It was New Year's Eve, and the church clock was striking twelve. “Tan-ta-ra-ra, tan-ta-ra-ra!” sounded the horn, and the mail-coach came lumbering up. The clumsy vehicle stopped at the gate of the town; all the places had been taken, for there were twelve passengers in the coach. “Hurrah! Hurrah!” cried the people in the town; for in every house the New Year was being welcomed; and, as the clock struck, they stood up, the full glasses in their hands, to drink success to the newcomer. “A happy New Year,” was the cry; “a pretty wife, plenty of money, and no sorrow or care!” The wish passed round, and the glasses clashed together till they rang again; while before the town-gate the mail-coach stopped with the twelve strange passengers. And who were these strangers? Each of them had his passport and his luggage with him; they even brought presents for me, and for you, and for all the people in the town. Who were they? What did they want? And what did they bring with them? “Good-morning!” they cried to the sentry at the town-gate. “Good-morning,” replied the sentry, for the clock had struck twelve. “Your name and profession?” asked the sentry of the one who alighted first from the carriage. “See for yourself in the passport,” he replied. “I am myself!”--and a famous fellow he looked, arrayed in bearskin and fur boots. “Come to me to-morrow, and I will give you a New Year's present. I throw shillings and pence among the people. I give balls every night, no less than thirty-one; indeed, that is the highest number I can spare for balls. My ships are often frozen in, but in my offices it is warm and comfortable. MY NAME IS JANUARY. I am a merchant, and I generally bring my accounts with me.” Then the second alighted. He seemed a merry fellow. He was a director of a theater, a manager of masked balls, and a leader of all the amusements we can imagine. His luggage consisted of a great cask. “We'll dance the bung out of the cask at carnival-time,” said he. “I'll prepare a merry tune for you and for myself, too. Unfortunately I have not long to live,--the shortest time, in fact, of my whole family,--only twenty-eight days. Sometimes they pop me in a day extra; but I trouble myself very little about that. Hurrah!” “You must not shout so,” said the sentry. “Certainly I may shout,” retorted the man. “I'm Prince Carnival, traveling under THE NAME OF FEBRUARY.” The third now got out. He looked the personification of fasting; but he carried his nose very high, for he was a weather prophet. In his buttonhole he wore a little bunch of violets, but they were very small. “MARCH, MARCH!” the fourth passenger called after him, slapping him on the shoulder, “don't you smell something good? Make haste into the guard-room, they are feasting in there. I can smell it already! FORWARD, MASTER MARCH!”