After the old man had sat for some time,――saying nothing to anybody, and only looking about with a kind of mournful countenance,――he got up, and slowly marched away. When he was gone, one of the boys found a little parcel on the bench where the old man sat, addressed to “Mr. Robert Merry; care of Bradbury & Soden, 10 School street, Boston.” On opening the paper, we found an old greasy book within, written full of tales, fables, sketches, &c.; some of them very good indeed, and some very queer. The title of the little book was the “Pedler’s Pack,” and it had the following motto: Come, all my youthful friends, come near―― For every one I’ve something here: Anecdotes for those who choose―― Rhymes for all who love the muse―― Riddles and conundrums――bless ’em―― For little folks who love to guess ’em; Odd scraps have I from history torn, Strange tales from other countries borne―― And many a story, true and funny, Well worth your reading and your money. So, all my youthful readers, come―― Boys and girls, each shall have some. Walk up, my friends――Blue Eyes and Black―― And let us ope the Pedler’s Pack. There was no note or direction, which informed us clearly what the _Old Man in the Corner_ intended we should do with his book; but we suppose that he intended we should publish it in Merry’s Museum. This we have accordingly concluded to do. We shall insert such articles as seem suitable for our columns――making occasional notes of an explanatory nature. The first article we shall insert, is entitled _The Blues_; and in order that our readers may understand it, we must premise that when people are sad, or unhappy, on account of troublesome thoughts, they are said to have the _blues_, or the _blue devils_. The same thing is meant by the terms, _bad spirits_, the _vapors_, _low spirits_, &c. The _Old Man in the Corner_ seems to think that these troubles may be avoided by a proper course of life. Here is his queer article about The Blues. How it rains! Patter, patter, patter! Well, let it pour! I love the rumble of the drops upon the roof, like the prolonged roll of a distant drum. Let it rain; I am secure. I shall not go out to-day, nor shall any one intrude upon my privacy. This day is mine! A wet day is often considered a lost day. To me it is otherwise. I can shut the door upon the world――turn the key upon life’s cares, and give myself up freely to the reins of a vagrant fancy, without reproach of conscience. Providence has stepped in, and, arresting my tasks and my duties, gives me a sort of Sabbath of leisure and mental recreation. To me a wet day brings no blues, or, if it does, they are those which come on the wings of reverie, and are such as I am sometimes willing to entertain. Your reasonable blue is a communicative, suggestive thing, and I always court its society.