Life — January 1, 1914 — page 14: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

‘LURE Vale—Old Year! Must you go—Old Year? Wait with us yet a while. Finish your glass. Stay until the last ring of the midnight bell; yes—there are tears in our eyes; foolish tears—not for you, Old Year, but for our sad selves. We Can you not take us with shall be lonely without you. you into the restful land? Yes—we know of that gay young blade over the hill— the New Year. We hear the sound of his horse’s gallop- ing feet and the jingle of his spurs. Soon we shall see the flutter of his cloak and the flare of his plume across the night. But it will not be you—dear Old Year. Of him— what do we know? What drear things may lie hidden under the gay garlands? Your one red rose—there over your heart—is sweeter. Yes—so you, too, came to us a twelvemonth gone—and so, too, we knew you not. But we know you now—Old Friend. We have learned your ways—your gusts of storm; your biting frosts; your glories of sun and moon- shine—your white stars, summer noons, cool twilights and blessed nights of rest. We know the dreams you've sent us between the mid- night and the dawn. And sometimes you have brightened dull Autumn days with drifts of playfulness. Why, we even know your whims—and love them—your laughter and your tears. There have been other years that brought searing sorrows, pain, disillusion, lost friends, lack of hope and joy. But you—you came to make every dream come true—to make life worth while, to resurrect flowers that we thought long dead on the graves of our beliefs. Your hand in ours, Old Year! Take not your cloak from the wall—your staff from the fireside. It is not yet time for you to go. Ah, we shall miss you, Friend. We have grown to ex- pect your rainbows after lowering skies, and we always knew the sun would shine again and the song sing in our hearts. We know the light you sent at evening. ‘We have trusted you. What of this roystering young buccaneer—joy-free, blossom-hung—life, love and hope in his eyes? So others came like him and failed us. These gay promises—Old Year, you made them not. You taught us to watch for the sail on the dark sea line and yet to know that it was best to wait. You let us hear the sound of lutes and the tripping of dancing feet; we saw the goblet of red wine and the rose of life withheld—and knew that it was for the best. Through the daisied Spring and the flower-hung Sum- mertime we watched that white flash on the horizon and knew it was not yet time. You taught us patience—Friend. You tried to teach us kindness and comradeship and good faith. You made us see at last that whatever comes of grief or pain or injustice or real or fancied wrong is nothing if the heart keeps free of bitterness. So we have learned to love you. You have made us brave and merry and content in the face of dangers and * dark days. We are content with you, and now—you turn to go. Your hand in ours! Again, Old Year! Again! With memories of joy and tears—no less dear because of the drifts of Heaven you sent shining through the clouds. What's that? That tap at the door? Hush! That swaggering voice—brisk and imperative? We know it not! Hush! We wil! not open the door! Fasten the latch. What's that? Who is it? The bell! The new day on the threshold—the bell—the vacant place here by the fire—the Old Year gone—the sweet Old Year! Kate Masterson. The Open Season For Deer Hunters THs year the death roll among deer hunters in Wis- consin numbers twenty-two. This is a slight advance over previous years, but it does not appear to us to indicate that progressive spirit which ought to prevail in a great state like Wisconsin. We do not mean, neces- sarily that deer hunters should be killed in such a wholesale manner as finally to become extinct. At the same time, the fact that only twenty-two of them have been killed this year does not indicate that enthusiasm, that true hunting spirit, which should have been more widely expressed among the other deer hunters who shot them. Killing deer hunters should be recognized as a sport, and not pursued in a perfunctory manner. A bill should be introduced into the Wisconsin legislature offering a premium for everybody who brings in a deer hunter in the open season. “HEAR THE WHISTLES! 11's NEW YEAR'S OUTSIDE!” comicbooks.com