"New Year's, eh?" exclaimed Deacon Tubman, as he lifted himself to his elbow and peered through the frosty window pane toward the east, where the colorless morning was creeping shiveringly into sight. "New Year's, eh?" he repeated, as he hitched himself into an upright position and straightened his night-cap, that had somehow gone askew in his slumber. "Bless my soul, how the years fly! But that's all right; yes, that's all right. No one can expect them to stay, and why should we? there's better fish in the net than we've taken out yet," and with this consolatory observation, the deacon rubbed his head energetically, while the bright, happy look of his face grew brighter and happier as the …
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