"For a man that died last night; he is to be buried to-day."

"Methinks this haste is somewhat indecorous," said Israel Wurm.

"O, for the matter of that," said the s.e.xton, "the sooner this fellow's out of the way the better. There's n.o.body to mourn for him."

"Is he a pauper, then?"

"O no! he was immensely rich."

"And had he no relations--no friends?"

"For relations, he had a nephew, who inherits all his property. The young dog will make the money fly, I tell you. As for friends, he had none. The poor dreaded him--the good despised him; for he was a hardhearted, selfish, griping man. In a word, he was a MISER," said the s.e.xton.

"A miser," faltered the trembling dreamer; "what was his name?"

"Israel Wurm," replied the s.e.xton.

Graveyard and s.e.xton faded away; in their place arose a splendid grove of trees--a clearing--a village school house. Two boys were sauntering along the roadside, engaged in serious, childish talk. One was fair, with golden locks; the other dark-haired and grave of aspect. Israel started, for in the latter he recognized himself--a boy of fifty years ago.

"Israel," said the golden-haired boy, "it's 'lection day to-morrow; we'll hire Browning's horse and chaise, and go to Boston, and have a grand time on the Common, seeing all the shows."

"You forget, Mark," said the dark-haired boy, sadly, "that I have no money."

"What of that?" replied the other; "I have a pocket full; and what's mine is yours, you know. Come, cheer up, you'll one day he as rich as I am; and then it will be your turn to treat, you know. I can afford to be generous, and so would you be, if you had the means."

Then the shadow pa.s.sed from the face of the dark-haired boy, and a smile lighted up his countenance, and the two schoolfellows pa.s.sed on their way together.

Grove and school house pa.s.sed away, melting into another scene like one of the dissolving views. Israel stood before a huge illuminated screen, in the midst of a gaping company of sight seers. He could see nothing but a confused ma.s.s of heads, vaguely lighted by the rays from that vast screen. It was some kind of an exhibition.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said a strange voice issuing from the darkness, "we shall show you the wonders of the oxy-hydrogen microscope; natural objects magnified five thousand times. Look and behold the proboscis of the common house fly."

Israel gazed with the rest, and soon a huge object, resembling the trunk of a monster elephant, appeared on the illuminated disk. It pa.s.sed away.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said the voice, "look well to the illuminated screen. What do you see now?"

"Nothing!" was the universal and indignant answer.

"I thought so," replied the voice. "Yet you have before you a miser's soul magnified five thousand times; a million such would not produce an image on the screen."

The illuminated disk grew dark and disappeared; then a lurid light seemed to fill all s.p.a.ce; and soon huge billows of flames rolled upward, and writhed and twisted together like a myriad of gigantic serpents. Shrieks and howls of anguish issued from the fiery ma.s.s, but above all was heard the startling clangor of a bell.

"Halloo! who's this?" cried a voice that evidently issued from a set of powerful human lungs. The miser felt himself roughly shaken by the shoulder, and awoke.

"What's the noise?--fire?" he asked; for the bell he had heard in his dream now jarred upon his waking senses.

"Fire! no!" said the man who had awakened him--the butcher of the village. "It's the boys ringing in the new year. By the way, I wish you a happy new year, Mr. Wurm."

"A happy new year, Mr. Wurm," said the schoolmaster for he, too, was present.

"A happy new year," said Farmer Harrowby.

"And a happy new year" chorused a dozen other voices. It was great fun wishing a miser a happy new year.

"Thank you, neighbors; I wish you a thousand," replied Israel, cheerfully.

"How came you asleep there?" asked Farmer Harrowby. "Why, you might have perished in the drift."

"I was overcome by drowsiness," answered Israel. "I was very cold; I'd been to make a call on Widow Redman, and the poor soul was out of wood. By the way, farmer, the first thing after sunrise, I want you to be sure to gear up your ox team, and take a cord of your best hickory and pitch pine to the widow."

"And who'll pay me?" asked the farmer, doubtfully.

"I will, to be sure," answered Israel. "Have not I got money enough?

Here--hold your hand;" and he put a handful of silver in the farmer's honest palm. "And you, Mr. Wilkins," he added, addressing the butcher, "take her the best turkey you've got, and half a pig, with my compliments, and a happy new year to her."

"And how about that execution?" asked the constable, who was round with the rest, 'seeing the old year out and the new year in.'

"Confound the execution! Don't let me hear another word about it,"

said Israel, magnanimously. "And now, neighbors," he added, "I owe you something for your good wishes; come along with me to the Golden Lion, and I'll give you the best supper the tavern affords. Hurrah! New year don't come but once in a twelvemonth."

We will be bound that a merrier party never left a churchyard, even after a funeral, nor a merrier set ever sat down to a festal board, than that which gathered to greet the hospitality of Israel Wurm. In the course of the evening, an old Scotch gardener gave it as his opinion that the "miser was _fey_." (When a man suddenly changes his character, as when a spendthrift becomes saving, or a n.i.g.g.ard generous, the Scotch 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."