The old year’s gone where dead years go, the New Year comes across the
snow, and chortles at the door; it seems to say, “Behold in me the
smoothest year you’ll ever see--none like me came before!”
But years, my friends, are much the same; they stay a while and play
their game, and then they disappear; they’re modeled on the same old
plan; success depends on Mr. Man, and not on any year. The finest year
that ever grew will bring no rich rewards to you, if you’re a shiftless
chap; the poorest year that they can send will see you prosper without
end, if you have vim and snap.
We shouldn’t wait for friendly gods to come and multiply our wads, or
fetch us wood to burn; the new year isn’t apt to bring to you or me a
doggone thing that we don’t go and earn. We shouldn’t dream when New
Year comes, or sit around and twirl our thumbs, and wish ourselves good
cheer; ’twere better far to count our breaks and figure up the bad
mistakes that cost us much last year.
“The lumber man across the way is doing business every day, while I
sit here and mope; there is some reason, sure, for that; I’ll find it,
too, or eat my hat,” thus muses David Dope. And so he rustles ’round
to find why trade is falling far behind; that’s better far, old scout,
than quoting pretty New Year rhymes and harking to the clanging chimes
that ring the old year out. “You bet,” says David, and he grins, “this
year I’ll guard against the sins that put me in the hole; I’m bound
this year will treat me well, so watch your Uncle David sell his
lumber, lime and coal.”
And thus the year is good or bad according to the sort of lad who has
it by the horns; if you are bound to win, you will; if not, the year
your hopes will kill, and spoil your choicest corns.
[Illustration: Decorative image]