“Oh, I have it all recorded here in my book of chronicles,” answered the Old Year, in a heavy tone.  “There is nothing that would amuse you, and you will soon get sufficient knowledge of such matters from your own personal experience.  It is but tiresome reading.”

Nevertheless, she turned over the leaves of the folio and glanced at them by the light of the moon, feeling an irresistible spell of interest in her own biography, although its incidents were remembered without pleasure.  The volume, though she termed it her book of chronicles, seemed to be neither more nor less than the Salem Gazette for 1838; in the accuracy of which journal this sagacious Old Year had so much confidence that she deemed it needless to record her history with her own pen.

“What have you been doing in the political way?” asked the New Year.

“Why, my course here in the United States,” said the Old Year—­“though perhaps I ought to blush at the confession—­my political course, I must acknowledge, has been rather vacillatory, sometimes inclining toward the Whigs, then causing the administration party to shout for triumph, and now again uplifting what seemed the almost prostrate banner of the opposition; so that historians will hardly know what to make of me in this respect.  But the Loco-Focos—­”

“I do not like these party nicknames,” interrupted her sister, who seemed remarkably touchy about some points.  “Perhaps we shall part in better humor if we avoid any political discussion.”

“With all my heart,” replied the Old Year, who had already been tormented half to death with squabbles of this kind.  “I care not if the name of Whig or Tory, with their interminable brawls about banks and the sub-treasury, abolition, Texas, the Florida war, and a million of other topics which you will learn soon enough for your own comfort,—­I care not, I say, if no whisper of these matters ever reaches my ears again.  Yet they have occupied so large a share of my attention that I scarcely know what else to tell you.  There has, indeed been a curious sort of war on the Canada border, where blood has streamed in the names of liberty and patriotism; but it must remain for some future, perhaps far-distant, year to tell whether or no those holy names have been rightfully invoked.  Nothing so much depresses me in my view of mortal affairs as to see high energies wasted and human life and happiness thrown away for ends that appear oftentimes unwise, and still oftener remain unaccomplished.  But the wisest people and the best keep a steadfast faith that the progress of mankind is onward and upward, and that the toil and anguish of the path serve to wear away the imperfections of the immortal pilgrim, and will be felt no more when they have done their office.”

“Perhaps,” cried the hopeful New Year—­“perhaps I shall see that happy day.”