one to lay down his
bed and run. When I have met an immigrant tottering under a bundle which
contained his all--looking like an enormous wen which had grown out of
the nape of his neck--I have pitied him, not because that was his all,
but because he had all that to carry. If I have got to drag my trap, I
will take care that it be a light one and do not nip me in a vital part.
But perchance it would be wisest never to put one's paw into it.

I would observe, by the way, that it costs me nothing for curtains, for
I have no gazers to shut out but the sun and moon, and I am willing that
they should look in. The moon will not sour milk nor taint meat of mine,
nor will the sun injure my furniture or fade my carpet; and if he is
sometimes too warm a friend, I find it still better economy to retreat
behind some curtain which nature has provided, than to add a single item
to the details of housekeeping. A lady once offered me a mat, but as
I had no room to spare within the house, nor time to spare within or
without to shake it, I declined it, preferring to wipe my feet on the
sod before my door. It is best to avoid the beginnings of evil.

Not long since I was present at the auction of a deacon's effects, for
his life had not been ineffectual:--

"The evil that men do lives after them."

As usual, a great proportion was trumpery which had begun to accumulate
in his father's day. Among the rest was a dried tapeworm. And now, after
lying half a century in his garret and other dust holes, these things
were not burned; instead of a bonfire, or purifying destruction of
them, there was an auction, or increasing of them. The neighbors eagerly
collected to view them, bought them all, and carefully transported them
to their garrets and dust holes, to lie there till their estates are
settled, when they will start again. When a man dies he kicks the dust.

The customs of some savage nations might, perchance, be profitably
imitated by us, for they at least go through the semblance of casting
their slough annually; they have the idea of the thing, whether they
have the reality or not. Would it not be well if we were to celebrate
such a "busk," or "feast of first fruits," as Bartram describes to have
been the custom of the Mucclasse Indians? "When a town celebrates the
busk," says he, "having previously provided themselves with new clothes,
new pots, pans, and other household utensils and furniture, they collect
all their worn out clot