Jan. U. Airy.

Another January is gone—peeled off Time's roll to pay the price of Pleasure; a note we barter for a fling of freedom. And what a note! A note that reverberates through the long corridor of the year and titillates the remaining eleven months with mellifluous memory.

January is the rich relation of recollection, the most generous of the genealogical gentry. He rumbles up the stairs with sun in his eye and pleasurable promise on his sun-peeled pan. He pokes his head through the door and chants:

I'm Sunshine Jan,
The vagabond man,
I'm tough and I'm rough
And I wear a tan,
And I don't care a durn
For collar and tie,
I'm a beach-combin’
Bush-roamin'
Real tough guy.
I'm holiday free,
Wild Jan—that's me!
I live in the open
And splash in the sea,
I eat my meals from a frying pan
And I wouldn't exchange
With the richest man.
I'm a rip-roarin’
Road-borin' outdoor man,
I'm free—that's me,
I'm Joyful Jan.
So jamb on your hat,
Bring Maud and Merry,
And take the air
With Jan. U. Airy.

And it's a tin of tongues to a mosquito bite that you did. And though January is now but an echo of a camp-fire croon or an itch on the shoulder blades, there still is much by which to remember him.