THE book of the New Year is opened, 

Its pages are spotless and new; 

And so, as each leaflet is turning, 

Dear children, beware what you do!

Let never a bad thought be cherished

Keep the tongue from a whisper of guile, 

 And see that your faces are windows

Through which a sweet spirit shall smile

And weave for your souls the fair garments 

Of honor, and beauty, and truth

Which will still with a glory enfold you

When faded the spell of your youth

And now with the new book endeavor 

To write its white pages with care; 

Each day is a leaflet, remember, 

That is written, then turned —beware! 

And if on a page you discover 

At evening a blot or a scrawl, 

Kneel quickly and ask the dear Saviour 

In mercy to cover it all. 

So when the strange book shall be finished 

And clasped by the angel so tight, 

You may feel, though the work be imperfect, 

You have earnestly tried for the right. 

And think, how the years are the stairway 

On which you must climb to the skies; 

And strive that your standing be higher, 

As each one away from you flies. 

—Emily J. Bugbee.