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<J
rushed to the parlor with a very for
lorn hope of finding a stray stick or
two left over there, making a fire
and getting him into the parlor while
wt finished the dinner. The hope died
as I poked my head into the arctic des
olation of our best room. It was on
the cast side, where the spiteful wind
had been battering at it all night,
searching out a hundred crevices
about windows and door to hurl the
fine, powdery snow through. There
were drifts, varying in size, on the pi
ano, on the chairs, and a dainty white
powdering all over the carpet, which
the wind had puffed in under the door.
You •nild fairly feel the gale whisk
ing about your ears. There wasn't
a scrap of wood nor a chip in the
wood box. liclinquishing a wild idea
ot chopping up a parlor chair or two
to make a fire of,l scooted back to
the sitting-room chilled to the bone.
Dora, putting as bold a face upon
the situation as possible, was bringing
ir dishes from the dining-room and
setting the table right under the eyes
of the minister, who was chatting
away as serenely as if he hadn't
driven us all frantic by his ill-timed
call. Aunt Laura had levied on her
cellar goodies and produced preserved
quinces, apple jelly, pickled peaches
and chow-chow, so the dinner wasn't |
so frightful. The only thiiuj I was j
ashamed of was the corn cakes; they I
were so big and clumsy, and Dora had
crumbled the. edges in turning them, j
But that good man seemed to think ]
we had a banquet, and even the corn
cakes didn't go begging so far as he
was concerned.
We all made merry over our predic
ament as we told him how it hap- j
pened, and he joked about it, too, but
shook his head a little, and said it |
oughtn't togo on that way. He pro
ceeded upon his errand soon after din- |
ner, anil we went about our work with I
CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THURSDAY, DECEMBER ai, 1899.
what spirits we might. It wasn't more
than two hours after he left that
Uncle •link, a dilapidated old colored
man, appeared with a yoke of steers,
which he left in the lane while he
came plodding through the snow to
the house.
"Heerd v'all was out, o' wood," he
grinned, "so I 'lowed I'd come an'
snake up a few logs 'ii' split fer de
fi'place 'n' wliack up some fer de
caok'n' stove."
"It's very kind of you, indeed," said
Aunt Laura, "for we are in great need
of wood —only I'm afraid 1 can't pay
you for it to-day, I'ncle —"
"Das< all right—dass all right." in
terrupted I liele Jink; "don't y'all
boddah 'bout dat—dass all right," and
he scuffed awav, leaving us a little
mystified, for it was not quite like
Uncle .link to be so indifferent, about
compensation for his good deeds.
"Of course Mr. Melton went ami told
him to come, and either paid him or
agreed to if we didn't," expounded
Dora, and looked as if she were ready
to fall in a heap.
"It was very good of him if he did,"
said Aunt Laura.
"Good —yes; but who wants to be an
object of charity," groaned Dora, "es
pecially—"
"Oh, well, T don't suppose he'll
preach about it next Sunday," I said,
consolingly; but Dora wouldn't cheer
up very much. Still, it was very com
fortable to have plenty of wood, and
I felt grateful to the good man for
instigating Uncle Jink to come to our
assistance.
Of all the::<>"• 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.