The head of the house sat in state with a plate full of silver coins beside him on the day these callers made their rounds, and responded to each salutation in kind; said “Thank you, same to you,” and handed the caller his coin. He twirled his cap, spat on the silver for good luck, put it in his pocket, scraped out, and made room for the next comer. If it was the night-watchman, he had perhaps a word about the wind being in the northwest, “blowing up to a storm,” or about the marten that ate the last batch of squabs. The marten lived in the attic under the roof beams, where it had its young in peace. It was not disturbed, though it made an occasional raid on the hen roost or the pigeon coop; but that was to be guarded against. To make up for it, it ate the rats that infested the old houses, and for this service it was let alone. We saw it sometimes on moonlight nights, a black shadow up among the pointed gables, big as a cat, it seemed to me, and with a cat’s long tail. The watchman knew all its haunts, being a night prowler himself, and could tell when it was “getting too many” for the peace of the hen roost. Then shot-guns came out, and after some still-hunting by moonlight things were evened up again and put upon a peace basis. As pater familias sat awaiting his New Year’s callers, he had the advantage always of knowing who was in the offing making for his door, and could arrange his contribution accordingly. That was because of the universal use of window reflectors, two mirrors set at an angle and fixed on the outside of the window. Sitting in your chair by it, you could tell who was coming from either side, half a block away. I often wonder why they are not more used on this side of the ocean. I should think they would be a great convenience if one did not wish to be “at home” for undesirable callers. Perhaps that was how the Bishop’s wife escaped meeting the Burgomaster’s lady they used to tell of in Copenhagen. They were not exactly friends, but their position required them to be agreeable before the world. So they exchanged visits, and upon one of these occasions the Burgomasterinde found the Bishop’s Manse deserted, with evidences of hasty flight. Now the good Bishop’s wife was not noted nearly as much for tidiness as for her sharp wit, and the Burgomasterinde took a long chance when, seeing the mahogany table covered with a thick layer of dust, she wrote on it “P-i-g.” But she felt better, no doubt, and went on her way rejoicing. Some days later the two ladies met on the street. “Oh!” said the Burgomaster’s wife, “I called at your house last week, but you were not in.” “Yes, I am so sorry,” from the other, sweetly, “I found your card on the table.”