THE NEW YEAR
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.