Father Time. I must call my children together and give them orders for the New Year. Open the door, my servants, and let the Seasons appear.

Spring (entering). Here I am, Father Time. What are your commands for your youngest daughter?

Father Time. Welcome, my dainty Spring! It is your duty to call the gentle rains to fall upon the thirsting ground. Yours is the pleasant task to paint the blades of young grass a delicate green. You call the birds back from the south and rouse all nature from her winter sleep. The winds blow freshly over the earth; the clouds move here and there, bringing the rain; and the bulbs, hidden under the soil, slowly push their leaves into the sunlight. What flowers will you bring to deck the earth?

Spring. O Father Time! Look here upon my pretty flowers! Here is the snowdrop, so white and brave. It pushes its head up through the snow, which is no whiter than its own petals. And here I have a bunch of crocuses, blue, yellow, white, and of many colors. Aren’t they pretty amid the grass? Then the gorgeous tulips, holding their heads so high, making the earth brilliant with their gay, bright colors. I think the golden daffodils and sweet narcissus are my favorite flowers, though I am very fond of what the children call spring beauty.

Father Time. I see, my daughter, that you love all your flower children, and that is right. All are beautiful, each in its own way. And now tell me what joys do you bring to the little children of the earth?

Spring. All the children love me. They hunt for the first flowers, they welcome the first birds returning from the south, and they prepare the garden for the seeds of flowers and vegetables. The boys play marbles everywhere, and run and laugh, filling their lungs with my life-giving air. The organ grinder plays for the children and they dance on the sidewalks, singing and calling out in delight. The trees put forth their tender leaves. The sun fills the air with golden warmth, and the world seems full of promise.

Father Time. Well done, my daughter. And now, my daughter Summer, tell me your plans for the year.

Summer. Dear father, I delay my coming until Spring has prepared the way. The air must be soft and warm to please me, and the earth must be prepared by the rains and the warm rays of the sun. The colors of my flowers are deeper and richer than those of sister Spring. I bring the lilies, the peonies, and the poppies. Best of all, the glowing roses open at my call, and fill the air with perfume.

Father Time. And the children, my fair daughter, what do you bring to them?

Summer. The dear children! I think they all like my sunny days and the long time for play. For July and August in many countries are given to the school children for their play time. Then they go to the seashore and play in the water and the sand; or to the country, where the green grass, the farmyard animals, and all the country games delight them.

Father Time. Children are so fond of play and the long summer days out-of-doors that I wonder what they think of you, my older daughter, Autumn?

Autumn. Children do like to play and I am glad they get so well and strong with the vacation my sister, Summer, gives them. Yet all children like to learn, too. We must not forget that. What joy it is to read the beautiful stories that great men and women have written for them. What delight they have in learning to write, to sing, to draw, and to make pretty objects of paper, clay, and wood.

Father Time. Yes, that is true, but have you no pleasures out-of-doors for them?

Autumn. Some people say my days are the most pleasant of the year. The gardens have many beautiful flowers, and the fruits are ripening in the orchards and vineyards. The apples hang red on the boughs, and children like to pick them and eat them, too! I have the harvest moon, the time when the farmers bring home the crops ripened by August suns, and the earth seems to gather the results of the year’s work, the riches of field, orchard, and meadow. The squirrels gather their hoard of nuts and hide them away for their winter’s food. Gay voices of nutting parties are heard in the woods, and all the air is filled with songs of praise and thanksgiving for the bounty of the year.

Father Time. Your work is surely one of worth and I rejoice with you, my daughter, in your happiness. You are a true friend of men, showing them that honest effort and its work will always bring proper reward. Now, my merry laughing child, what have you to tell us?

Winter. Some people think I am your oldest daughter, Father Time, but they forget that two of my months are always in the New Year. Although my hair and garments are white, the cold is only outside; my heart is warm. Have I not jolly St. Nicholas who never grows old? I cover the earth with my warmest blanket of softest snow, softer and whiter than ermine, and all the tender flowers sleep cozily and warm until sweet Spring awakes them. The children get out their sleds and skates, and the merry sleigh bells ring. What fun it is to build the snow man, and even if the hands get cold, the eyes shine brighter than in warm days and the cheeks are rosy as the reddest flower. “Hurrah for Winter!” shout the boys. The merriest holidays I have when all hearts are gay and filled with loving care for others. I would not change, dear Father Time, with any of my sisters. I say good-by to the passing year and welcome the new year. If the old year has had troubles and sorrows, all the people turn with hope to the new, and call to one another the wish, “A Happy New Year to all!”

Father Time. I am glad you are contented with the work you have to do. And now, my daughters, I must send you out upon your travels all over the world. May your coming bring peace; joy, and prosperity to all mankind!