say that he is _fey_, and consider the change a
forerunner of sudden death.)

"No, my friends," said Israel, overhearing the remark, "I am not
_fey_; and I mean to live a long while, Heaven willing, for I have
just learned that the true secret of enjoying life is to do good to
others. I had a dream to-night which has, I trust, made me a wiser and
better man. The miser lies buried in yonder churchyard; Israel Wurm, a
new man, has risen in his place; and as far as my means go, I intend
that this shall be a happy new year to every one of my acquaintances."

Israel was as good as his word, and never relapsed into his old
habits. The widow and the orphan children were provided for by his
bounty; he gave liberally to every object of charity. Hospitals,
schools, and colleges were the recipients of his bounty; and when he
died, in the fulness of years, the blessings of old and young followed
him to his last resting-place in the old churchyard where he had
dreamed the mysterious dream, and been awakened to a better life by
the pealing of the NEW YEAR'S BELLS.

THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.

"O, this is beautiful--beautiful indeed!" cried a young and silvery
voice, musical as fairy bells heard at midnight. "How white this snowy
drapery hangs upon the roofs of these bright palaces!" and the
speaker, a gay boy, danced trippingly along, following in the
footsteps of an old, gray-bearded man who was tottering before him.

The old man turned. "You call that snowy drapery beautiful?" said he.

"Yes--it is like the raiment of a bride," said the boy.

"To me it seems a shroud thrown over the grave of buried hopes,"
answered the old man.

"But what are these joy bells ringing for?" said the boy.

"For a death and for a birth!" replied the old man.

"You speak riddles."

"I speak truth. The same sounds have a different import to different
ears. To mine there is a death knell in these tremulous vibrations of
the air."

"You are very old, father--and age has cankered you."

"A twelvemonth since, young child of Time," replied the old man, "I
was like you."

"A twelvemonth! Your back is bent, your locks are silvery, your voice
is tremulous. How is this?"

"Wrinkles and gray hairs are the work of sorrows, not of years. Eyes
that are weary of the sight of suffering grow dim apace."

"But hark!" said the youth. "Hear you not that music--the peals of
laughter that come from yonder illuminated house? It is a wedding
festiva