A man might think the lumber dealer was off the map, and in the shade, without a tendril or a feeler upon the blooming Christmas trade. But all the year they’re building houses, with stuff the lumber dealer sells, in which the Christmas crowd carouses, and good old Santa whoops and yells. Beneath yon roof there’s joyous laughter, that indicates good will to men; and every two-by-four and rafter came from the lumber dealer’s den. The walls on which you see the holly, were furnished by the lumber man, who is, like Claus, serene and jolly, and does his stunt the best he can. The door at which the guest is greeted with kindness which should hit him hard, and everything that’s nailed or cleated, comes from the modest lumber yard. You cannot have a Christmas frolic, with joy and laughter in the air, and nuts and candies--causing colic--but that the lumber man is there. THE NEW YEAR The old year’s gone where dead years go, the New Year comes across the snow, and chortles at the door; it seems to say, “Behold in me the smoothest year you’ll ever see--none like me came before!” But years, my friends, are much the same; they stay a while and play their game, and then they disappear; they’re modeled on the same old plan; success depends on Mr. Man, and not on any year. The finest year that ever grew will bring no rich rewards to you, if you’re a shiftless chap; the poorest year that they can send will see you prosper without end, if you have vim and snap. We shouldn’t wait for friendly gods to come and multiply our wads, or fetch us wood to burn; the new year isn’t apt to bring to you or me a doggone thing that we don’t go and earn. We shouldn’t dream when New Year comes, or sit around and twirl our thumbs, and wish ourselves good cheer; ’twere better far to count our breaks and figure up the bad mistakes that cost us much last year. “The lumber man across the way is doing business every day, while I sit here and mope; there is some reason, sure, for that; I’ll find it, too, or eat my hat,” thus muses David Dope. And so he rustles ’round to find why trade is falling far behind; that’s better far, old scout, than quoting pretty New Year rhymes and harking to the clanging chimes that ring the old year out. “You bet,” says David, and he grins, “this year I’ll guard against the sins that put me in the hole; I’m bound this year will treat me well, so watch your Uncle David sell his lumber, lime and coal.” And thus the year is good or bad according to the sort of lad who has it by the horns; if you are bound to win, you will; if not, the year your hopes will kill, and spoil your choicest corns. [Illustration: Decorative image] Transcriber’s Notes In a few cases, obvious errors in punctuation have been fixed.