his pantaloons. "Ha, ha, that's a good un," he exclaimed; "trip yourself up in getting into your own trousers, will you, Deacon Tubman?" and he laughed long and merrily to himself over his little joke.

"A happy New Year to everybody," cried the deacon, as he thrust his foot into his stocking, for the floor of the good man's chamber was carpetless and so cleanly white that its cleanliness itself was enough to freeze one. "Yes, a happy New Year to everybody, high, low, rich, poor, south, north, east and west, where'er they are, the world over, at home and abroad—Amen!" And the deacon, partly at the sweeping character of his benediction and partly because he was feeling so jolly inside he couldn't help it, laughed merrily, as he seized a boot and thrust his foot vigorously into it.

"What's this? what's this?" cried the deacon, as he tugged away at the straps until he was red in the face. "This boot never went on hard before. What's the matter with the pesky thing?" And he arose from his chair, and, standing on one foot, turned and twisted about, tugging all the while at the straps.

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the deacon, disgusted with its strange behavior, "what is the matter with the pesky boot?"

"What's the matter with the pesky thing?"

Then he sat down upon the chair again, wrenched his foot out of the offending article and held it up between both hands in front of him and shook it violently, when, with a bump and a bound, out rattled a package upon the floor and rolled half way across the room. The deacon was after it in a jiffy and, seizing it in his little fat hands, held it up before his eyes and read: "A New Year's gift from Miranda."

Now Miranda was the deacon's housekeeper,—Mrs. Tubman having peacefully departed this life some years before,—and, speaking appreciatively of the sex, a more prim, prudent, particular member of it never existed. She had been initiated, some ten years before, into that amiable sisterhood commonly known as spinsters, and was, it might be added, a typical representative. Industrious? You may well say so. Her floors, stoves, dishes, linen,—- well, if they weren't clean, nowhere on earth might you find clean ones. She hated dirt as she did original sin, and I've no doubt but that in her own mind considered its existence in the world as the one certain, damning and conclusive evidence of the Fall. It was really an entertainment to see her looking about the house for a speck of dirt; and the cold-blooded manner in which she would seize upon it, 

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