CHAPTER III THE IMP HAS THE BEST OF IT
December 31. This is New Year's Eve and it's nearly twelve o'clock. Carol and I promised each other that we'd sit up and see the old year out, and write in our journals. Carol is finishing a lovely poem she's been writing, called, "On New Year's Eve." It begins:
The silent snow is falling light,
On New Year's Eve, on New Year's Eve,—
That's all I can remember of it. The only trouble is that there isn't any snow falling to-night. There's a regular thaw on, and it's dreadfully warm and mushy.
There's something awfully solemn about New Year's Eve. It makes you feel sorry for all the mean things you've done, and you form all sorts of good resolutions for the future. At least, I do, and so does Carol. But I have my doubts about the Imp. I don't believe she is sorry for a single thing she's ever done. She doesn't act so, anyway.
And speaking of her, I've made it my principal resolution for the new year to be more patient with her. I suppose every one has to have some great trial in life, and the Imp is certainly the chief one for Carol and me. Lately she has been more than usually infuriating. Every afternoon during the past month she has inquired of us, "Have you written in your journals to-day, my dears? If not, run and do so at once."
When she first began to say that, I made the mistake of asking her how she knew I was keeping a journal. She retorted: