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 names 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 wise, and still oftner 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!”
“I doubt whether it is so close at hand,” answered
