IT is an amusing way of doing nothing to sit in one's room half dozing, and listen to the steps that come along the entry on their way to the rooms overhead. It is quite an instructive occupation too, presenting, as it does, a wide field for the cultivation of the listening faculty. In the course of a dozen or two such sittings, one gets to know the peculiarities of each individual step, and recognizes the passer-by as clearly as though the partition were transparent. When I hear various preliminary kicks at, and slams of, the neighboring doors, a shuffling step along the entry, a rattling of keys, a banging of tin pails, and a peculiar snuffle directly opposite my door-lock, I make preparations to receive the goody. In like manner, successive knocks at Nos. 7 and 8 deafen me to the appeals of itinerant pedlers and orange-men. It is not always a wise course, however, to feign absence; for the other day, on my paying no attention to his rap, a poco of archaeological tastes carried off my door-mat, with the intention, probably, of representing his firm in the old clo' department at the Centennial. But, as a general thing, if one wishes to avoid trying on the new varieties of "Patent Braces," and other articles of wearing apparel, he will best secure his object by studying the peculiarities of gait among pedlers. It is an easy matter to discover a new hand at the business. He walks along rather undecidedly, stops to scan the name on the door, and then knocks, with something of deference in the sound. Far different is the hardened book-agent or phrenologist; he gives an extremely frank and unembarrassed thump, and comes in without waiting for an answer. Between these two extremes there are many who partake more or less of one or the other, and to distinguish between them is a more intricate study than one might imagine.

But, fortunately for variety's sake, beggars' footsteps are not the only ones that can be listened to. Various "dwellers in the realms above," i. e. the third and fourth stories, have their distinguishing characteristics. One saunters slowly along the entry, and then, as if to make up for wasted moments, takes the next flight four steps at a time. Another delights in rapping the whole length of the wall, as if trying to find a sound spot, or possibly to suggest prospects of a visitor to the occupants of the entry. A third drags his stick along the floor, and drops it on the stairs, apparently for the purpose of picking it up again. In short, all have little favorite noises that, to a good listener, indicate very plainly the man who makes them.

Especially prominent is the crack whistler of the entry, who displays his musical tastes from the moment he enters the building until he slams his door, three flights up. His performance of the "Inman March" is something electrifying. Of late he has bestowed his energies on the funeral dirge in "Round the World in Eighty Days," and has brought it to such a state of perfection that one almost expects to see the Amazons, et catera, coming up the stairs. His audience fondly trust that some other equally classical air may soon take the place of this.

Such are some of the fruits of my listening, and if they seem somewhat trivial, yet it must be considered that no very momentous results can be expected from such a purely passive kind of eavesdropping. I have not, as yet, discovered in any footfalls the slightest whisper of scandal. If one "hears no good of himself," he at least hears no evil.