TWICE TOLD TALES

THE SISTER YEARS

By Nathaniel Hawthorne



Last night, between eleven and twelve o'clock, when the Old Year was
leaving her final foot prints on the borders of Time's empire, she
found herself in possession of a few spare moments, and sat down--of
all places in the world--on the steps of our new City Hall. The
wintry moonlight showed that she looked weary of body, and sad of
heart, like many another wayfarer of earth. Her garments, having been
exposed to much foul weather, and rough usage, were in very ill
condition; and as the hurry of her journey had never before allowed
her to take an instant's rest, her shoes were so worn as to be
scarcely worth the mending. But, after trudging only a little
distance farther, this poor Old Year was destined to enjoy a long,
long sleep. I forgot to mention, that when she seated herself on the
steps, she deposited by her side a very capacious bandbox, in which,
as is the custom among travellers of her sex, she carried a great deal
of valuable property. Besides this luggage, there was a folio book
under her arm, very much resembling the annual volume of a newspaper.
Placing this volume across her knees, and resting her elbows upon it,
with her forehead in her hands, the weary, bedraggled, world-worn Old
Year heaved a heavy sigh, and appeared to be taking no very pleasant
retrospect of her past existence.

While she thus awaited the midnight knell, that was to summon her to