New Years for Old.

Here's Father Time—as you're alive! — to open Nineteen-thirty-Five; and we shall never, never more, see poor old Nineteen-thirty-Four, so gentlemen and ladys fayre, here's wishing you a glad New Year!

For, on the eve of every New Year, Man calls at the gate for Time to let him glimpse the promise of his new garden; it is still but a promise, for the flowers are yet only in bud, the trees are merely mottled with the soft green shoots which are a promise of the leafy canopy to come. The birds are but preparing to nest, the bees are busy sweeping out their stores to hold the harvest which will be theirs when the flowers fling open the petalled portals of their treasure troves. It is yet but a Garden of Promise, a vista of Anticipation, a place in which to dream of the treasure Time holds in store.