12 lAME.NI or THE ii M *"' ' * 112 1 S! my '-i?mc has « fit} ni-Arly jHW I'm wt ik ami xwary. i/Jf and cold and -vW And .id and sour, r 112 and cress and ' ' Blum, And the world looks dark and drear; I'm shurt of breath, so I pant and wheeze, Ard shiver and shdfce, ana cough and sneeze: My limbs creak mournfully in the breeze— For 1 am the poor Old Year. Tw.'.ve months ago 1 was young and fair; I ruled the world with a regal air, And every one welcomed me, here and there. Without a frown or a fear. The boys and girls hurrahed for me, And 1 w is as happy as happy could he; The world around was fair to set— For I was the glad New Year. The merry thrush and the bold cuckoo Gave me a song and a welcome true; The white puccoon and the violet blue Peeped slyly into my face; The tulip gave her rich perfume, The larkspur waved her azure plume. The red rose opened her velvet bloom, My royal court to grace. The brooklet burst its icy bond. The fern uncoiled her greenest frond, The daisy waved her yellow waliu, To give me welcome meet; And summer brought her glowing days, Her bearded wheal and golden maize; The wild bee hummed a song of praise, And sipped the clover's sweet. Then autumn poured her ruddy wine. And sho-ok the cluster from the vine, And dropped the needles from the pine, To scatter in my path; The milk-weed burst her silky pod, The partridge piped from the turfy sod. And queen-of-the-meadow and golden-rod, Bloomed gay in the aftermath. But now, alas! my time has come; J'm weak and weary, and cold and numb. Ard sour and sad, And cross and glum, And the world Is dark and drear; No blossoms spring as 1 pass along, No warbler sings me a welcome song; But the bells ring out a merry ding-dong To welcome another year. • —Helen Whitney Clark, in Golden Days. O".;:- NEW W K AVEIiE ahva - vs jl getting out of wood at Maple Knoll. It was the big s fireplace in the- sitting-room that ate up all the fuel we could get. 1 ' ' never saw such an insatiable monster. Yet we couldn't' make up our minds to close it up and put ti)) a stove instead, because of its radiant cheerfulness. How jolly it was, just when the first touch of a winter's twilight stcUe on.to pile fresh hickory logs on the old andirons and watch the? flames dash up the chimney's throat and light the whole room with a mellow crimson flame. Hut the wood! Of course, we three women couldn't very well go out and chop and haul it, and our funds did not always warrant hiring large quanti ties laid in, besides which the neigh boring help we could get was not very dependable on at all times. Maple-Knoll was a lovely place, but didn't bring in much revenue, worked, as we were obliged to have it done, by any Tom, Dick or Harry we could pick up; and the old house was picturesque —but leaky as a sieve. Still, we man aged very well about everything else, but for fuel we were obliged to depend on getting a load hauled now and then when some neighbor had the time and inclination to undertake it. December though it was, we had had a streak of regular Indian-summery weather—a mild atmosphere inter woven with a soft smokiness. Our stove wood iiad run out, and the neighbors had all been too busy hauling cordwood to attend to our needs. Our chip yard was in good condition, however, and we had been levying on it for cooking purposes, using what little wood we had for the fireplace, as we didn't need jnuch, and had gone jogging along in an easy, grasshoppery way, as if the pleasant weather were going to last all winter. We woke up the morning of December 30 to find the world nearly lost in a most beautiful blizzard of whirling anow. Not only was the outward world a white desolation, but there were lit tle drifts all over the inside of the house. "Dora," I shouted, bouncing out of bed and landing with one foot in a snow bank, "how many chips did we bring in last night?" "About enough to cook breakfast with," Dora answered, with the calm ness of despair, as she shoolf a little puff of snow out of her shoe. I hopped out of my drift and rushed to the window. "Meantime, let's go down and make a fire and get a good warm-up if we do perish afterward." "We'd better save the sitting-room wood until after breakfast," counseled Dora, "and just have a fire in the cook stove till then, and cat in the kitchen." "Sure," said 1, "that'll be a lark." In spite of the dismal outlook we had a. cheerful fire and a cozy kitchen when Aunt Laura came down, and then while she began to prepare breakfast Dora and I did ourselves up like Laplanders ai»d plunged out into the blizzard to f et,~ and milk the cows, after which we brawn! the winter's blast long enough to transport my treasure stump to the house, which we did partly by lagging m.u/3 partly by rolling it over a:.d over. Breakfast was ready \\lien we got it safely muter cover, ard notwithstand ing our impending df.orn, we fell upon the ham and fried potatoes and pan cakes, and enjoyed our meal immensely, "Girls," said auntie, when the last potato and the last erimpv brown bat ter-cake had vanished, "1 don't want to dampen your spirits', but there isn't a chip left, and how we're going to cook dinner 1 don't see." "Nett,"said Dora (who was just three months older than I), "we'll cook dinner by the fireplace." "Dora," 1 said, "you're gifted. That's what we will, and imagine we're our own great-grandmothers and great aunts -how lovely!" "Well, you'll have to help, miss, and 1 doubt if you think it so lovely before you get through." returned Dora. "You'll be baked a beautiful brown." We took an inventory of our stores to see what, there was we could cook by the fireplace. "There's a sparerib, for one thing." announced Dora. "'We'll hang it up by a string in front of the fire." "Potatoes we can boil by hanging the kettleon the hook and chain," said Aunt Laura. "And the sweet potatoes we can roast in the ashes," 1 added. "And bake com in a skillet in tlie hot coals." finished Dora. "Goody," said I, "that's a fine enough dinner for a blizzardy day like this. Of course, nobody'll come." Rut somebody did come, as. they usu ally do when you think they won't; anil who of ail persons but liev. yrus Me]ton! Dora fairly squirmed when Aunt Laura brought him right into the sitting-room, for, of course, she couldn't take him any where else, unless she wanted to freeze him. So in he came, smiling placidly, and there was the rib cooking in front of the firewith a skillet set under to catch the gravy, and there was Dora with her face like a hollyhock, turning a great hoeeake in another skillet, and there was I prodding in the ashes with a long fork to dig out the sweet potatoes! Not that it mattered much about me;. but some folks were beginning to observe that Uev. Cyrus was a trifle more attentive to Dora than the fact of her being one of his flock warranted, and 1 knew that in her eyes he was about as near a state of perfection as u mortal man needed to be. He was just riding out, he ex plained. to see old Mrs. Hankins, who was sick, and had been delayed a lit tle by the blizzard and been on the road quite awhile; he had brought a ''THBRB WAS DORA WITH" A.' bag of oats for his horse, and had come up through the side lane and taken the liberty to put the animal in our barn to eat his oats, while he himself ran into see how we all fared this inclement day, etc., etc. I slid out white he was thus discoursing an"• days of that year the three hundred and sixty-fffth was the most dismal at Maple Knoll. It opened with a drizzling, soaking rain, much more depressing than the blizzard from which it evolutcd; the kind that dampens your spirits in spite of all the philosophy you can bring to bear against it. The sky was a dismal gray waste without a slit of light. Aunt .Laura had a racking neuralgia 111 her j face. Dora had been dreaming about I charity and wood all night. As for me, I had a little trouble of my own which popped up just now more ag gressively than ever. I never had but one lover (1 never wanted but one), and he was a poor young man who had gone to the frozen Alaskan re gions with the avowed intention of ■ making his fortune and coming back to share it with me, rebuild the old house into a stately mansion and take care of Aunt Laura and Dora, which was quite proper; for, you see, I had been gathered into the family when j I was left a small orphan, in Uncle .John's time, and he and Aunt Laura had not made an atom of difference between Dora and m? in their love and care. But now it had been so long since T had heard from Frank I couldn't help being afraid he had frozen to death or been buried in a snowslide. And this dreadful rainy day 1 couldn't even have the satisfac tion of going 1 or sending to town for the mail, if there should possibly be any news. Dora and I had an unwritten law that the more downcast jive felt the jollier we should force ourselvas to be. To-day 1 think we degenerated into silliness in our efforts to be cheer ful. But a lot of smaller troubles followed each other so persistently— such as the refusal of the cook stove to draw, the falling of the light bread in consequence, a slip in the mud on Dora's part, etc., ete.—that when, to cap the climax that evening, our he loved fireplace smoked sulkily anil re lentlessly, we felt that we might as well wind up the year by going to bed at eight o'clock. When we were yll snuggled down and the lights were out 1 could have cried just out of low spirits, but I wouldn't. 1 knew God could see far ther ahead than we could, and I put everything into His hands and went to sleep. I slept so soundly that I was greet ed the next morning by a savory, sagey scent of frying sausages com ing ii|) the little hack stairs before T fairly got back from the slumber world. Dora was down in the kitchen singing "Lightly How" over the bis cuit*, and looking as fresh as a peach with her rosy cheeks and clear gra • eyes. And the stove was drawing beautifully. And Aunt Laura came down without a speck of neuralgia and feeling as spry as a girl, to finish breakfast, while Dora and 1 went forth to do the milking. And behold! tue sopping rain had turned into a lovj ly. soft snow in the night; not a blis zardy snow like the oue before tle rain, that blew in everywhere, hut a gentle, fine, thick powder. It lad stopped falling- now, and the air felt crispy and bracing Thi» sun wasn't shining- yet, hut theie was a mellow look in the sky, as if it meant to pop out any minute. New Year's calling was not much in vogue in our rural (listriet; still, it was ?V unt Laura's way to make a red-letter day oS the opening - one of the year, and always to he prepared for any stray •alter who might chance to appear. She had a cheerfui fire in the parlor, a plen tiful supply of coffee and cake on hand, and we all put.on our pretty house uresse* and prepared to be happy whether anyone came or not. At half past nine a pleasant melody of sleigh bells jingled along", and the cutest little cutter stopped at our gate, and here came lie v. Cyrus Melton smil ing up the walk. We were mighty thankful for the contrast between this call and his last one: but such is the perversity of man. I imagined he looked a little disappointed at not be iig ushered into the cooking regions again. Still, he smiled very good-na turedly, with those jolly brown eyes of his, as he fished something out of his pocket and handed it to me. "Miss Nettie," he said, "I felt it in my bones that you couldn't get any mail lip here on the hill all yesterday, and I dropped in at the post office as 1 came by t his morning, and found you t his." Maybe I didn't know what it was, even before I saw the handwriting on it, and perhaps 1 didn't fly to get it and scamper out to the big tire place and curl down beside it on a little wooden stool to read my letter all alone. Frank hadn't made a fortune, he wrote me, and he didn't know as we could have a big mansion built, but he had dug enough gold to repair the old house and make us all comfortable, and lie was on his way home that blessed minute to metamorphose Maple Knoll into the finest tittle farm in the county, take careof,aunt and Dora and (incidentally) marry me. When I got back to earth again Mr. Melton had taken Dora off in his sleigh for a ride, so auntie and I had a little jollification of our own, and 1 forgot all a!>out lunch time. It didn't matter, though, for when the sleighing couple came back they didn't seem to know much of anything. I fell on Dora in the hall a-nd told all about Frank's letter, and she hugged me black in the face and said she was tremendously pleased, but he wouldn't have to take care of her, because that was going to be attended to by Rev. Cyrus, who was the dearest man in the world, but crazy as a loon, because lie confessed that he had fallen more in love with her than ever the day he came and found her baking hoecake in the fireplace. We celebrated that night by having the biggest fire of the season in the old fireplace, which behaved splendidly, and we sat up till all kind of hours, Aunt Laura, Dora and I, with no light but the mellow crimson and gold bril liance of that big old black cavern, roasting nuts and red apples, talking about the new paths opening before us. and telling each other how grateful and thankful we ought to be for this happy opening- day of the new year.—Hattie Whitney, in l-'arm and Fireside. NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS. If Si lit' «■ re J > limit' Tlic> Arc n Help to ltltglit tli Jl racier. Altliouuli Sometime** Ilroken. New Year's resolutions are so often made the target for cheap jokes by cheap critics as to create the impres sion that such resolutions are never kept and never ought to be trade. The criticism is unjust, its logic is false, its effect pernicious. A recent preacher brought out the true idea in a sermon upon Peter's pledge of devotion to his master, even though all others should desert llim. Simon did not yield to temptation because of his earnest as surance, but in spite of it. It had been said that hell was paved with good res olutions. ]f that was true it was cer tainly the best thing about that place. We must resolve before we do. Uiglit resolutions sincerely made are a help to right character, even if by distress of opposing forces some of them are not kept. Peter's faith did not finally fail, and very likely he had more faith and more strength because he failed once and so learned his weak point, it is a good thing, then, with the thoughtful ness belonging to the outlook of a year, to desire and decide and declare that we will live truer, nobler lives. Making the resolve, not lightly or boastfully, but seriously and expecting the Divine help, we shall succeed in part if not in full. He whom we call Mas ter and Lord is praying for us that our faith fail not. The man who resolved and failed and tried again became a strong man. What he wrote to Ins brethren iu the first »entury was doubt less an echo of his own experience, and it will be fulfilled even to the twen tieth century: "After we have suf fered awhile, God will make you per fect, stablish, strengthen, settle you."— Congregationalism DID in-: MEAN ITf Honest Injun! Do you really mean it when you say you II do better the coming- year?—L. A. W. Bulletin. I Mew Yean I s I I)' TIME there are no VtWR^' 4 - I IVStS » US ' n music. j( W \ V rjs? EasSlfc3l, ever anil forever. < >ll Si'vL on am ' " n '' fJoes in harmonious per v)*' fectness, knowing no ff age and making no * record of days. "Na lura non s.iltat —nature never made a break or a pause. It shows no chasms anj where in its majestic course. Man, though, for his convenience or pleas ure, or profit, establishes times and sea sons. Thus he says the first day of .Jan uary shrill be termed the beginning of a New Year, The I tomans, with an acute poetic sense that pervaded all their work, elected to have the dawn of the year show in -March —the first spring month, when nature kisses new life into everything and robes the earth in garments of many colors. .Man must have his pauses and starting points. It is not so much a question of sentiment as of necessity that dates and seasons b" fixed. The success of business life depends upon it.and a nation with out a chronology is a people without a his tory. Each year must hold its own events, nor may one trench upon the other. Leaving this line of suggestion, one is led to the thought that these year posts of man's time offer opportunity for reflection upon what has been and what may be. Each New Year day tells not only of the new birth, but also of the year that is sepul tured. Here are presented in brave con trast life and death. As the old passes out, the new comes in. So with man and all other animate things. "The king is dead; live the king." So one lesson after another may be learned, if one be but a willing pupil. What the memories of the just dead year? What the sins, the errors, the follies? What the good one did, and what progress in the knowledge that is lasting? Ah! the year is gone, gone to one and all of us; but the impression remains. These years one by one are character builders, each adding to the other until the mortal changes to the im mortal! Looking backward, what is the reckon ing? Whatever most of good, or of ill, the New Year is at hand. Let the accounting be just, that one may be abler to meet justly and righteously the things that are before. One should recall the errors of the past, not that he may mourn over them, but that he may gain strength for future struggles. One need not give the whole of New Year's day to the forming of good resolutions. Alas! there be many who do vow overmuch at such times. The hallway of the New Year, like that of hell, is paved with good inten tions. One may resolve and resolve again, and swear lustily in confirmation of such purpose; yet all unavailing!}-, because of the frailty of his being. He acts the better part who reflects, and is not rash in promises. Not the same to all is the history of the past year; and not two shall find the New- Year the same in experience. Hut each year is for all, and has in abundance riches of good for every one. The year just closed was lavish in gifts; the new offers plenty as great. It is but to look for it fearlessly and the searcher will be rewarded. The old was and is not. The new is here with its portents. A warm heart for the year just dead, and a glad hand for the one that is newlv born. WILLIAM ROSSER COEBE. THEN Till: Y HOT It CASIIKD IX. Coldeck —What was the difference, 'Of), old boy, between you and me at 11:30 last night? '99— Give 'tup Coldeck—Well, you were drawing to a close and 1 was drawing to a flush.—Chi cago Chronicle. A New VcHr Declaration. Alas, no resolutions fair Shall o: the scro!! appear; I'll by endeavoi to repair The on--.-. I broke last year. Washington Star. I - j NEW YEAR'S RETROSPECT. I It Shows That Jealousy Sometimes Rests on Thin Foundation. : (JOn A J7 HI.L, well, so tliis is New \y \ v Year's duy," said Mr. Spoon- V>\> er. "Do you remember how we quarreled this day one year ago?" "Remember! I think I do!" cried his wife. "U'liy, the cards were ordered when it happened, and I didn't know whether I could have your name taken out and Dick's inserted, in case 1 changed my mind." "In case I changed mine, you mean, dear. Strange that I never suspected how much poor Dora cared for me until that day." "I'm sure .she had concealed it very well— the wa> she ran after Dick, as if he ever had eyes for anybody but me! He nevei told his love, but a woman's intuition was—" "A synonym of vanity, dear. Of course, I couldn't help knowing that she cared for me when I met her in the boarding house parlor, with her eyes full of tears, on ; §1 if THIS DAT ONE YEAR AGO. the very morning after you had told Marie, her dearest friend, that we were to be mar ried in a month." "Humph, that girl would cry about any thing; I've known her to cry when the vil lain in the play was killed—as if a villain could expect anything else in the last act. But as soon as 1 saw Dick that morning I knew that he knew it. Why, his necktie had slipped around under one ear and his voice, us he wished me a happy New Year, was so sad that 1 felt guilty, though my conscience told me that I had not encour aged him." "You've forgotten how you used to praise the shape of his head." "As if that meant anything! A girl only praises the shape of a man's heiid when she cannot find anything else to flatter him about. It —it means no more than it does when she tells a small man that he re sembles Napoleon. But when I remem bered that you had once gone down on tha tloor in your tiew trousers to pick up Dora's handkerchief I knew that I had been cruelly deceived. So when you reproached mo about Dick, I—" "I remember how badly I felt when she replied to my New Year's greeting with thi remark that happiness-for her was over for ever. And before I could comfort her Mif Marie came in and I could only go sadl away without telling her that I should 112 ways be a brother to her." "And poor Dick, I asked him if thei was anything I could do for him; he p plied: 'Yes,' but just then the maid can in with a note for him, and he said he rnus go at once—l think he wished to be alon . with his sorrow. Then you came in, and, instead of sharing my pity for him, you accused me of flirting with him!" "I—er —don't remember that. But wasn't it odd that before I left you forever Miss Marie should come in and tell us that Dora ami Dick were engaged! I've often won dered how it happened that they decided to console each other." "And so have I. Why, here is Marie no — perhaps she can explain. Sit down, Mari. do. I'om and I are just going over old times. Do you remember last New Year' day, and—" "Indeed I do. I've just been to see Doi and she was talking about it. She and Dick quarreled hist New Year's Eve about the date of their marriage, and almost parted forever. They think you both must have guessed it. I remember that Ton was in the parlor with Dora when I rat in on New Year's morning to tell her o) your engagement. She had been on tht point of asking him to help her to make uj with Dick. And when she told me about it I wrote him a note telling him that I be lieved she would forgive him if he came a once. That note found him at your housp Irene, where he had gone to ask your as peacemaker. Odd, wasn't it?" KI.ISA ARMSTRONG Trnnlc. "I shall not see you till another year Has dawned," he said. -v *^' Oh, fickle maid! she turned not pa!e « fear- She laughed Instead. This seems a tragic lay, till we remember It occurred the thirty-first day of Decern ber. —N. Y. Truth.