On his arm is a huge market basket, from which protrudes the cold, despairing legs of a turkey, from which the soul has filed. Two yards of celery trail behind him; turnip greens, cauliflower and the alleged yellow yam nestle against his arm. On his brow is confusion; in his face are hung the scarlet banners of a guilty conscience; in his romantic eyes she reads the tell-tale story of a benedict; by the hand he leads a cold-nosed but indisputable little boy. She elevates her charming head to a supercilious angle, snaps out to herself the one word "married!" and is gone. He jerks the limp, sad corpse of the turkey to the other side, snatches the cold-nosed little boy about five feet through the air and vows that never again will he go to market during the joyous year of 1896. It is New Year's eve. * * * * * A citizen is restlessly pacing the floor of his sitting room. There is evidently some crisis near, for his brow is contracted, and his hands are nervously clasped and unclasped behind his back. He is waiting expectantly for something. Suddenly the door opens and his family physician enters smiling and congratulatory. The citizen turns upon him a look full of inquiry. "All is well," says the physician. "Three fine boys, and everybody getting along first rate." "Three?" says the citizen in a tone of horror, "Three!" He kneels on the floor and in fervent accents exclaims: "Tomorrow will be the New Year, and I hereby solemnly swear that--" Breaking in upon his resolutions comes the merry chime of the New Year bells. * * * * * The people come and the people go. In the stores, looking over remnants of Christmas goods, are to be found that class of people who received presents on Christmas Day without giving any, and are now striving to make late and lame amends by returning the compliment on New Year's Day. The New Year's present is a delusion and contains about as much warmth and soul as a eulogy on the South by the _New York Sun_. Two ladies are at a bargain counter, maintaining an animated conversation in low but dangerous tones. "She sent me," says one of them, "a little old nickel-plated card receiver on Christmas Day, and I know she bought it at a racket store. Goodness knows, I never would have thought of sending her anything, but now I've got to return it, of course--the old deceitful thing and I don't know what to get for her. Let's see--oh yes; I have it now. You know they say she used to be a chambermaid in a St. Louis hotel before she was married; I'll just send her this little silver pin with a broom on it. Wonder if she's bright enough to understand?" "I hope so, I'm sure," says the other lady. "That reminds me that George gave me a nice new opera cloak for a Christmas present, and I just forgot all about him. What are those horn collar-buttons worth?" "Fifteen cents a dozen," says the salesman.