of turquoise; yet, as we moved down the slope, the lake was always
stealing on before. It was of the things dreams are made of, that has
driven men mad and to despair, its bed a level floor of alkali and
clay, covered with a dry, impalpable dust that the slightest wind
tossed and whirled in air.

CHARLES FREDERICK HOLDER,
in _Life in the Open._



JANUARY 3.


When the green waves come dashing,
With thunderous lashing,
Against the bold cliffs that defend the scarred earth,
He wheels through the roaring,
Where foam-flakes are pouring,
And flaps his broad wings in a transport of mirth.

JOSIAH KEEP,
in _The Song of the Sea-Bird_, in _Shells and Sea-Life._



JANUARY 4.


A long jagged peninsula, where barren heights and cactus-clad mesas