“These are merely a few trifles,” replied the Old Year, “which I have picked up in my rambles and am going to deposit in the receptacle of things past and forgotten.  We sisterhood of years never carry anything really valuable out of the world with us.  Here are patterns of most of the fashions which I brought into vogue, and which have already lived out their allotted term; you will supply their place with others equally ephemeral.  Here, put up in little china pots, like rouge, is a considerable lot of beautiful women’s bloom which the disconsolate fair ones owe me a bitter grudge for stealing.  I have likewise a quantity of men’s dark hair, instead of which I have left gray locks or none at all.  The tears of widows and other afflicted mortals who have received comfort during the last twelve months are preserved in some dozens of essence-bottles well corked and sealed.  I have several bundles of love-letters eloquently breathing an eternity of burning passion which grew cold and perished almost before the ink was dry.  Moreover, here is an assortment of many thousand broken promises and other broken ware, all very light and packed into little space.  The heaviest articles in my possession are a large parcel of disappointed hopes which a little while ago were buoyant enough to have inflated Mr. Lauriat’s balloon.”

“I have a fine lot of hopes here in my basket,” remarked the New Year.  “They are a sweet-smelling flower—­a species of rose.”

“They soon lose their perfume,” replied the sombre Old Year.  “What else have you brought to insure a welcome from the discontented race of mortals?”

“Why, to say the truth, little or nothing else,” said her sister, with a smile, “save a few new Annuals and almanacs, and some New Year’s gifts for the children.  But I heartily wish well to poor mortals, and mean to do all I can for their improvement and happiness.”

“It is a good resolution,” rejoined the Old Year.  “And, by the way, I have a plentiful assortment of good resolutions which have now grown so stale and musty that I am ashamed to carry them any farther.  Only for fear that the city authorities would send Constable Mansfield with a warrant after me, I should toss them into the street at once.  Many other matters go to make up the contents of my bandbox, but the whole lot would not fetch a single bid even at an auction of worn-out furniture; and as they are worth nothing either to you or anybody else, I need not trouble you with a longer catalogue.”

“And must I also pick up such worthless luggage in my travels?” asked the New Year.