Correspondents and Critics. 



ON the last day of the year, unless plagued 

 with the feeling that I have something better to 

 do, I clear the cavernous pigeon-holes of my 

 desk of the letters that have, for a twelve- 

 month, been accumulating. It is not an alto- 

 gether amusing way of passing an hour. A 

 good many annoying thoughts return, for not 

 every correspondent is reasonable or critic fair. 

 I never have called back a dead year with un- 

 mixed satisfaction ; the sky is only clear in 

 places, and ghosts of many clouds, some very 

 black indeed, float by, with all the distinctness 

 of the actual happening. But, in the long run, 

 I feel as if a load was lifted from my shoulders 

 when, having seen the accumulation of letters 

 turned to ashes, I take a brisk walk over the 

 meadows and return to my empty desk. I re- 

 turn, remembering, "You shall have time to 

 wrangle in when you have nothing else to do," 

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