(The clock strikes)
January“One.”July“Seven.”
February “Two.”August“Eight.”
March“Three.”September “Nine.”
April“Four.”October“Ten.”
May“Five.”November“Eleven.”
June“Six.”December“Twelve.”
(The New Year Enters.)

THE NEW YEAR.

I am here, I have come from the home of the morning;
I am flushed with hope’s wine; I have treasures for all.
The old year is sped, let it serve as a warning
That the moments I bring shall bear fruit ere they fall.
The past none can alter; its grief and its sinning
Are writ for all time in the volume of life,
But behold me, the New Year, new records beginning;
Let love be their burden, not envy and strife.

CHORUS OF MONTHS.

Welcome, welcome, with chime of merry bell,
Welcome to thy kingdom, O monarch pure and true!
In gladness we will serve thee. Ah! rule this great earth well;
Efface the sorrows of the past, and all past joys renew.
We, the children of the sun,
Who watch the precious moments run,
Will wreathe thy brow with stars of snow and flowers sweet and fair.
But while we sow the fruits of earth,
That man shall garner in with mirth,
To Time alone belongs the power
Of harvesting each ripened hour.
Welcome, welcome, with chime of merry bell!
Another year is given to man to sow and reap his life.
When next the mystic book is sealed, what story will it tell?
Will it speak of love triumphant, will it tell of sin and strife?
O mortal man, remember
Every year has its December,
And when the year has ended naught can change the record there.

THE MUSE AND THE PEN.

The Muse, renowned in ancient story,
But seldom seen these humdrum times,
Came down to earth, in all her glory,
To put new life in modern rhymes.
“Forsooth,” she said, “I’m tired of hearing
Mechanic singers, every one,
With forced conceits and thin veneering,
Serving the lamp, and not the sun.”

The Muse was but a simple maiden,
Who loved the woodlands, meads and streams,
With odorous buds her gown was laden,
Her hair was bright with rippling gleams;
And murmuring an Arcadian ditty,
She wandered, with uncertain feet,
In wonder, through the crowded city,
Bewildered by each clattering street.

She gazed upon the hurrying mortals,
Each busy with his own affairs.
She spumed some lauded poets’ portals,—
“Let monthlies print such stuff as theirs.”
A milkman nodded her a cheery
“Bon jour, ma’mselle,” in ready French,
And as she passed a cabman beery,
He hiccoughed, “there’s a likely wench.”