_Peabody_. Why, though its heart was in walls of fat, the reproach of Æsop went right through to it. It rolled, and kicked, and lowed, and at last, somehow, the tears running out of its eyes, it cried, “Don’t, don’t; there’s my remorse. I knew that there were whole herds of beasts somewhere that would have been bettered by the superfluity that was crammed down my throat; but the fact is, I had lived so long and intimately with man, that I had fallen into his greatest vice, and over-gorged myself with what would have comforted others.” And then again the prize beast lowed, and its compunction seemed terrible; and in this way Æsop went from prize beast to prize beast--to steers, to oxen and heifers, and sheep. _Nutts._ And pigs? _Peabody._ And pigs. _Mrs Nutts._ And tell me, what did the Prince’s pigs say? Surely they didn’t bewail their fat to Æsop. _Peabody._ All in the same manner as the steer; and one of the pigs in special said this, “They’ve over-fattened me, made my life a burden, and now they’ll kill me. Still I have this revenge; for be assured, whoever eats a morsel of me--if it’s hours afterwards--I’ll do nothing but rise upon him.” [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XVI. _Nutts._ (_Stropping razor._) Happy new year to ye, my friends. _Tickle._ Hallo, Nutts! Why, what’s the matter with the shop? As fine and as shiny, and smelling as sweet as Covent Garden! Well, I’m sure! If you haven’t brought a bit of Bond Street to Seven Dials! What’s it all about? _Nutts._ Nothing. Merely treating the new year like a gentleman. That’s all. I’ve turned over a new leaf. _Mrs Nutts._ That’s the old story, Mr Tickle. For these ten years and more, Nutts has always turned over a new leaf. Mighty fine. But afore the year’s a week old, see if he doesn’t turn the new leaf back again. All his new leaves are very soon old dog’s-ears. Just like the men. _Nosebag._ Shouldn’t ha’ known the shop agin. New rush-bottoms to the chairs, all the cracked windows mended, and what--remarkable--nice sand upon the floor! _Nutts._ Why, you see, when Time’s brushing up all the world for a new beginning, it’s nothin’ more than right to treat him with a little ceremony, when Time himself starts with a clean shave on the first of January. _Slowgoe._ Well, for my part, I thought Time never shaved. _Nutts._ Quite a vulgar error, sir. As the clock strikes twelve on the thirty-first of December, he takes up his scythe, which is Time’s razor--and what that’s stropped upon ’twould make a man’s fortin to find out, for what cuts like it, I should wish to know?--well, he takes up his scythe, and holding himself by the nose, begins the operation. _Slowgoe._ What! in the dark? and without a glass? _Peabody._ Not at all. His glass is the Frozen Ocean, and he shaves by the Northern Lights.