January 7, 1914.

Heavily dragged the night; the Year

Was passing, and the clock's slow tick

Boomed its sad message to my ear

And made me pretty sick.

"You have been slack," I told myself, "and weak;

You have done foolishly, from wilful choice;

Sloth and procrastination—" Here my voice

Broke in a squeak.

And deep repentance welled in me

As I mused darkly on my sin;

Yea, Conscience stung me, like a bee

That gets her barb well in.

"Next year," I swore, in this compunctious mood,

"I will be energetic, virtuous, kind;

Unflinching I will face the awful grind

Of being good."

I paused, half troubled by a thought—

Were my proposals too sublime?

Vowed I more deeply than I ought?

I glanced to see the time.

It was 12.10 A.M. At once a thrill,

A wave of manful resolution, sped

Through all my being. "Yes," I bravely said;

"Next year I will!"