ Tenderly the young man unfastened something at the throat of that high-necked dress of hers, then there was a snap, and he drew out an amazing, dazzling, shimmering sheen of green, that seemed to turn the whole bleak December landscape verdant as with a touch of spring. ”

“ Was ever night so wild as this—this bleak December night!
Veiled in the sombre shroud that sepulchred the day;
Why thus bereft of heaven's beams, of moon and starry light,
Are all its ancient charms in sorrow laid away?
The year dies out with drifted leaves, with winds
and floods of rain,
Companions of the tempest with its brood of fears;
And voices far above us echo back the world's great pain,
In tongueless language inarticulate through tears. ”

“ December is also generally a very pleasant month. Occasional slight showers of rain fall during this month, sometimes several sprinklings in one day, but seldom for more than a few minutes at a time. The mornings in this month are peculiarly delightful. The sun usually rises with brilliancy and beauty; and the hills and groves, teeming with the verdure of perpetual spring, are enriched by the mingled melody of a thousand cheerful songsters. Nothing that I have ever witnessed in the United States exceeds the loveliness of a December morning in Liberia. ”

“ The sun, tempered by a pleasant wind, beams down upon us warm and cheerily—the air is balmy and laden with grateful fragrance from the unseen land—and though near the first of December, at which time you dwellers under the wintry skies of the north, are shivering over your grates, we have worn our summer garments and palm-leaf hats for some days past. ”

“ I've many shares in mines of mirth, in sunshine, air and flowers and sky, in all the things of sterling worth, yes, very rich indeed am I. I've neither copper, tin, nor gold; nor platinum without alloy. I own what can't be bought or sold—for I have many shares in Joy.
WHEN DECEMBER COMES
December with her skirts a-blowing, frozen dew-drops in each ear; berries at her breast a-glowing, rosy-cheeked December's here. Hoar-frost to her garments clinging, prettier gems she could not find; merrily, December's singing songs best suited to her mind. ”

“ I love this genial sunshine, which, even in December, sends the spirits dancing through the veins; this pure elastic atmosphere, which not only brings the distant landscape, but almost heaven itself nearer to the eye; and all the treasures of art and nature which are poured forth around me; and over which my own mind, teeming with images, recollections, and associations, can fling a beauty even beyond their own. I willingly turn from all that excites the spleen and disgust of others ”

“ The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
What weeks, what months, what time o' the mild year
We cheated school to have our fling at tops?
What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy
Feasting upon blackberries in the copse?
Oh, some I know! I have embalmed the days,
Even the sacred moments, when we played,
All innocent of passion uncorrupt,
At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade:
We were so happy, happy,—I remember
Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December. ”

“ An evil wind arose, chilling us to the bone. It seemed to be December; we felt the chill of winter and that restlessness which accompanies every sudden menace on the part of nature. All round the horizon small leaden-colored clouds began to collect, scudding rapidly along, as though searching impatiently for a direction and a shape. Then the waters began to ripple, and became streaked with rapid luminous reflections, with long stripes of green, violet, white, ochre, black. ”

“ Six precious days had been filched from the calendar of the House of Annum! February had lost her fourteenth, and May her first day. July's fourth was missing. October looked in vain for her last day, while November could find but three Thursdays in her set. But, worst of all, the 25th of December was gone! How was the year to be carried on? What could be done without Christmas? ”

“ Down went the levee—widened in an instant the ragged crevasse—out came the beast!—
December, along the stretch of the Mississippi under consideration, was of a weather nearly like a Virginian late autumn. In the river towns and in the plantation gardens roses yet bloomed. In the fields the cotton should have been gathered, carried—all the silver stuff—in wagons, or in baskets on the heads of negroes, to the gin-houses. This December it was not so. It was the December of 1862. Life, as it used to be, had disintegrated. Life, as it was, left the fields untended and the harvest ungathered. ”

“ The nights are tranquil. The year’s work is done. She walks in gorgeous apparel, looking upon her long labor, and her serene eye saith, “It is good.”
November. Patient watcher, thou art asking to lay down thy tasks. Life to thee, now, is only a task accomplished. In the night-time thou liest down, and the messengers of winter deck thee with hoar-frosts for thy burial. The morning looks upon thy jewels, and they perish while it gazes. Wilt thou not come, O December?
December. Silently the month advances. There is nothing to destroy, but much to bury. ”

“ December is here—one of those mild cheery days, however, when you can hardly realise that the boughs are indeed bare, and the beds flowerless, and the Spring birds far away;—one of those days which tempt you out into the garden, to saunter and loiter there, and look at the patches that will be snowdrops soon, and to think longingly of leaves where you had before naturally and as of course acquiesced in the canopy of bare boughs;—a day on which you—at least I—do not care to go beyond the garden. ”