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Hello There:
Every time a new year turns the corner . . .
we try to make certain resolutions . . .
Some of them toe may have made before , . . Mwy back there . . .
and didn't keep.
Some are brand new, like every new day.
But I guess the year or the day doesn't matter much
as long as there is at least one worthwhile resolution to make
every time the clock strikes midnight on a new beginning.
The .best resolution I know of
was made thousands of years ago —
and is so ancient you may think it as worn out
as the cover of the book it came from ...
but it needs no brand new date to make it worth our while.
If we resolve to DO UNTO OTHERS AS WE WOULD HAVE THEM DO UNTO US
we have begun the year with the clearest of high hopes
for the future.
— Ted Malone.
UNTO THE HEART
A ghost can be a little thing . . . Like a tennis racquet without a . string,
A cigarette case, a pair of glasses. An old brown hat, two season passes.
A ghost can be a tender thing . . . 'Like baby hands too small to cling. An old love letter, lines from a
book. Words to a song, a remembered
look. '
A ghost can be a silent thing . . . Like a telephone that does not
ring . . . Books on a shelf, an easy chair. Guns on the wall, suits pressed to
wear.
A ghost can be a welcome thing . . . Like memories a moonlit night can
bring, A picture's smile, a dream that is
wanted. The kiss of a child— (MY HOUSE
IS HAUNTED!)
— Robbie L. Donaldson
END OF THE BOOK
LKe's pap«p-cov*r*d novel May pall a bH with age —
Bui oh, I shall be »orry To hirn the final page.
— L. R. Und
TO A CALENDAR
You have no power over winds nor xain. Nor snow upon the evergreens, nor sleet. And yet we turn a page, and think, "Now
sweet The zephyrs oi the spring will blow again," Or "Summer goes, here, in a blaze oi
glory," Or "This will be a sombre time at best," And we take care to turn you carefully,
lest The year be interrupted in her story.
But have I not known chillest winds to
blow Through warmth, and found, in laughter
oi a child. Spring in November's gray? Do I not know Peace oi an autunm night can bloom in
wild Snow-storms, and have I not perceived the
glow Of summer in me, whenever he has smiled? — Elaine V. Emans
THE MIRROR IS YOURSELF
There is a time when, nothing said at all, AH words are possible — no action made. All choice is ours; whatever course we call, We dare to follow on it unafraid. But every choosing points the newer one — The north leads farther north with every
day. The south leans ever closer to the sun — We speak tomorrow's thought with all we
say.
In vain we ask the mirror not to note The choices post which lend the future
fear — To smooth each line of record that we
wrote Day by swift day, slow year by crawling
year. Now, all our thoughts made visible at last. We are our future, we ourselves our post. — ^Virginia Scott Miner
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