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of us grown-up folks, perhaps, have got in the habit of thinking of December more as the last month of the year than as the first month of one of the most joyous of seasons. It is strange that one should ever think of December—the holiday month—as dull and lacking of interests. There have been poets and writers without number who have praised the various months of spring, summer, and autumn, and indeed of winter as a whole, but few have had good words for December. Burroughs writes, “Is there anything like a perfect April morning?” and Lowell inquires, “What is so rare as a day in June?”

Jefferies, a famous English naturalist has written well and at some length in praise of summer. Dr. Abbott has much to say in praise of autumn and claims that “October is as lovable as May.” But I do not recall any of the older naturalists who have praised December. The most of them make but little, if any, mention of it.

But all our young folks, I am sure, will unite with me in the praise of December the month of “jolly old Santa Claus,” fer its indoor joys and the beginning of tingling, vigorous, and merry outdoor sports.

Rh