was worst off, for in general he gets no notice taken of him; then,

too, there was the good street sweeper with his cart, who turns over

the dust-bin, and calls it 'good, very good, remarkably good.' And

in the midst of the pleasure that was afforded by the mere meeting

of these folks, there shot up out of the great dirt-heap at Amack a

stem, a tree, an immense flower, a great mushroom, a perfect roof,

which formed a sort of warehouse for the worthy company, for in it

hung everything they had given to the world during the Old Year. Out