On New Year’s Day the world wakes up with good resolves
galore; we all declare that we’ll swear off on much forevermore, and inasmuch
as we are fain to tread the guileless way, we pass up everything that’s bad
upon each New Year’s Day.
Our resolutions sometimes fail but anyhow we try to
straighten out our kinks a bit, where ever we’re awry. With martyr’s sweat upon
my brow, I solemnly declare that no dill pickles will I eat again, oh,
anywhere! Aunt Susan says she’ll never smoke another foul cigar, while Splazzum
of the garbage squad swears off on caviar. Miss Clementyne Oldmayde resolves to
tell her age to all, and Parson Pilkins now declares he’ll give up basketball.
Dame Starvem, from her boarding house expecting riches soon, announces that
she’ll never serve another luscious prune.
The years still come, and swiftly go, and ever we intend, as
each begins, to quit our sins, until our lives do end. Sometimes our saintliness
holds out for something like a week; but seldom does it long survive—we know
whereof we speak. There’s so much bad besides the good, according to the bard,
in each of us, that halo growth for all of us is hard. Some high intentions do
pan out, and these, tho far between help much to make this errant world at
least the best we’ve seen. The Perfect Day is far away, say gentlemen and bums;
good resolution all will hold, unfailingly, when it comes.
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