his slumber. "Bless my soul, how the years fly! But that's all right;
yes, that's all right. No one can expect them to stay, and why should
we? there's better fish in the net than we've taken out yet," and with
this consolatory observation, the deacon rubbed his head energetically,
while the bright, happy look of his face grew brighter and happier as
the process proceeded. "Yes, there's better fish in the net than we've
taken out," he added, gayly, "and if there isn't, there's no use of
crying about it." With this philosophical observation, he bounced
merrily out of bed and into his trousers.

I say Deacon Tubman bounced into his trousers, but, to be exact, I
should say that he bounced into half of them; and, with the other half
trailing behind him, he skipped to the window and, putting his little,
plump, round face almost against the pane, gazed out upon the world.
Everything was bright, sparkling and cold, for the earth was covered
with snow and the clear gray of the early morning spread its rayless
illumination over the great dome, in the fading blue of which a few
starry points still gleamed.

"Bless me, what a morning!" he exclaimed. "Beautiful! beautiful!" he
repeated, as he stood with his eyes fastened upon the east and,
balancing himself on one foot, felt around with the other for that half
of the trousers not yet appropriated. "Bless me, what a day," he
ejaculated, as he saved himself by a quick, upward wrench, from falling
from a trip he had inadvertently given himself in an abortive effort to
insert his foot into the unfilled leg of his pantaloons. "Ha, ha, that's
a good un," he exclaimed; "trip yourself up in getting into your own
trousers, will you, Deacon Tubman?" and he laughed long and merrily to
himself over his little joke.